Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Idjit.”

“Don’t you ‘idjit’ me, Bobby,” Dean retorted, adjusting the Impala’s wheels as they drove over a bump, which could’ve been a log, or not. “My baby’s not built for these backroads.”

“This ain’t a road at all,” Bobby grumbled, one hand on his baseball cap so the car’s jumping and jumbling wouldn’t knock it off. “Last time I came out here, I swore I’d never come back. And you’re a damn fool for makin’ me.” The car hit a ditch, and Bobby spat, “Idjit.”

Dean carefully steered through the thick forest brush, angling the front of his Chevy into the clearest space he saw.

He let the car roll up to the cabin, backing up over overgrown weeds and parking before he looked up. He glanced towards the sky – blue and sunny now they weren’t under twenty feet of tree cover – and then Dean properly noticed the building.

“That’s not a house,” he said in surprise. “That’s a shack.”

“Told ya,” Bobby said gruffly, arms folded.

Dean popped the trunk, then opened up the driver’s side door and set his boots on leaf litter. Drawing a deep breath, the scent of mulch and flowers coated the back of his tongue smoothly.

Sam’s Jeep came up behind them, clearly not having run into any trouble on the bumpy ground. As soon as the Jeep halted, the two engines ticked out of sync, cooling.

Sam excavated his too-tall body from the Jeep, like a construction crane trying to set itself upright. His hands went straight into his windbreaker pockets, now followed out by Jody on the other side, who looked more at ease in a flannel shirt than she ever looked in a business suit.

“Well, there is is,” Sam grinned, looking around. “Bobby’s safehouse.”

“Nothing safe about it,” Bobby muttered, scowling in the shade of his cap. “Ain’t a damn good thing coming of this.”

“Hey, think positive,” Jody said, turning to smile at the old man. “Dean wants a break to get back to nature. What’s closer to nature than this?” She thumbed over her shoulder at the sun-dappled woodland, all the trees sparkling with gold in the breeze.

Dean stood glumly, trying not to speak. The house looked like shit. This whole time he’d thought Bobby was exaggerating.

“You want help taking your stuff in?” Sam asked Dean, already heading to the Impala’s rear. “We can get you all set up before we head back to civilisation.”

Dean took a moment to look around. The sun warmed his face, a warm gush of summer air rising over his gelled hair and tickling at the loose ends. He drew a deep, encouraging breath, then smiled.

“You know what? I got it,” Dean said, brushing Sam away from the trunk. “I got my fishing gear, I got my guns, I got firestarters and I got my music.” He opened the trunk and beamed at the guitars and the vintage record player sitting safely in the trunk. “So I’m good. You guys – head back to headquarters. Make sure Charlie lets everyone know—” He hesitated, then grinned, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“Here.” He pulled out his phone, taking a few steps away from the car, stumbling over moss and weird mushrooms as he went. He unlocked the phone screen, and started up his camera to record, lifting the phone up to get a good angle on his face. “Hey, what’s up, guys. This is it! Day one of my, uh... sabbatical. Take a look. Got me some trees, got me a river. Lotsa sunshine. Good for the health. My team’s got you covered while I’m gone, so Sammy’s gonna keep the ‘gram updated, and Charlie – y’all know Charlie, my publicist-slash-remixer? – she’s still working on getting the next album out, so make sure y’all follow her for updates.” Dean licked his lips, lowering the phone.

He began a new video, but took a moment to speak. “Look. Uh. Don’t anyone worry about me while I’m gone. Okay? I just need some time to reset. Get my head on right. And who knows, maybe I’ll find some inspiration out here. And I’ll come back with something better than ever. Thank you guys for letting me do this. Seriously, bottom of my heart.” He patted his chest twice. “Stay lovin’.” He smiled, winked into the camera, then ended the video.

Sam came up beside him, just as Dean added his best filter and Charlie’s Instagram handle to the video so people would see it.

“You all right?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” He handed over his phone. “Don’t hit send until you’re at least fifty miles away. Don’t want anyone stalking me. As much as I love meeting music-lovers when I least expect it, I really just... need to be alone for a while. Y’know? It’s— It’s so much. It’s been so much for so long, I gotta—”

“Hey.” Sam gripped Dean’s arm gently. “I get it.” He cocked his head towards Jody and Bobby, who came to join the conversation. “We all get it.”

Dean managed a small smile. “Thanks for letting me borrow your house, Bobby.”

“Place is haunted,” Bobby said firmly.

“It’s not haunted,” Jody said to Dean. “You have a good time out here, Dean. If you need anything – well, I guess you’re stuck with sending carrier pigeons. We’ll keep our windows open.”

“You’re sure we can’t help you unpack?” Sam insisted, looking bothered. “It’s a lot of heavy stuff.”

“Nah.” Dean knocked his brother’s chest. “This is where the fun starts. Weight training! I appreciate you comin’ to see me off though.”

Sam pressed a smile between his lips, then sighed and brought Dean in for a hug. “Don’t fall down a ditch or something. Or get eaten by bears.”

“What bears?” Dean said, pulling back. “Only bear out here is me.”

“Mm, you’re more of an otter,” Jody said, before grinning and zipping her fingers past her lips when Dean glanced her way. “Sorry. Manly-manly hunting and fishing adventure. Shutting up.”

Dean shook his head, grasping Jody for a hug. “I’ll be fine. I packed everything I need.”

He moved to Bobby, whose grey eyes held Dean’s for a moment before they hugged. Bobby patted Dean’s back, then gripped his shoulder. “You really sure about this, kid?”

“You taught me everything I know,” Dean smiled, pulling back. “Honestly, man, I’m fine, just leave me alone!” He laughed, pushing Bobby away gently. Sobering, he held Bobby’s gaze. “But yeah. I’m sure. I want this.”

Bobby tipped his cap. “Well, then.” He turned back to the car, shaking his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, boy. This place might look pretty but there’s somethin’ else lurking out here. I can feel it.”

“Hey, don’t go giving Dean the heebie-jeebies,” Jody complained, going after Bobby, car keys in hand. “Only thing out here that’s haunted is that ghostly-white beard of yours.”

Sam scoffed, hands deep in his pockets. He lingered by Dean, unwilling to leave.

“Aren’t you worried?” Sam asked quietly. “There’s no cellphone signal. No Internet. No phone. No lifeguard next to the river. You can’t call us, or text us, or – anything.”

“Sammy?” Dean took his brother by the shoulders, and looked him dead in the eye. “That’s the fucking point. I’ve had enough of people. Enough of that showbiz life. You know as well as I do, I can’t give it up, there’s a million kids out there that still need me. But I can take a break. So this is me. Taking a break.”

“When are you coming home?”

Dean shrugged. “Ask Bobby to use that sixth sense of his. When it’s time, it’s time.”

“Like, a week? A month? A year—?”

Dean turned Sam around on the spot and sent him stumbling towards the Jeep. “Bye, Sam.”

“But—”

“I’ll see you when I see you,” Dean smiled, enjoying the vagueness. He’d had enough of schedules. He liked the ‘whatever, whenever’ kind of planning. Finally! He was already starting to relax.

Sam was not pleased, but after one more look back and a forced smile, he got in the car.

Jody started the engine, and turned the Jeep around in the clearing beside the house, careful not to bump the Impala, or scrape the windows with a scratchy fir tree. Waving hands emerged from the windows as they left, and soon after, the car horn sounded in the distance, sending up clouds of wild birds from the treetops.

Dean put his hands on his hips, and exhaled in relief.

At last, he had this freaking sun-dappled forest gully all to himself. Peace and quiet. Nothing to do but listen to music, write songs, and dip his toes in the river.

God, this was gonna be the most zen experience he’d had in years.

He’d juuuust reached in to grab his record player – first things first, y’know? Gotta have some sweet tunes to get in the mood for moving in.

And then.

And then.

Someone behind him said: “Hello.”

“GAH!” Dean’s body locked up, hair on end, hands releasing his precious record player. He felt its bulk hit his boot, bounce off, knock on the root of some random tree he hadn’t noticed two seconds ago, flop right over (in slow motion)—

Ka-blrsshhh.

Yep. That was broken.

Dean sagged in dismay, unable to tear his eyes away from the wreckage.

His record player... Smashed up into little tiny bits...

“Oh,” said the voice. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you...”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Right,” he sneered, swivelling on his heels to face the source of the voice. “And when a stranger drives up to a cabin in the middle of the forest, he absolutely expects to be greeted by a...” Dean gestured vaguely at the figure before him. “A muddy hippie. Great. That’s just awesome.”

The man hugged himself with one arm across his middle, holding his elbow. He looked thin, but that might’ve just been because of the oversized, oatmeal-coloured overshirt he wore, paired with loose, khaki-coloured canvas pants. And Crocs. Dirty white ones. Dean’s gaze shot back up to the man’s face, with its dark stubble and sloped fatigue-lines below his eyes.

“Umm,” the man began, offering a muddy hand. “I— I’m Castiel. Who are you?”

Dean hesitated, but eventually stretched out his perfectly clean hand and let it be contaminated. Castiel’s eyes were sky-blue, and it was hard not to notice, given how Castiel stared; Dean found their pigment shocking in a world of luscious greens and earthen browns.

It took Dean a moment to recover, catching his breath – blinking a few times... but at last he stammered, “What? O-Oh. Right. Dean. Dean Winchester.”

Castiel paused, finally letting go of Dean’s hand. He tilted his head. “Have I met you before?”

Dean actually laughed at that. “Come on,” he chuckled, gaze darting away to the thick woodland around them. “I think I’d remember meeting you.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “You would?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Dean gestured at the human dirt-stain before him. “Don’t get much of this where I’m from.”

“Which is where, exactly?”

“Uhhh, Lawrence, Kansas? But I’ve lived all over.”

Castiel seemed intrigued. His eyebrows rose towards his widow’s-peak hairline, and something brightened in his face. “I’ve seen you on TV.”

Dean snorted. “You get TV reception way out here? Well, woo-hoo. Jackpot.”

Castiel cracked a smile at that – but it was a strange, lopsided, awkward smile. “What are you doing in this place, Dean Winchester? This is the middle of nowhere. ‘Off the grid’, as they say.”

“Could ask you the same question, stranger,” Dean frowned, turning back to the trunk of his car, lifting out a thick wad of vinyl records in their perfectly-preserved cardboard sleeves. He shot Castiel a quick glance, then began carrying the vinyls towards his new house.

As Dean unlocked the door and entered the cabin, he heard the grunt of Castiel realising how heavy vinyls were, when lifted in large numbers. “Hey!” Dean called, “If you’re gonna touch those things, try not to get them dirty.” Only after he spoke did realise he sounded annoyed. And, well, he was. What was he gonna do without a record player, now? Listen to birds? Sing to himself like freaking a Disney princess?!

Dean elbowed the nearest switch with force, but frowned when no electric light came on.

In the pale daylight that stretched from the open door, he set his stack of records down on a dusty wooden coffee table. The couch beside it was ripped up, its wooden frame chewed by wild animals; the rug was mossy, and – as Dean looked up – he saw the ceiling was overgrown with vines.

“Great,” Dean sighed. “So much for my refreshing, feel-good retreat.”

“That’s why I came out here, too,” Castiel said, having overheard. He placed his armful of records beside Dean’s stack, straightening up to smile at him. “Four years ago. I used to be a tax accountant. Door-to-door religious textbook-salesman on the side.”

“And what happened?” Dean smirked, following Castiel back outside, ducking the vines in the house’s doorway. He imagined he’d have to cut back those vines, first thing; he practically had to do the limbo to get himself indoors. “Holy tax accountant career tanked?”

“No,” Castiel shrugged a shoulder. He placed a hand on the lifted trunk of the Impala, peering in at Dean’s belongings. “I just found I prefer living without excessive human company. And only doing my own taxes. Of which there are none, as I no longer have an income.”

Dean’s eyebrows jumped. “Well, that’s a reason-and-a-half to stick around.”

“More than anything...” Castiel mused, his attention turning to the warbling, twittering forest around them, “I feel at peace here.” He looked at Dean again, but this time kindly. “I hope you can find the same peace, Dean Winchester.”

Dean felt a pang of wonder inside him. Normal people never really said shit like that out loud.

Castiel reached to touch Dean’s arm, then stepped away. “I live just over the river. If you need anything – anything at all, Dean, I’ll do what I can to assist you.” His eyes lowered to the broken record player, lying forlornly amongst the undergrowth. “Again, I’m... so terribly sorry about your equipment. I know as a musician, your music player must be... invaluable.” A frown of undeniable sorrow and anguish crossed his face. “I owe you a debt, and I’m willing to repay it however you see fit.”

Dean found he could not speak. His eyes lingered, watching his new neighbour turn away and walk into the forest. Castiel hopped down a few rocks, and walked into the water – over the water, even though it rushed and tumbled in a scary-looking way. Dean supposed there were stepping stones under the surface.

The river was only about ten feet wide. Soon Castiel’s serene figure floated up the other side of the gully, clambering a set of steps, higher and higher... right up to a pretty little house, which overlooked the sylvan valley. Afternoon sun shone golden up there, and Dean could see glistening stained glass windows – and a delicately smoking chimney, which eased out a line of white, up past the tree canopy and out into the open sky.

A smile now graced Dean’s face. Castiel’s window had a good view of Dean’s cabin. At least someone would notice if he fell in the river and drowned. Huh! And to think Sam was worried about losing his big brother forever.

Shaking his head, Dean returned his attention to his car full of stuff, and bowed forward, reaching for a third armful of vinyls.

Dean’s house was now crowded.

His record collection took up half the space, all congregated in hunching piles around the coffee table. Centred on the coffee table: a solar-powered coffee pot borrowed from Sam’s camping supplies, and a dozen coffee flavours and roasts.

Then there were the clothes – his six toughest pairs of jeans, a leather jacket, t-shirts, underwear, and a disgusting plastic raincoat which Sam had suggested he buy on the way “just in case”.

Entertainment included a radio, a little boxy TV – but best of all, a small library of books: graphic novels, horror, Westerns, vintage sci-fi... plus some dog-eared romance titles, hidden at the bottom of the pile. Dean had had enough foresight to bring a flashlight, food, water, blankets, and toilet paper too, thank God.

With a sigh of angry satisfaction, Dean set his hands on his hips and gazed upon the mounds of junk he’d assembled in his new abode. “Home sweet home,” he said, with the hard twang of sarcasm.

It seemed likely that these objects he’d brought might become his only salvation in the next few weeks. Without music, coffee, and fiction, he felt lost. And now, without a record player, he had no music.

Hell... at least he had his guitars. Their two curved bodies and slender necks lay seductively in pride of place, lounging across the torn couch. One acoustic, one electric. Dean smiled, realising this retreat couldn’t be all bad. He couldn’t listen to other people’s music without his record player, but he could make some himself. He was good at that.

Quietly, deep down, he acknowledged to himself that this place was disastrously underwhelming. He could hear something dripping, and the smell of mildew was already making him nauseated.

Scowling all the way back to the Impala, Dean slammed the trunk shut, then got into the driver’s seat and let the car roll forward until he made it stop, and set it to park again. Now the car’s massive hiney wouldn’t block the house’s entrance.

Dean got out of the car again, slapping plant matter from his hands.

He paused. “The hell,” he uttered, looking closely at the mossy stains on his pink palms. Peering back into the car, he was struck with alarm: a thin layer of green had coated the Impala’s steering wheel. Not only that – it was on the glass, and the seats—

“Aw, man,” Dean whined, straightening up, eyes to the sky. “My record player and my car? What did I do to deserve this, I don’t know,” he muttered, stalking back to the house. “Oh, yeah, sure, Uncle Bobby! It’ll be fine, Uncle Bobby! What kind of man can’t handle a few overgrown leaves? Should’a listened. Ugh. Should’a listened.”

Dean slammed the door behind him, and the windows rattled.

Outside...

The forest hushed, swaying in the breeze. Whispering.

From branch to bud, some tiny lights glimmered – there for a moment, gone by the next.

Chapter Text

Castiel had made a habit of moon-gazing. His house featured a perfect balcony for him to place his telescope, and so, every night – or day, depending on where the moon was in its cycle – Castiel would be out on the ledge, a blanket over his shoulders, one eye squinched shut, the other pressed to the telescope’s brass eyepiece.

The moon was about thirty hours past waxing gibbous, so now its face grew rounder and rounder. Castiel was certain that if he stayed still enough, and waited long enough, he’d actually be able to watch it creep towards full.

He’d just gotten his equipment set up properly, and he was all comfy and cozy, hands wrapped around his tea, when he heard a splish-splashing.

At first he thought nothing of it; fish often played in the river at this time of year. There might even be bears looking to catch some, but Castiel had seen enough bears; the moon was all he cared about tonight.

But the splish-splashing went on, and on... It stopped for a while, then resumed with a more slooshy-swishy kind of quality.

With a curious pinch between his eyebrows, Castiel adjusted himself in his cushioned chair, then swung the telescope lens to peer over the balcony edge.

He couldn’t see anything. Just darkness.

He saw a silver flash – a beam of LED light – but then it vanished once again.

But then – aha!

Dean Winchester. Waist-deep in the river, his back bared to Castiel.

A distinctive muttering made its way to Castiel’s ears. Frustrated, grumpy muttering.

Castiel rolled his eyes. He sank back in his seat, picked up his tea, took a sip... savouring it... slowly... Then sighed, put the mug down, and went back inside.

He went down to the creek with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, holding up a hurricane lantern to light his way. With every step down the log staircase he went, the sound of Dean’s struggling became clearer, and more pitiful.

Castiel’s trusty Crocs stayed firmly on his feet as he crossed the river, approaching the shadowy, silver-shouldered figure, floundering in the water, his back turned.

“Dean,” Castiel said lowly.

Dean yelped, spinning around with his eyes wide, mouth agape, one hand raised in defense and the other held protectively over his crotch.

Castiel chuckled a single note. “You are jumpy, aren’t you.”

“I’m not jumpy! You’re jumpy!” Dean snapped. “What gives? Can’t a guy take a bath in peace without some hermit in a cloak coming and towering over him like that?”

“Don’t you have a shower facility in your house?” Castiel frowned.

Dean snorted, lifting his defensive arm to cover his erect nipples instead. “I did. I got the waterwheel unclogged. I mean, there’s a freaking waterwheel for starters— Anyway, the electricity works now, and I thought, awesome, let’s check out the shower. Works great. So I get in, and then... like...”

He trailed off, looking perturbed.

“What happened?” Castiel prompted.

Dean shrugged a shiny shoulder, his expression of bewilderment caught in lantern-orange on his left and moon-silver on his right. “Bath started filling up, and I realised I was ankle-deep in what looked like pea soup. So I paddled around looking for the blockage. And it’s... moss. A lot of it. Growing inside the pipes.”

“Ah,” Castiel said thoughtfully. “Yes. The house has been abandoned for many years, I suppose the pipes would need cleaning before use.”

Dean gulped, eyes on the water that swirled around him. Ripples were cast from his waistline, fanning out like a boat’s wake. As Castiel observed this too, he realised Dean was shivering.

“I have a working bath,” Castiel said. “It’s not full of... pea soup. Just bath salts and hot water.”

Dean looked up, eyes gleaming with stars. “H-hot water? Really?”

“Really,” Castiel smiled. “Come on.” He offered his empty hand down to Dean, lantern transferred to his left.

Dean glanced down at himself. “I’m, uh. I’m kind of naked right now.”

Castiel offered his hand more strongly. “You can borrow my blanket on the walk up to my house.”

When Dean hesitated, Castiel bent further, having to insist. “Quickly. Before the bears come to investigate.”

“Bears?”

“There’s a small family of them, they come and say hello sometimes,” Castiel said, supposing it would be kinder at the present moment not to mention that they were dangerous, somewhat territorial, and generally unfriendly.

Dean considered his options – all two of them – and finally picked the only sensible one. He took Castiel’s proffered hand, raised a bare foot onto the same stepping stone, and together they heaved Dean up onto the rock.

“What are these?” Dean asked, noticing the runestone under their feet. He looked further ahead, to the other stepping stones, and saw similar sigils carved in their tops. “Some kinda... ancient magic symbols?”

“No, they’re just pretty,” Castiel said, amusement in his eyes. He wrapped his blanket around Dean’s shoulders, and turned away with his lantern in hand, making his way across the river in easy steps. “Are you coming?”

Dean puffed to himself, but Castiel soon heard the splash of wet footsteps as Dean hopped after him.

Castiel looked up from his telescope when he heard the bathroom door open. Peering inside over his shoulder, he smiled, seeing Dean emerge from the steamy bathroom. His neighbour seemed to glow, rosy-cheeked and smiling.

“God, this place is awesome,” Dean remarked to Castiel, leaving the candle-lit living room and stepping onto the balcony. “Cool view, huh.” He wore a towel slung around his neck, his tousled brown hair staggered into wet points.

When Castiel had offered clean clothes about half an hour ago, Dean had accepted with no small amount of shame – but now, once he’d actually gotten dressed into clean, decade-old sweatpants and a Three Wolf Moon t-shirt, he didn’t look so embarrassed.

Dean’s eyes shone as he looked up at Earth’s most beautiful satellite, admiring what Castiel had always admired.

Castiel didn’t look back at the moon yet, too enthralled by the sight of Dean here, barefoot on the balcony wood, his muscular form filling out Castiel’s clothes in a way never seen before in the mirror. Dean had bigger arms, a broader chest, a smaller waist, while Castiel was simply strong all over.

Dean had begun to grin, looking around the valley, from the silhouette of the tree canopy to the sparkling, gushing river below.

“Hey, I can see my house from here,” Dean joked, pointing with a lazy finger.

Indeed. Castiel looked at the shadowy little cabin, down there on the opposite ridge. “I always wondered who owned it,” Castiel admitted. “And I wondered why they left and never came back.”

“It’s my uncle’s,” Dean explained. “He keeps it as a safehouse. You know, for the zombie apocalypse or whatever. He left because the place is cursed, man,” Dean said, thrusting out a hand, palm-up. “I didn’t believe him, but I should’ve.”

“Cursed?” Castiel tilted his head. He offered Dean a second chair, and Dean sat with a sigh, leaning forward over his thick thighs, pulling wrinkles into the stitching of Castiel’s sweatpants. “Cursed in what way, Dean?”

“Record player’s in exactly fourteen bits; I counted,” Dean said sadly. “My guitar threw a string – almost took my friggin’ eye out – and that guitar’s stayed fine-tuned since the day my brother Sammy gave it to me. The faucet and toilet-flush only work if the electricity is working. Electricity only works if the waterwheel is turning. Waterwheel was clogged. Unclogged it, but there’s still no clean water. The whole place is strangled by vines, inside and outside. Ceiling honestly looks like it’s one bad storm away from collapsing. Pretty sure there’s birds and rats living in the roof. And to top it all off, I think something took root inside my car.” Dean scowled at that last one. “There’s a leaf. Curling around the steering wheel. Wasn’t there when I got here yesterday.”

“Interesting,” Castiel said.

“Sure,” Dean scoffed.

“Have you left out any food? Crumbs, some biscuits, a teaspoon of milk?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“I recommend leaving an offering. For the fairies. You most likely offended them somehow.”

Dean locked eyes with Castiel, staring for a long moment. Then he smirked. Then he laughed, head back, mouth open, eyes scrunched shut. He grabbed his stomach, leaning back in his chair. “Aha-HA-haha—” he guffawed, snickering and shivering as he tried to take a breath. “Oh my God. Oh my God, fairies. Jesus Christ. Wow. Okay. Okay, this makes up for the pea soup in the bath, easy. Oh my God.”

Castiel stared at Dean until he calmed down. Castiel did smile, appreciating that this would sound funny to someone like Dean, but he maintained his composure.

“You don’t need to believe in fairies, Dean,” Castiel said softly. “I simply advise you to leave out some food for them, as a gesture of apology. They’re easy to offend, and they can make life very difficult if they decide they don’t like you.”

Dean still grinned, a little wildness in his eyes. “Eh-hee?! Y— Wait, you’re actually serious?”

“I am,” Castiel said. “Thankfully they’re easy to appease. They enjoy sugar. Put some of your dessert in a small dish and leave it on the doorstep before bed. It’ll be gone by morning.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean nodded, faking seriousness. “Yeah, it’s not an opossum at all.”

Castiel’s eyebrows lifted. “An opossum?” He got up from his seat and went back inside his house, where the light washed his shoulders in warm gold.

“Yeah,” Dean said, trailing after Castiel. “They come along and eat whatever’s around. Maybe a racoon. Squirrels. Some vermin.”

“Really,” Castiel said flatly, lifting a matchbox-sized vintage tin from his windowsill to his hand, showing Dean. “Explain to me how ‘vermin’ know how to open this. Every night I fill it with food and flowers and little messages for the fairies, and every morning, it’s empty.”

Dean looked at the tiny tin, his laughter vanishing. Castiel’s offering box was one of those glossily-painted metal tins that had to be held still and forced open with a thumb, or it would remain practically welded shut. Maybe a supernaturally-strong pair of miniature hands could pry it open...

After a moment, Dean scoffed. “You ain’t met a real city raccoon, Cas. They’d solve an eight-by-eight Rubik’s Cube if they thought it would score them an extra trash can to root through.”

Castiel set his fairy offering box back on his windowsill, right beside a lit candle. “Believe what you like. But I’m warning you, Dean: they will make life difficult for you unless you apologise.”

“Apologise! What for?”

Castiel raised his arms outward. “I don’t know! Did you fill your house with knives, garbage, and iron fire pokers? Did you park Santa’s jingling sleigh in the driveway? Did you pick their flowers? Do you leave the faucets running constantly? It could be anything. But they retaliate in whatever way they see fit. Destroying your property would be the easiest way to get to you.”

Dean chuckled in a dark, unsettling way. “Right,” he said, looking Castiel coldly in the eye. “You know what, man? I know what’s wrecking my property, and it ain’t a bunch of magical woodland sprites. Sometimes shit happens. Plants do what they like. But if there’s anyone to blame for my broken record player, it’s you.”

Jaw set, Dean whipped off his damp towel, tossing it onto Castiel’s couch. “You’ll get your clothes back tomorrow. Thanks for the shower. Have a great night, Cas.”

With that, he turned and left.

Immediately drowning in a feeling of loss, Castiel turned to find solace the way he always did: he brewed himself some fresh, hot tea, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and went to sit in the moonlight.

Pat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

Pause.

Pat-tat-tat-tat.

Pause.

Castiel lurched towards the door handle and yanked the door open before Dean could knock again. “What,” Castiel demanded, bleary-eyed and squinty.

As expected, Dean stood on the doorstep, open-mouthed, a pile of clothes neatly folded in his hands. Noon sunshine fell squarely on his wide shoulders, illuminating the tops of his ears and the fluffiest strands of his clean hair. “Uh.”

“Dean,” Castiel said testily. “Speak.”

An embarrassed smile shifted up one side of Dean’s face. “Look, I, uhh... I just came to... give you this.”

“Okay, thank you,” Castiel said, snatching the clothes. He began to close the door, but Dean stopped him with the flat of his hand.

“Wait,” Dean said, eyes lowered. “I gotta. Y’know. Apologise.”

Castiel sulked, glaring at Dean’s freckled cheeks. He watched them grow pinker, and saw his plump lips shiver as Dean began to talk.

“I guess I overreacted,” Dean said quietly. “I dropped the record player, not you. I know that, man. I just...” He shrugged. “I’m trying not to blame myself for everything. So I blamed you instead.” He sighed, lifting his hand from the door, swaying backwards, eyes cast towards a flock of birds that swooped through the gully. He gulped. “That’s actually why I came out here. I had to... get away from that. Those toxic thought patterns – everything’s my fault, and I can’t do anything about it. Sometimes shit just happens. I’m working on accepting that.”

Castiel waited.

Dean took a deep breath. “Anyway. I’m sorry. I...” He pressed his lips together, staring at Castiel’s chest. “If you wanna believe in fairies, don’t let me stop you.”

“I won’t,” Castiel said coolly.

Dean blinked a few times, still avoiding Castiel’s gaze. “Okay. I clearly woke you up. So. You get back to your afternoon nap, or whatever. I’ll be—” he thumbed across the river, “doing whatever.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Castiel said. Now it was his turn to avoid eye contact; Dean looked right at him.

“All night?” Dean asked.

Castiel rolled a shoulder. “I haven’t had an argument with anyone in four years. I forgot how emotional the experience is.”

Dean’s shoulders sagged. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Castiel said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” Castiel agreed. “But I’m still sorry. I’m sure you understand. Everything’s my fault, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m still working on it. Four years and counting.”

Dean managed a smile – and their eyes met, smiling together.

Castiel took a breath. “While you’re here – do you... want some breakfast?”

“It’s past one o’clock.”

“Brunch, then.”

“Lunch, man. It’s just lunch.” Dean grinned, nodding as he stepped inside. “God, yes. Give me something that ain’t cold and out of a can, and I’m happy.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean laughed. He tossed another potato fry into his mouth and grinned. “Do not get me started on Taylor Swift. You’ll be here for hours.”

“You’re a fan, are you?” Castiel asked, sitting cross-legged of the cushioned breakfast nook, where the sun was warmest but his orange juice was still in the shade.

Dean sat in the doorway to the balcony, his back to the frame, legs stretched out on the floorboards. “Chuh,” he said, pulling another chunky potato fry out of his bowl, dipping it in baked bean sauce. “She was my inspiration. She was the reason I quit being a mechanic and actually chased my teenage dream of being a rockstar. I mean, twenty years late, but at least I did it.”

“Ah,” Castiel said understandingly. “A rockstar. Yes, I looked you up online when you first arrived. I knew you were a big deal when I saw you had a Wikipedia page.”

Dean choked on a potato chunk. “What! No! Don’t read that! All my public failures are listed there.”

Castiel chuckled. “I didn’t read it. I thought that might be rude of me. But I... um. I accidentally saw a news headline.”

Dean flustered and looked away, clearly knowing what Castiel referred to.

“Are there any truth to the rumours?”

Forcing down his mouthful, Dean asked, “Is it a problem if there was?”

“What do you mean?”

Dean glanced up, his eyes worried. “Well. You know. We kinda got a good thing going here, Cas. I’ve been here two days and I’m already having lunch with you. Don’t want anything to get in the way of a budding friendship, right? You ‘n me are kind of stuck with each other. If the truth would bother you, maybe it’s better if I don’t tell you.”

“Why would the truth bother me?”

Again, Dean looked worried.

Castiel finally realised what Dean meant, and he laughed. “Dean,” he said derisively, “I meant the rumours that you’re not planning on returning to civilisation anytime soon.”

Dean inhaled. “Oh.”

“I’m not a tabloid, Dean, I’m not interested in whether or not you’re bisexual,” Castiel smiled. “I just want to know if you plan on staying here, now you’re here.”

Dean blinked, smiling down at his bare feet. “Well... actually? I am.”

“You’re staying?”

“I’m bisexual.”

“Oh.”

“And I’m staying.” Dean grinned. “At least for a couple weeks. This morning I wasn’t sure. Came up here, half-convinced I’d just give you your clothes back, then go back down all your stairs, cross the magic-rune river, get in my car and drive away. Find some other cabin in the middle of nowhere. But, uh...” His eyes focused on the luscious world off the side of the balcony, then he turned his head and looked back at Castiel. “Maybe I’ll give this place a chance.”

“That’s good.” Castiel sipped his orange juice, watching all the suncatcher rainbows dance around his living room. “I think I might be too.”

“Staying here forever?”

“No, queer.”

“Oh.” Dean began to grin.

“At least— I don’t know. But I’m not straight.” Castiel met Dean’s eyes and blushed. “And I’m not entirely convinced I’m gay, either.”

“Heh! I bobbed around in that river for a good number of years,” Dean laughed. “Thank God there’s a word for it.”

“No, I’m more... Ummmm.” Castiel ran his hand through his hair, teasing it between his fingers. “Asexual? As in, non-sexual.”

Dean’s smile fell. He immediately forced a new one. “Cool. That’s awesome.”

Castiel was taken aback by Dean’s strained expression. “That bothers you?”

Quickly, Dean shook his head.

“It does.” Castiel smiled and narrowed his eyes. “It disappoints you.”

Dean’s cheeks turned pink. “Nope! No, come on, pal, you’re too weird to be hot. Like. Like! Like you know when people wear glasses, and then you see them without glasses, you don’t even notice ‘cause you’re so used to seeing them with glasses? It’s like that. But with mud.”

“Mud.”

“Yeah.” Dean threw his last fry in his mouth, squished it, and swallowed. “To me, you’re forever gonna look like you spent hours rooting around in your garden.”

“I do do that, on a daily basis.”

“There you go, then. Muddy forever.” Dean stood up, putting his dirty bowl on the table. “Besides, holy tax accountants ain’t my type. I’m strictly into foodies and musical rebels.”

“I used to play keytar for a punk band,” Castiel said, watching Dean’s stoicism shatter apart. “And I still play piano, it’s in my bedroom. I make up my own songs. Also – for the record, Dean – when I go rooting around in my garden, getting muddy?” He stood up too, picking up the bowl of potato fries Dean had emptied, “I’m tending to vegetables. Which I then harvest, clean, flavour, cook, and eat. And occasionally feed to hungry neighbours, regardless of how mud-phobic they are. I love good food so much that I make my own. One might say that I am, in fact, the ultimate foodie.” He narrowed his eyes, for some reason enjoying Dean’s excessive eyelash-fluttering.

“Y-Y-Yeah, well,” Dean stammered, waves of heat washing off him as Castiel eased past, heading for the open-plan kitchen, “I’m also really into sex, Cas. So maybe just ‘cause you’re literally perfect in every other way doesn’t mean you’re my dream boyfriend or anything.”

“Right,” Castiel said lightly, shooting Dean a smug smile.

Dean pressed his hand to his chest, eyes unfocusing while he eased out a slow breath.

Although Dean looked shaken, he soon brightened, and started to smirk. With his hands crammed in the pockets of his jeans, he sauntered into Castiel’s kitchen. “Ha. Bet you’re not big ‘n strong ‘n smart, though. Bet you don’t have a toolkit with, say, a half-inch wrench. And a level gauge, and, like, one of those wooky things to open stuck cans.”

Castiel gave Dean an inexpressive stare. Then he bent down, opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink, pulled out an overstuffed red toolbox, and handed it to Dean – all without breaking eye contact.

“Whew,” Dean said. “You sure got me beat,” he said. He snorted. “Thanks. I’mma bring this back in a few days. Gotta fix all the pipes at my place.”

Dean then took his leave, whistling on the way out.

Within the following minute, Castiel realised – slowly, and with some surprise – that he’d been flirted with.

And... wait—

Had he... flirted back?!

Chapter Text

“Aaaaaaand...” Dean turned the wrench around the bathroom sink’s copper pipe one more time, tightening the nut as much as it would allow. “Yep. That oughta do it.”

He wiped his hands free of crispy plant debris, then pushed up on his knees with a grunt, straightening to his full height.

“Now let’s see...”

He faced the sink, lapping his dry lips with his dry tongue. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go. Please work, please work, please work—”

The faucet squeaked as Dean turned it, but nothing came out.

“Aw, come on,” Dean scowled—

Water spluttered from the tap and then smashed out, slashing up the ceramic and spraying across the grimy bathroom tiles, stinging Dean’s eyes, half-blinding him as he flailed to turn the faucet off again, yelling, “Stopstopstopstopstop—!”

He breathed, face and clothes dripping in the silence. Wide-eyed, he gripped the sides of the sink, exhaling. Inhaling.

“Okay.” He nodded, then shook his head. “Okay. We’re getting somewhere. We’re getting somewhere.”

He fetched an empty glass from the kitchen cupboard, tipped its resident dead leaf onto the floor (the floor was covered in them, what difference would it make?) and turned on the kitchen tap. He let the water run clear before he filled the cup.

Too wary to drink, he lifted the cup to inspect the water in the flickering light.

There were little... things. In the water. Swirling around and around.

He let the water settle for a while, just in case they were bubbles.

They weren’t bubbles. They settled on the bottom.

“Awesome,” Dean said to himself. “More beer for me, then.” He poured the water down the plughole, and turned away. “At least I can use the shower.”

Uncapping a bottle of beer, procured from the glitchy mini-fridge under the kitchen counter, Dean wandered back into the bathroom. He gazed at the mess in here, from the pea soup stain on the bathtub, to the broken toilet seat without a cover, to the crooked copper pipe under the sink that he’d spent all afternoon fixing.

Dean narrowed his eyes, inspecting the pipe again.

He could’ve sworn there hadn’t been a vine there before.

Just there. Right beside the pipe.

Couching down, Dean held out his beer-holding hand and poked a finger at the vine. It trembled; it was a frail, new thing. But a moment later – as Dean watched – it spouted a baby leaf.

“What,” Dean uttered, overtaken by awe. “Did you just—?”

The vine grew a quarter-inch, in a way that seemed almost petulant.

“Well, excuse you,” Dean retorted. “I want my bathroom back, thanks.” He tipped his beer bottle over and poured some wheat juice onto the plant root, hoping the alcohol would dry it out – or at the very least, bamboozle the young plant.

But the plant only seemed tickled, and its root widened to crack a tile.

“Ffffff,” Dean said, standing up and backing away, hands up. “That’s it. I’m done. You have the sink. I’ll wash my hands in the kitchen.” He turned towards the shower on his way out – only to notice that the pea soup residue in the bathtub had grown fuzz.

No amount of spray-and-walk-away algae cleaner was going to help with this.

Shaking his head, Dean vacated the bathroom. “Nope. Nope nope nope.”

He sat down on the couch and drank the rest of his beer, in silence and thought, determined to ignore the greenish looking thing that was slowly emerging from the plughole of his kitchen sink.

Castiel smelled smoke.

He put down his dinner, crossed his living room, pulled back the drapes to the outside, flapping away fireflies as he stepped up to the balcony barrier.

Ah. As he’d suspected. Dean Winchester.

A spot of orange flame blighted the forest. It was not out of control, but its presence disturbed the peace of the night-time woodland. Castiel could see Dean trying to sit still, perched on a log, but he struggled, as bugs of all sorts were attracted to the firelight, and thus, attracted to him.

Castiel watched Dean turn some food over the fire, then pause to wave his hands in front of him, slapping at his own ankles and wrists.

Castiel sighed.

“Dean!” he called, hearing his voice echo five times over, scaring a flock of night-warblers from the trees and up into the moonlight.

A distant, uncertain reply made its way across the gully. “Yeeeah?”

Castiel chuckled. “Dinner!”

There was a long silence.

A very long silence.

Dean just sat.

But then, Dean got up from his log, kicked dirt into his fire to suffocate it – then drowned it in water from a flask for good measure – picked up a bag, and began to make his way down to the river.

Castiel leaned on the balcony ledge, watching over Dean as he hipped, hopped, and splashed through the water, trying hard not to misjudge the placement of the runes. He came up the hill on the other side, kicking water off the hems of his jeans and muttering obscenities to himself.

When Dean was halfway up, Castiel returned to his house and made his way to the front door. He opened it and lounged in the doorway, waiting for Dean.

Dean looked terrible. He was pale, and shaken, and wet, and so obviously tired and hungry that Castiel actually felt his stomach and eye muscles clench in sympathy.

“What happened to you?” Castiel asked, holding out a hand in welcome, touching Dean’s shoulder as he entered.

“You don’t wanna know,” Dean said, his voice gruff and toneless. He walked with a forward slouch, dragging his wet feet.

“On the contrary,” Castiel said, hurrying to pile up a plate with rice and beans and capsicum and chia seeds, plus a bowl on the side, full to the brim with hot, creamy pumpkin soup. He took Dean by the arm and angled him to the breakfast nook, where he sat at the exact moment his legs gave out. Castiel placed his dinner down and pushed it closer. “Tell me everything.”

Dean smacked his lips, eyes shining at the smell and sight of food. But he looked up, so pitifully that Castiel was reminded of a stray dog. “Could I get some water first? I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Water?” Castiel went to fill a glass, and took it to Dean.

“Mmthankyhh,” Dean murmured, nose already in the glass as he guzzled and glugged and gulped until the glass was empty. He heaved a sigh, setting the empty glass down.

“I’ll... fetch a pitcher,” Castiel said, floating away.

Dean tucked into his dinner, making grateful noises and hums of delight as he stuffed his mouth, shhhlurping the soup and num-num-numming at the piles of plump grains. “Mmmhm,” he hummed, eyes closed. “God, you’re an angel. I’m so glad you’re here, Cas.”

Castiel chuckled, setting a pitcher of water in front of Dean, then taking his seat opposite, pulling up the tray with his own half-eaten dinner. It was cold now, but he didn’t mind. He stared at Dean as they ate, unspeaking.

Eventually Dean’s complexion seemed less wan, and he managed to speak. “That house,” he said, “is trying to kill me. No joke.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I don’t doubt it.”

“There’s something in the water, there has to be,” Dean uttered, mostly to himself, eyes glazing over. “I don’t just mean the physical chunks, I mean – the soil. It’s supercharged or something. I’ve never seen plants grow that fast.”

Now Castiel smiled. “It’s a fairy blessing, Dean. This is their land. How else do you think I have so much food? I can grow anything I like here, and the harvest is plentiful, regardless of the season. See, I can have pumpkin soup in the summer. Or strawberries in the winter.”

Dean gave Castiel a long stare, lips pouted in a sour-faced way. “Mmmmmm-hm,” he intoned. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Seems more like a curse to me,” Dean said, sipping up some more soup. “My bathroom is basically unusable now. The entire plumbing system is whacked. I gotta clean out every pipe and start over. Talk about a fixer-upper. Where’s the guidebook for people who come in and build from the ground up with zero access to a hardware store?”

Castiel lowered his soup spoon from his lips, mind full of thoughts. “You’re welcome to use my home if you need a place to stay. I have Internet access. It’s slow but it works. You could order parts and have them delivered.”

“Psh!” Dean shook his head. “I’m fine. Just, y’know, gotta borrow some plant snippers.”

“Pruning shears.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Take some drinking water, at least,” Castiel said. “My water doesn’t have... chunks.”

Dean actually nodded at that. “Cool. Thanks.”

“And come up here to use my shower,” Castiel said, eyeing Dean’s muddy knuckles. “Twice a day, if you’d like. You’re starting to look a bit... muddy hippie-esque.”

Dean grimaced.

“Keep the tools,” Castiel said kindly, before Dean could ask. “I’ll borrow them back if I need them.”

“Can—” Dean hesitated. “Honestly, man, I hate to say it, but—”

“Breakfast, lunch and dinner are on me,” Castiel assured him. “And snacks.”

Dean stared. Castiel was almost certain that a few teardrops shone in his waterline. But Dean blinked his emotion away, looking down, drawing a breath. Unsettled, he rasped, “Thank you.”

“You are more than welcome, my friend,” Castiel said. “I mean it. Come up here just to complain. I’ll listen.”

A smile crawled up Dean’s cheek. “Heh.”

“But all of this is on one condition,” Castiel added, seriously.

Dean blinked a few times, shaking his head. “Anything. Y’know, within reason?”

Castiel nodded. “Leave out an offering for the fairies. Every night.”

Dean baulked. He snorted, looking down at his empty bowl. “I said within reason.”

“I mean it.” Castiel remained stern, reaching out a fist towards Dean, setting it on the table where Dean could see. “You must apologise to them. If I find out you haven’t left them a gift, I will withdraw my hospitality. I don’t care if you have no food left by the end of the day. Write them a note instead. Speak aloud to the forest. Just swear to me you won’t go to bed without acknowledging their presence.”

Clearly uncomfortable now, Dean looked away, gulping, jaw stiff.

“Swear to me, Dean.”

Dean parted his lips, eyes flicking to Castiel’s. “Anyone ever tell you how believing in something is all fine and dandy, so long as you don’t go shoving it down other people’s throats?”

Castiel returned Dean’s stare with a glare. “I know that all too well. But there’s only one thing I’m shoving down your throat, and that’s good, nutritious food. There are creatures in this world you know nothing about. Last night I told you there were bears in this forest and you believed me. Why?”

Dean sat up straighter, taken aback. “Because it’s a forest? That’s where bears live. Hence the phrase ‘Does a bear poop in the woods?’”

Castiel squinted. “Of course it does.”

“Exactly,” Dean said.

“What?”

Dean snickered.

Castiel rolled his eyes and sighed. “Have you ever seen a bear in real life, Dean?”

“Uh. No. And I count myself lucky. I wanna keep things that way.”

“But you believe bears exist. Even though you’ve never seen one.”

“Yeah?”

“Why is that?”

“Because... I’ve seen pictures. And other people have seen bears. I’ve seen videos. I did a project on them in middle school. What the hell kinda discussion is this, anyway, obviously bears exist—”

“Have you ever seen a picture of a fairy?”

Dean paused. “Yeeeeah? Drawings, animations. Tinkerbell,” he added, with a lascivious grin and a crooked eyebrow.

“So you’ve seen videos.”

Dean was reminded of that late-90s movie about the Cottingley Fairies, which he’d caught on TV once or twice. “Technically? I guess?”

“And you’ve heard people say they’ve seen fairies.”

“Crazy people, sure.”

“Are they crazy?” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Am I crazy? Why can’t I say to you that you’re crazy for believing in bears?”

“Because—” Dean opened his hands out, spluttering. “Because—!”

“In this forest, Dean,” Castiel tilted his head, speaking calmly, “if you wait very quietly, late into the night, you’ll see bears. But you might also see fairies. Sometimes they come out in the day, but they’re immensely shy and hard to see. There’s no magic trick you need to do, or a certain person you need to be, in order to discover them. Just leave out some offerings, and you’ll find the proof you need.”

“Freaking weirdo. He’s crazy. He is crazy,” Dean uttered to himself, stomping back to his vine-strangled house, flashlight guiding his way. “Thanks for the shower – what d’ya want in return? Oh! A tiny little piece of paper offered to tiny little imaginary creatures. Screw that. Screw him. I don’t need a free breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks and hot water and drinking water and... and... clean laundry...”

Dean trailed off, just as he entered his dark, gloomy hovel and looked around. Something dripped.

Dean sighed, slowly, until all his breath was gone.

On his musty old bed, Dean put down the bag he’d carried to Castiel’s place. He’d put on clean clothes after his shower, and left the dirty ones for Castiel to wash, taking home food and water – which he removed from the bag now, putting them on his half-rotted nightstand. Then Dean dug around in his main luggage to find some matchboxes. He’d brought a big packet somewhere.

“Ah! Gotcha.”

Dean tipped all the matches into a second box, squishing them in until the cardboard tray cover bulged and threatened to spew the extra matches everywhere. But now one tray was empty, and Dean could fill it with goodies.

Castiel had given him some cake in a tupperware container to take away. Dean pinched off a corner of the cake – a small corner, mind you, since this seemed like a terrible waste – and pushed it off his thumb and into the matchbox.

He took the broken string from his guitar, curled it around a finger until it became a coil, and he put that in the box, too. It wasn’t like he had a use for it, now it was broken. Cas said fairies liked shiny things, and it was kinda shiny.

Last of all, Dean tore a corner from the pocket notebook where he wrote all his new song ideas. He sat for a while, perched in the dark on the corner of his bed, cellphone light angled onto his hands by his mouth. For a long time, he simply wondered what to write.

Eventually he gave up trying to be sensible about it – he was wasting time even thinking – and just wrote what came to him when he set the pen down to paper.

He’s generous and kinder than anyone I’ve known
But his head is full of magic and mine is rock and stone.
Whatever he offers, whatever I take,
His cannot be a place I call home.

He wasted another moment staring at the lines, as if he’d written something true, or special.

It was neither of those things. He rolled the paper up, placed it beside the cake crumbs and the guitar string, and slotted the matchbox closed.

The window in the living room refused to open, so Dean went outside and placed the box on the outer ledge. He hid it from view behind vines, so some clever squirrel wouldn’t think it was invited to investigate. Castiel seemed sure that fairies went looking for things like these, so it was only a matter of time before it was found.

“Oh, magical forest fairies,” Dean said aloud, heavy with sarcasm, “I’m sorry for what whatever it was I did that pissed you off. Can’t promise I won’t do it again, but hey,” he grinned, cocking his head and winking at the surrounding trees, “I sure as hell wouldn’t’ve done it if I knew it would upset you. Enjoy your cake.”

He snorted to himself, and left.

Funny, Dean thought, as he ducked the vines and went back inside; he did feel better now. His chest felt lighter.

Maybe, even though fairies weren’t real, there could be value in writing down or vocalising a thought and setting it free.

“So,” Dean said smugly, sauntering into Castiel’s living room at ten o’clock the following morning. “Fairies are real, huh?”

Castiel sat up straighter on the couch, dropping the book he was reading. “You saw them?”

“No,” Dean sneered in amusement. He went to the kitchen cabinet and picked out some cereal, taking the bowl Castiel handed him. “The offering I left out wasn’t even touched. Cake crumbs still in there. Guitar string too.”

He neglected to mention the note he’d written, not eager to answer questions on what he’d written, or why.

“They... didn’t collect your offering?” Castiel repeated, frowning, squinting, and staring all at once. “Did you do it wrong?”

“Pfft, I dunno, do I?” Dean sloshed homemade soy milk over his cereal, then handed the glass bottle to Castiel, who poured some into his own breakfast. “I left a matchbox on the outside sill, checked it when I left this morning and it hadn’t been touched. Exactly as I expected.”

Castiel’s squint relaxed, his frown lifted, and he chuckled.

“What,” Dean demanded, as he followed Castiel to the breakfast nook. “What’s so funny now?”

“It’s not funny, it’s quite sad really,” Castiel said, with an air of disdain – yet he continued to smile in a forgiving, fond sort of way. He gave Dean the softest look as they sat together, thigh-to-thigh at the table. He handed over a golden spoon, and remarked, “You don’t believe in fairies.”

“Uhhh. No shit.”

“You don’t believe in the supernatural, so the supernatural wants nothing to do with you.”

“Oh yeah? Tell that to the pile of leaves I swept outside this morning,” Dean uttered, stabbing his spoon into his cereal bowl. “I collected up a mound of them, up to my waist. I cleared the rugs and the floorboards, swept the whole lot out the front door. I turn around and go back in and there’s more. All rushing in from a back window that I didn’t even leave open.”

Castiel’s chuckle deepened to a hrhmmhrmhhmhrmh, complete with shaking shoulders and a vibrating hand, dripping milk back into his bowl.

“Fairy influence or not, there’s something up with that place,” Dean said.

“So you believe in magic, just not that there are creatures responsible for it,” Castiel surmised, all the skin around his eyes crinkling with his smile.

“I believe the universe is out to get me, that’s what I believe,” Dean replied.

“Do you now,” Castiel said.

“Mm-hm.” Dean crunched his cereal, holding the bowl up to his chin to catch a drip. “‘S gop ip in fur me.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Quite.”

Dean stayed at Cas’ house well past lunchtime.

Then he lingered until a time Castiel confidently called “afternoon tea”. Which was not tea at all, but coffee and cookies and cake.

Dean lounged on the couch under a knitted blanket, shoes off, mumbling praises and purring to himself, not even aware that behind him, Castiel poured another round of coffee, beaming in delight, eyes cast towards Dean with ever-growing affection blooming in his chest.

They talked about everything from baking to bass guitar, Taylor Swift to Johann Strauss. Then back again.

Only when a local woodpecker started to tap at a nearby tree did Dean remember that he had a job to do, and hurried away, somewhat embarrassed that he’d stayed until the sun was an hour from setting.

He made use of the daylight, and hurriedly scraped together an official compost heap outside his house. If these dead leaves were going to keep showing up, he may as well do something with them. Cas could do with the extra mulch, probably. For his garden. Y’know. So he could grow more cookie ingredients.

It seemed a feeble way to pay the guy back for his unrelenting good vibes and pleasant company, but it gave Dean something to do.

The moment Dean finished sweeping the house for the second time, he leaned on his broom to rest – but he startled upright: a distant window rattled, and as he turned to look, new leaves danced past him in a flurry, flattening themselves to the walls and tumbling across the rug.

In ten seconds, two hours of work was undone.

He’d locked the goddamn windows. What kind of witchcraft was this?

This time the wind had brought seeds, and new shoots. Being the kind of person who liked to think he picked his battles wisely (it wasn’t true but he thought it was), Dean gave up for the night, and retired to his musty, wonky bed with another verse tickling around his brain.

He wrote by the light of a candle Castiel had gifted him, listening to a gentle rain begin to patter on the roof. There was a bucket under the biggest roof hole, so he set the weather out of his mind and concentrated instead.

Once done, he re-read the words on the scrap of notepaper with a beguiled sort of reverence.

Something’s taken root, deep down inside me
And left untended it’ll only grow,
As sometimes we can’t upturn a whole bed of weeds;
Can’t undo the seeds we sow.

He hummed a melody, knowing it was directly inspired by birdsong. He smiled. And he went to bed convinced that he couldn’t forget the tune, as the blackbirds had sung it morning and evening, ever since they came to be.

Part of him wanted to look for the matchbox and find it empty, or stolen. Even if the culprit was a raccoon, he wouldn’t know about it, and maybe he’d allow a little fairytale fancy into his personal belief system.

He stepped out barefoot onto the dewy grass, padded over to the windowsill, and reached behind a vine leaf to pick up the matchbox.

A sigh of childish disappointment sank inside him as he found the box just as full as before. He plucked out the lump of chocolate from the cookie, and ate it. No need to waste it, after all.

He took the verse on the paper, unfolding it so he could read it again.

A funny, guilty, fluttery feeling took him over, just for a moment. His toes curled into the soil and his stomach clenched.

Something’s taken root, deep down inside me.

He knew what it meant.

Turning his eyes up to the cottage on the hill, Dean smiled with glistening eyes and fireplace warmth alight in his whole body. He couldn’t wait to get up there. And not just because of the delicious breakfast that awaited him.

It was still too early; Castiel was not a morning person.

Well, that wasn’t true. He got up before dawn to water all his thirsty plants, do some gardening, and meditate. So in some ways he was very much a morning person. But then he went back to bed, and didn’t get up until at least nine o’clock. Later, if it was cold, since the blanket cocoon was the best place to be.

Dean felt honoured to know something so intimate as Castiel’s sleep schedule. But the knowledge included the fact that it was too soon for a visit.

So Dean made coffee, then busied himself. Not with sweeping – that was clearly a lost cause, after all – but with rejigging the entire electrical system. He yanked boards off the walls and examined the wires, mapping the place and all its vein-like tangles. He had a good head for mechanical doodads and technical whatsits, so for four solid hours, he completely overlooked his gurgling, empty stomach, and his slowly-fading vital signs.

It was only when he smelled woodsmoke that he poked his head out of the front door, and felt joy at the sight: Castiel’s chimney was emitting a twirl of white, which only mean one thing. Toast.

Dean got up there as fast as his legs would let him.

He knocked on the door, and when it opened, Dean gave Castiel the world’s biggest smile completely by accident. “Hey, handsome,” Dean grinned, gripping Castiel’s shoulder as he invited himself in. “Is that marmalade I smell?”

“Orange and grapefruit, yes,” Castiel said, stroking Dean’s back as he guided him to the wooden kitchen island and pushed a jar closer towards him. “There’s plum jam if you want it, too.”

Dean’s mouth was watering. He washed his hands with soap until the grubby water ran clear, but not once did his eyes turn away from the banquet Castiel had arranged on the kitchen island behind him.

“You look eager,” Castiel observed, as Dean dried his hands and snatched up some food, almost in the same movement.

“Ain’t it pretty?” Dean showed Castiel his plate, bathed in morning sunlight, orange peel glittering in a puddle of jellied sugar, smeared on top of his adorably round-cornered toast slice. “Sight for sore eyes, after looking at nothin’ but dark ‘n gloomy walls full of wackadoo nonsense.”

“What sort of nonsense?”

Dean snorted. “I mean, no wonder the light in the mini-fridge flickers. That thing’s on the same circuit as the hot water tank and the toilet. And that circuit is labelled ‘garage’.”

“What garage?”

“Exactly. The toilet flushes with hot water.”

“W...hy.”

“I know, right?! Oooh, yes, gimme some of that.” Dean took the punnet of strawberries Castiel offered, and plopped three on top of his marmalade. “Awesome.”

“Any luck with the fairies?” Castiel asked.

“Nope.” Dean sucked berry juice off his thumb. “Far as I’m concerned there’s a flaw in your logic. If they don’t appear for adults who don’t believe in them, how is anyone meant to start believing in them?”

“Ah,” Castiel said, lifting a socked foot so he could sit cross-legged on the breakfast nook cushions. “I think you’ll find there’s a flaw in your logic, my friend. I myself never stopped believing in fairies once I grew up. I also never started. They simply exist, and I am confident in that knowledge. They’re part of my world.”

“But you’ve seen them. Because you believe in them. Which makes you believe in them.”

Castiel lowered his eyes, taking a mug of tea in both hands. “Wrong again.”

“How so?”

Castiel sipped his tea slowly, then swallowed. He looked at Dean kindly, and told him, “I’ve never seen them.”

Dean almost coughed up his first mouthful of toast. “Whfff?”

“I haven’t. But I know they exist.”

“How? Why?” Dean shook his head.

There, Castiel paused. He peered dazedly into nothing, some mid-point in the living room. Eventually he shook his head. “I just do.”

Dean ate his toast with disgruntlement sitting like a brick in his chest. But the brick grew old, and dusty, and by the time they moved from breakfast to brunch, it was only a pebble.

Sometimes people believed in things they couldn’t see, and had no logical reason to believe in. As Dean had written before, while logic ruled his own inner kingdom, magic ruled Castiel’s.

That was actually something that Dean enjoyed about him.

By the time Dean went back to his hovel, stomach full from a hearty late lunch, the brick of disgruntlement had become a little red gem of helpless acceptance. It shone, and twinkled... and felt weirdly similar to love.

And so things went. Dean would be up at dawn, stretching his arms to the sky as he yawned. Before breakfast, he’d get to work. He’d spend mealtimes up the hill with Cas, and would go back up there for a shower in the evening. His basic needs were taken care of.

Weeks, then months of Dean’s life vanished into making the house livable, pulling the vines from the ceiling, replacing the rotten floor, rethatching the roof. Every day the land and sky fought him, regrowing what was shorn, collapsing what was erected. But he never gave up.

He never quit writing notes to the fairies every night, either. Whether or not some magical creatures ever read his lyrics, in part it didn’t matter; what mattered was that he was doing the best he could. Castiel insisted that appeasing the fairies was the way to make them leave him alone, and if Dean didn’t even try, what kind of fool would that make him?

Chapter Text

“Cas, can I borrow your laptop?” Dean asked.

Castiel was immediately intrigued. “More pipes to order?”

“Naw, I... I just miss Sammy.” Dean shrugged, as Castiel dug into his bookshelf, then handed his laptop over.

Dean opened up the clunky machine, and set it in a pool of sunshine on the dining table. He turned it on, expecting to wait five minutes for it to boot up. “It’s weird not being around my brother all the time. And my crew. I wanna see what they’re up to. Been kinda... planning an email in my head for the last week and a half.”

“I have a Skype account if you want to video-message them,” Castiel said.

Dean sat up straighter. “You can do that? I thought your computer ran on loose change and gasoline?!”

Castiel chuckled, leaning into Dean’s personal space, easing his hands between Dean’s to type his login password. “I find video chats are faster than typing. I used to visit a lot of chatrooms.”

A grin spread up Dean’s cheek. “Chatrooms, huh.”

“Gardening ones,” Castiel said, with a flustered frown. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Dean said, grinning and raising one crooked eyebrow.

“Like you’re imagining me doing something very inappropriate,” Castiel replied, avoiding Dean’s gaze.

Dean wet his lips, clearing his throat – but still smiling as he looked away. “Can’t help having dirty thoughts about a muddy hippie with a webcam, Cas.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, again pressing himself into Dean’s warmth to open up Skype. He felt Dean watching him, felt his breath on his arm, and heat bloomed in both their bodies, a reaction which Castiel was determined to ignore.

“Do you know how to use this?” Castiel asked, ready to explain.

“I got it,” Dean said quickly, already typing Sam’s account name, then hitting ‘call’. “Hey, give me a minute, would you?”

“Of course,” Castiel said, touching Dean’s neck, then drifting away. He went to pour some coffee, just in case Dean wanted an afternoon pick-me-up.

He listened, but not too hard. He caught the tone of excitement in Dean’s voice as he saw Sam appear on screen – and Castiel looked up, happy to see Dean grinning.

“God, I can’t believe you’re really here,” Dean sighed, as Castiel approached with lukewarm black coffee. “You look awesome, Sammy.”

“He’s not trapped in the screen, Dean,” Castiel said, sliding the coffee onto the tabletop. “He’s not here, he’s many miles away.”

Dean looked at him, bewildered. “Cas... Dude, I know, I’m not two.”

“Right,” Castiel said, blinking. “I wasn’t sure how much you knew about... this...” He gestured at the screen. “Okay, never mind.” He turned and left, blushing, seeing Sam’s laughing face flashing on his retinas.

“Yeah, the guy’s kinda weird, tell me about it,” Dean said, responding to Sam. “He’s real sweet, though.”

“What was his name again? Casper?”

“I call him Cas, yeah. Cas-tee-el.” Castiel felt his ears burning, Dean’s voice carrying to his place in the kitchen. “I’ve been using Cas’ laptop for emails. See the living room behind me? He’s lived here four years, can you believe that? Talk about hermiting.” There was a short pause, then Dean chuckled, “To be fair, he’s not hermiting any more. I’ve been here, what, two, nearly three months? And I’m hangin’ out up here basically half the day.”

“I thought you went out there to be alone,” Sam said, amused.

“I did!” Dean huffed. “I am! I’m here to use stuff that works, that’s all. It’s just while I get my place fixed.”

Castiel swallowed, staring blankly into his coffee pot. Sadness swirled inside him like mushy dregs.

As Sam spoke, Dean exhaled, something dissatisfied in his breath.

“Look, uh,” Dean said, cutting across his brother, “How’s the album coming along?”

“Oh! Yeah, Charlie’s finished the edit, it’s perfect. If you checked your email – I sent you a DropBox link. We’re holding off on releasing it... We haven’t even set a date yet. We didn’t know when you’ll be back, and we kind of need you for the launch. Hey, Charlie— CHARLIE!”

Castiel looked over his shoulder, spying the laptop screen: Sam had angled his webcam towards a red-headed woman, who now removed her overlarge headphones.

“Aw, hey, hot stuff!” Charlie chirped, leaning to see Dean. “Holy moly, Dean, you’re glowing. Sam, isn’t he glowing? You look so happy, Dean. Wow. I’ve never seen you so relaxed.”

“Uh. Huh,” Dean uttered, shifting in his head. “Yeah, it’s all the fresh air and alone-time. Getting away. You know. Not having to deal with everyone all the time. People are so exhausting.”

Castiel turned his head and slammed the coffee pot back into its holder. That overwhelming sadness was brewing very prominently in his belly, and no amount of sugar or cream was going to sweeten that feeling.

“But,” Dean said, distracted by the slam, then focusing again, “I was actually wondering...”

He took a deep breath, then let it out. “How’s the connection?” he asked. “This video, how’s it coming through?”

“Decent,” Charlie said. “Why?”

“Because,” Dean said slowly, “I want you to record it. I wanna tell my listeners about the album drop.”

“Oh, you wanna do that now? Okay,” Sam said, as Charlie typed and clicked and muttered to herself. “All right, recording in five, four, three...”

Two, one.

Castiel turned to look.

Dean sat up and put on a big grin. “Hey, what’s up, guys. It’s me. Long time no facetime, huh? Um. Listen, I probably should’ve rehearsed this, but— God. Okay.” He blew a raspberry. “Someone can edit this. Ugh! Let’s go again.” Dean slapped his cheeks a few times, then shook his head.

“Hey, what’s up, guys!” he began again. “Just wanna let you know I’m having a great time... I’m fine, I’m eating vegetarian, I’m drinking enough water – maaaybe a lil too much coffee, but c’mon, I need it. Fixing up my little cabin in the woods, making it feel like home. And – here’s the thing.” Dean wet his lips, exhaling through his nose as he looked down. “It’s kind of... feeling right, being out here. No plans to come back any time soon. And I don’t mean to let anyone down, or – or take anything away from you. So I just wanna... I wanna promise you, there’s still more music coming. Just not yet.

“But,” he paused, then nodded, “I’m gonna hand the project over to my crew. Charlie’s finished mixing the album. Jody’s producing. You know how good they make their stuff. So.” He swallowed. “Enjoy, guys. My gift from me to you. The entire album, free of charge. Eighteen tracks. Released on every music platform there is. We’ll do a vinyl edition – that one’s not free. But the digital one is.”

“Dean,” Sam said, quietly. “Am I allowed to talk?”

“Yeah, go ahead, little brother.”

“You should tell people why we decided to do this.”

“Because,” Dean nodded. “Because me and my crew – my family – we don’t make music for the fame. Or the money. We make it to get a bunch of tough-ass kids through their shitty life experiences. And I don’t want y’all shelling out for my crap if you still gotta pay for your groceries at the end of the day. We’ll charge for the next album – we got groceries to buy too. But this one’s free.

“Besides... it’s kinda personal, as well. Truth is, I think I’m gonna spend longer out here than anyone expected. Even if I’m back by winter, that’s too long for you guys to wait for one album. I’ve— God, I’ve written more new songs out here than I’ve written in my entire life. And I don’t wanna get back and still have to contend with the old me. That older stuff – it’s in the hands of the people I trust.

“And speaking of people I trust—” He turned to look for Castiel, and grinned when he spotted him, sulking by the kitchen island. “Everyone? I want you to meet my friend, Cas. Cas, you wanna...?” He beckoned, biting his lower lip as he smiled.

Castiel flushed hot. “You want me to be in the video?”

“Yeah! C’mon, I want people to know who’s been lookin’ after me this whole time.” He turned to the screen and beamed. “Everyone, this is... Cas. Say hi, buddy.”

Castiel bent into view, looking nervously at his own image on the screen.

“Into the webcam,” Dean suggested. “People loooove the eye contact. Especially—”

He silenced himself, his cheeks shading slightly as Castiel glanced his way. “Especially what?”

“‘Specially if... y’know.” He hung his head. “Pretty eyes.”

Castiel smiled. He watched Dean for a number of seconds, then looked at the webcam. “How many people will watch this?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Couple million, maybe?”

Castiel recoiled out of frame with a yelp. Dean laughed heartily and loudly, reaching to snag Castiel’s sweatpants pocket, dragging him back. “Cas, don’t worry about it. You’re cute, the kids’ll adore you. Honest. And you look good on camera.”

“But I haven’t brushed my— Dean—” He knelt by Dean’s chair, shielding his face behind his hands, his chin hidden by the dining table.

Dean grinned at him – Castiel could tell.

“People are gonna talk when they see this,” Charlie said, with a knowing tone. “You seem kind of, um... close.”

“Eh, let them talk,” Dean huffed, waving a hand. “Let them draw art and write their stories and make up songs, or whatever else. I’m not gonna pretend Cas n’ me aren’t close just because people are watching.” Castiel looked up, and Dean met his eyes, softly, and apologetically. He knew how carelessly he’d spoken before, and he was sorry.

“Anyway,” Dean said, looking back to the screen. “That’s what’s happening. Charlie can take it from here.” He licked his lips, then asked, “You’re gonna edit out the bloopers, right?”

“Fat chance,” Charlie grinned. “Too cute to miss. But I might do a tight-edit press release version and then the public release with all the fluff.”

Dean chuckled, rolling his eyes. “It was real good talking to you. Sammy. Charlie. And everyone else who’s watching this later. I do miss you. Even though I might show it badly.”

“I have a question,” Sam said, amusement in his voice.

“Shoot.”

Sam pointed at Dean. “That shirt you’re wearing? That’s not your shirt. It has kittens on it.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Okay, my question is – whose shirt is it? As if I haven’t already guessed.”

Dean lowered his gaze to the keyboard, a subtle smile tugging his lips. Castiel watched him, waiting for the answer.

But Dean just looked back at the webcam, and shook his head. “Bye, Sammy. Charlie – good luck. I’ll call again this evening, when Jody’s there. And everyone else? Stay lovin’.”

He looked at Castiel, affection in his gaze – and only then turned back to the laptop, winked, and ended the call.

He breathed out afterwards, groaning. “God. I need a shower. Live shows always make me reek. Heart’s pounding— You feel that?” He took Castiel’s hand and rested it on his chest, where his pulse was indeed hammering under his skin. “No matter how chill I look, I’m always running on adrenaline. Every word is guarded. Considered twice before it comes outta my mouth. Whew.”

“Then,” Castiel said, tilting his head as he got back to his feet, “you must’ve been very sure that you wanted to share my presence with your following.”

Dean smiled, standing against Castiel, one hand on his stomach. “Well, yeah,” he said, head down. “You’re part of my life, now. And you’re not a part I ever wanna hide. So.” He shrugged a shoulder.

Castiel drew a cool, easy breath. His gaze lowered to Dean’s lips – but he looked away in haste. “Thank you,” he said.

“For—”

“For letting me be part of your life.” Castiel touched Dean’s waist, then stepped past. He turned his back, but kept on smiling. He went to tip out the coffee pot, supposing it was time for something fresh and full of new flavours.

Something sweet. And creamy. And utterly delicious.

Chapter Text

“Ah. So this is the fabled Winchester house,” Castiel said, with a dull smile. He was clearly underwhelmed.

Dean straightened up with a huff, brushing compost off his gardening gloves. “Ain’t much,” he shrugged.

“But it’s home?” Castiel supplied.

Dean snorted. “Nah. It just ain’t much.” He waved an arm, inviting Castiel closer. “Mind the mushrooms, the goop sticks to your boots if you step on ‘em.”

Wary, Castiel lifted his Crocs high over the three-inch-tall fungi that bordered Dean’s so-called yard. He smiled in thanks as Dean held the front door open for him.

“So,” Dean said, “what brings you here? I hope it’s the coffee, ‘cause that’s basically all I got. Got a couple Oreo packets somewhere.”

“Oh— Oh, no, that’s all right, thank you, I’ll leave it for you,” Castiel said, waving away the half-drunk coffee mug Dean offered him. He looked down and re-folded a t-shirt he’d brought along. “I just came to find out how your project was coming along. I see you got the ceiling lights to work.”

Dean sipped his coffee, looking up. “Mm. Yeah. That was me. Totally wasn’t a random rat-removal coincidence or anything.”

A breathy chuckle escaped Castiel’s mouth, putting wrinkles around his eyes.

“Is this really what you came down for?” Dean sipped his coffee again, then put it aside. “A whole season’s gone by and this place is still a mildewy wreck. I know you’re not blind. We both see it. No way you trot all the way down here just to stick your nose in, Cas. Not like I’ve got any sugar you can borrow. So what’s the deal?”

Castiel touched his hand to the back of his neck, smiling as he looked down.

“C’mon, buddy, spit it out,” Dean urged, grinning as he batted at Castiel’s chest.

“I... I brought you this.” Castiel handed Dean a t-shirt. It was almost threadbare, grey in colour.

Dean lifted it by the shoulders to take a look at the design. He exploded with laughter, bending forward and scrunching the shirt to his stomach, chuckling and snickering – until he took a deep breath, standing tall and smiling at his friend.

“I mean,” Dean said with a quick cock of his head, holding up the shirt again, “This place still stinks, but it’s not a shoe.”

“There was a cartoon rabbit who lived in a shoe,” Castiel said brightly, putting his hands in the pockets of the jeans Dean had insisted he wear instead of khakis. “Dean Winchester kind of lives in one too.”

“Where’d you even get this?” Dean asked, tossing the shirt fabric gently to find the centre, then folding it over.

“I had it in my underwear drawer, I found it this morning,” Castiel shrugged. “This shoe-dwelling rabbit was the mascot of my old punk band. We called him Punchin’ Munchkin. I haven’t worn the shirt in a long time, I thought maybe...”

“I could do with some new-to-me clothes?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “Rep a band that’s been defunct for twenty-odd years?”

“I just hoped you’d wear it,” Castiel said quietly, looking at the floor. “If you want.”

“You could probably see my nipples through this, man.”

Castiel said nothing, but he pressed his chin to his chest and smiled a little more.

Dean noticed, and said nothing, concealing a smile of his own. “You know, maybe I will wear it. Looks cozy.”

“It is,” Castiel nodded. “And—” He glanced around Dean’s overgrown living room, “You ought to have more comfort in your life.”

Dean sighed, trailing his feet over to the couch. He sat down, and looked over at Castiel as he sat beside him. “I can’t believe I’ve spent so long working on this crap. Yeah, I’ve done a lot, and changed a lot, but there’s no fewer problems – just different problems. At this rate I won’t be done with this house for a decade.”

“I’ve lived in my place for years and I’ve not yet reached all my goals,” Castiel said assuringly. “Making a house into a home is – and should be – a lifelong pursuit. If progression stops, doesn’t that mean we’ve ceased to improve ourselves? By fixing the space around us, we fix what’s inside too. Neither one should remain stagnant.”

With a scoff, Dean inquired, “What self-improvement have you been doing in these four years?”

“Mm.” Castiel shrugged with his shoulders high, lips pressed together. “I find myself... trying to get to the root of my issues. I believe people call it ‘soul-searching’.”

“Yeah?” Dean shook his head. “What issues? No offence, but besides deciding to live in a cabin alone in the woods for years like a log-chopping axe-murderer, you seem like a pretty decent, well-rounded guy.”

Bashful, Castiel bowed his head. “Thank you. It’s been a long time coming.”

“What were you like before?”

Castiel took a deep breath, eyes rising to the ceiling. “Well... I don’t know if you remember, but a long time ago I told you... I used to sell religious textbooks. And—”

“Do people’s taxes. Yeah.”

Castiel nodded. “I was... obsessed. Obsessed with wanting to help people. Move them forwards in their lives – both in this realm of existence, and in the afterlife. I was of the opinion that if they didn’t accept my doctrine for themselves, the financial and spiritual lessons I’d been taught, all that awaited them was an eternity of damnation, both in this life and the next.”

“Uhhhhhhhh.” Dean felt himself tensing, wondering if he was about to get a religious investment lecture.

“For all the promises of ‘eternal peace and love’ my teachers gave me,” Castiel said slowly, with single-finger quotes beside his ears, “the environment they cultivated inside me, within my mind, was... harmful. It was like addictive poison to me.”

Castiel met Dean’s eyes and sighed. “I began devoting myself to individual people, convinced I could ‘save’ them. And these people weren’t easily swayed, Dean – these were confident, decent people, who were only talking to be polite – or otherwise strangers who wanted nothing to do with me. And yet I persisted.”

“Jeez.” Dean’s eyebrows jumped, accepting this story with an uneasy, uncertain chill in his belly.

“I brought my religious background into my financial job, and drove all my co-workers away, trying to invite them into my special realm,” Castiel said. “I’d decorated myself with the trappings and rituals of religion, thinking I was getting the ultimate spiritual experience, and I expected a reward at the end. I followed all the rules – but forgot that at the core of everything, there ought to be love, and acceptance of others’ differences. Could my way really be the better way, the perfect way, when all my actions did was make me and everyone around me hopeless and miserable?

“Eventually I felt so alone and at a loss that I had to step back,” Castiel said, firmly. “I had to live by myself, away from teachings and temptation. I needed to find my own belief system.

“Nowadays I focus mainly on wonder, and finding beauty around me, and... appreciating it for what it is, and being grateful I can experience it. I don’t look for big meanings. Mainly, I had to learn that I... I can’t save everyone.”

Dean felt the weight of those words in his heart, crushing inward for a while.

I can’t save everyone.

When the tightness frayed a little, Dean took a breath, wanting to ask, “So... for four years you’ve been... what, contemplating that?”

Rolling a shoulder, Castiel took a breath to explain. “I find the root cause. For example...” He grinned suddenly, then smiled. “I enjoy coffee. Why? Because it’s hot and it wakes me up. Why do I like that? Because I don’t enjoy being cold and sleepy. Why?”

He slid his hands between his knees, and it struck Dean that Cas seemed more vulnerable speaking about this than his backstory.

“Because,” Castiel went on, “cold and sleepy is bad. It’s uncomfortable. It’s... danger. Why do I feel that way? Because when I’m cold I can’t feel my hands. I can’t move quickly. I can’t control my limbs. Why do I hate that so much?” Almost sadly, Castiel answered his own question. “Because I don’t like when I’m not in control. I don’t like power taken from me. Why?”

He swallowed. “Because when I was very, very young, I lost my parents. I was carted between caregiver and foster parent and boy’s home and church, and I had no control over my own life. Coffee had nothing to do with it. Neither did cold. On the surface, I don’t associate cold and the absence of coffee with powerlessness. But the root cause of my love of coffee is self-control. And knowing that, I now value it more deeply.”

Dean saw aching in Castiel’s downturned eyes.

“That’s what I’ve been doing for four years.” Castiel managed a half-smile. “I keep asking ‘why?’ until I know. I know every corner of my mind, and have worked to undo the damage others caused me, if I find their reasoning does not match that of my ideal self.”

In the moment of silence that followed, Dean’s mind rushed with thoughts.

He drew a sudden breath. “Why am I here?”

Castiel looked at him closely.

Dean’s lashes fluttered, and he shook his head. “I mean— I came here to get away. Away from everything. The people, the rockstar life. But why?”

He nodded, settling in for some of his own soul-searching. “It was too much. It was... not what I signed up for.” He ran a thumb against his lips, but then spoke quietly, revealing, “I got into the game late, Cas. I was never gonna be a teenaged boy wonder, I was only just learning to play guitar back then. I was in my thirties when I quit the mechanic business to go jam out instead. When guys my age start makin’ music, they go country-western. But... I wanted classic rock. Drums, bass guitar, electric keyboard, long solos – the works. Y’know, Led Zeppelin, Metallica. Go big or go home.

“But when a guy nearing middle-age jumps onto that scene, it goes one of two ways. Either he goes practically unnoticed – plays a few local bar gigs, releases a couple half-assed albums, and falls in line with the other has-beens, in the discount shelf at the CD store. Has a semi-devoted online following of rural housewives, maybe.

“Or, on the other hand: the world falls in love, his brother teaches him to use Twitter, and he gets his face on billboards from London buses to the LA metro. His songs get overplayed on the radio, he’s on TV every time you turn the damn thing on.

“And there’s stuff that comes with that, Cas. You get the goods – the money, kinda. Enough to pull a guy and his little brother outta debt, and get something in the bank. The fame, whatever. The screaming fans, sure. But after a few years, all you see is the bad. The comments saying I’m too old for this, my looks are fading, if I even had any to begin with. Surface stuff, stuff I shouldn’t care about. Stuff I end up caring about, because that’s how I sell records. Gotta look perfect. Talk good. Date some celebrity I barely know so we get the front cover of the magazines. And not even because I want to, at that point. But because if I stop now, if I stop making music, or interacting with the big business music industry world, a few million teenagers lose something special, important to them.

“That’s why I kept going so long,” Dean admitted, head turned towards Cas, though he didn’t meet his eyes. “That’s why I let people with the big bucks walk all over me, squish me into the ‘hot music daddy’ box and stay there. Because there were kids, actual kids, who listened to my music and let it carry them through a tough time.”

Castiel shook his head. “But it took too much out of you.”

“It took everything,” Dean nodded. “Every bit of core personality I had left. And the bad stuff, the critics? The ‘haters’. Their opinions started to shape how I edited myself. One person hated that kind of bassline? Never doing that again. One person thinks I should get surgery to fix my bowlegs?” Dean scoffed. “I actually considered it for about two days, started looking at the numbers to see what surgery would cost. Then I realised what it would cost to me. To the person I am, the person I was once confident being, to the person I promised my mother I’d grow up to be. So I cut out of my record deal. Had to go to court to get it done. Went indie with my closest crew. And then I packed a bag and I left.

“Why?” Dean asked himself. “Why did I leave that life behind, why did I run away when those kids are still waiting for my next album? How could I tear up a million-dollar contract, how could I be that selfish?

“Sam told me my fans took it pretty okay,” Dean said, head down. “They were mostly supportive, leaving comments, tweets, saying shit like ‘I deserve a break’, and I should ‘take as long as I need’. But, uh.” Shaking his head, Dean sighed. “I saw the backlash after I first announced I was going on a sudden sabbatical. Oh, I’m sorry having millions of dollars is too stressful for you, sweetcheeks, just get over it,” he sang, falsetto and bitter. “Naw. C’mon. Wasn’t the money that stressed me out. It was comments like that, times a million.

“Yeah, I mean, if I didn’t strike it lucky, I wouldn’t have the means to take off, go somewhere private and hide out for months, no responsibility. I know that. I’m a lucky sonofabitch, I’m fully aware. But my good, steady job as a mechanic didn’t make me self-conscious about my pudgy middle or my eyebrows twenty-four-seven, or have me come home to a thousand messages asking why I’m goofing off at a bar at ten o’clock on a Friday night rather than working.

“I signed up to make music. That was all. But there was literally no escaping everything that came with it, and it was my job to be present online and positive at all times. It’s not possible to be that person. It’s just not. And if I wasn’t smiling, I got more shit from the magazines, the TV people, whoever. Like it never occured to those grown-ups that I had other emotions besides ‘responsible dad’ and ‘sing-song prettyboy’. Music barely even factored into my weekly routine by the time I left.

“So why did I leave?” With a grim smile, Dean sighed. “Because. I needed to learn.” He looked up at Castiel and said, soft as anything, “It’s like you said. We can’t save everyone. Best thing we can do sometimes is save ourselves.”

Castiel’s eyes flooded with tears, and he smiled.

Dean smiled back. “Sam donated a half-million to some charities on my behalf. Stuff for the kids. Anti-bullying programs, homeless shelters for queer youth, Black Lives Matter. Planned Parenthood, Greenpeace. Maybe someday I’ll go back to the real world, pick up where I left off. But, uh.” He swallowed, blinking away his tears. “I’mma do that ‘soul-searching’ thing. Rediscover my self-worth. Then tell the kids how to find theirs.”

“Through song,” Castiel said.

“Pff, of course,” Dean grinned. “That’s my jam.”

Castiel gave Dean an encouraging smile. “If you ever wanted some non-judgemental input, I’d be more than happy to help.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. World-famous Dean Winchester, asking musical advice from Mr. Keytar over here.” He laughed, but then he nodded. “I’d love that, Cas. Maybe I’ll play you some old favourites, sometime.”

“Tonight,” Castiel said. “Wear the t-shirt.” He stood up, relieving Dean from finding a reply for such a strange demand. “See you later, Dean.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?”

“I have our dinner to cook,” Castiel said, heading for the door.

Dean hurried after Castiel, opening the door for him. “Uh— Okay. Later. Cool. Thanks.”

As Castiel left, he gave Dean the warmest, most appreciative smile, one that made Dean feel like he was wrapped in hugs, from his head to his toes. He shut the door, still beaming.

Why? Why was he feeling so content now?

Well, that was a question for later.

Chapter Text

As per Castiel’s request, Dean wore the t-shirt. And he brought his acoustic guitar, too. Castiel welcomed him inside, grinning as they walked together into the living room.

“Mm, smells gooood, Cas,” Dean hummed, letting go of a huge breath. “Even my mama’s dinners never smelled this good.”

“I thought your mother only cooked meals she could microwave in your motel room.”

“Exactly.” Dean set his guitar down on the couch. “And you feed me, like, more than once a day. Swear to God, she’d adore you if she ever met you.”

“Can I take your jacket?” Castiel offered, watching Dean roll up his sleeves. The army green looked good next to the cartoon rabbit and all the cartoon garden weeds, but something in Castiel – a funny little stomach flutter – wanted that jacket gone.

“Uhhh.” Dean looked down at himself, no doubt checking how much of his skin showed through the threadbare fabric. He grinned, then looked up at Castiel sheepishly. “Maybe later, huh.” He sucked on his lower lip, smiling at Castiel, and Castiel imagined he saw a faint blush.

“Later,” Castiel agreed. He patted Dean on the bicep and went to serve their dinner. He faced the steam as he dished out the food onto plates, supposing it was just the heat of the kitchen making him feel so... spicy.

They ate on the couch, thigh-to-thigh, sharing a blanket. Dean dipped every single piece of his broccoli into Castiel’s own dish of soy sauce, insisting on saying “Yoink!” every time he did so.

“I could just get you your own sauce,” Castiel suggested, eyes narrowing as he watched Dean mop up the last smears of darkness from the white mini-dish.

“Yours is better,” Dean said. “Always is.”

“And why would that be,” Castiel asked.

“‘Cause,” Dean said, munching, shrugging a shoulder.

“I see.” Castiel felt a sparkle in his eye. As his gaze lowered to Dean’s body, that sparkle seemed to intensify, tingles dancing in Castiel’s ribs, then his stomach. Not for the first time, his gaze was drawn for unknown reasons to Dean’s chest. He liked watching him... breathe. And those perky little nipples really did show through the shirt.

It took a number of seconds before Castiel realised he’d stopped eating, and his mouth hung partly open, eyes probably glazed over. He snapped back into full consciousness, and cleared his throat as he set aside the rest of his dinner, sliding his plate onto the coffee table.

“You done?” Dean asked. “Hm! More for me.” He bent forward and scooped up the remaining noodles, holding a cupped hand under them as he transported them carefully to his mouth. “Aaah-hmph!”

Curling a hand beside his temple, Castiel sat back and considered Dean carefully, wondering why he found him so agreeable. The man sat there, chewing with his mouth open, muttering “Bat-man... nanananana, batman!” before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Castiel knew better to ask who raised him. Bobby tried. And his mother tried. But the truth was that nobody really did.

In some peculiar way, Dean’s nature was as wild as the forest around them. He didn’t fit here at all, he was from The Outside, but when he was here, he seemed perfectly at home.

Castiel sighed in contentment.

He let his eyes fall to Dean’s nipples again, and he allowed himself to stare. He rode out the tingly, fluttery feelings in his stomach and entire lower half, not caring to ask himself what it meant. It was a good sensation so he let himself experience it.

When Dean finished eating, he hummed a deep note, patting his stomach and leaning back into the couch cushions. His army jacket fell back a bit more, revealing almost his whole chest, skin barely tinted by the old band shirt. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat, tumbling inside his chest for a moment longer before it left him.

He reached out to push one lapel of Dean’s jacket to reveal more of his shape. In his peripheral vision he saw Dean look at him. He said nothing, he just watched Castiel slide one fingertip... so tentatively...

Castiel just wanted to see if Dean’s nipple was hard.

That was all.

He touched it, and it was soft. Pointy and plump and it seemed to disappear under Castiel’s finger. But then it stiffened a little, and Dean sucked in a sharp breath.

“Um, Cas? No offense, or anything, but what— What’re you—?”

“Nothing,” Castiel said, wrapping his arms around Dean, twisting at the waist to press his chest to Dean’s. “Hugging you.”

He kept his eyes open, staring at the back of the couch. His whole body was tense, heart pounding. Dean could probably feel his heartbeat through a shirt that thin.

Castiel heard Dean swallow. Then came a shaky exhale, so quiet.

But then Dean put his big, warm hand on Castiel’s back, and leaned in, chin on Castiel’s shoulder. He accepted the hug.

Unexpected fireworks burst in Castiel’s chest, glowing ribbons of joy cascading in his gut. He shuddered, smiling, and he shut his eyes as they embraced for real. Soft, tight, and warm together.

Dean hummed a note of happiness.

Castiel began to squeeze. Tighter. Tighter. He was overwhelmed, all of a sudden. Four years. Four years had passed, and he hadn’t felt the touch of another person. And now he was heart-to-heart with a close friend, curled up side-by-side on the couch. This felt so incredible he didn’t know what to do, he just wanted to push himself against Dean and let the other man squish him breathless.

Dean rubbed Castiel’s back. Castiel couldn’t be sure how he knew, but he realised Dean was smiling.

And a single moment later, Castiel realised something else.

“I love you,” Castiel said in surprise.

Dean pulled away. “What?”

Castiel just smiled, truly happy. “I’ve never had a best friend before.”

“Best friend,” Dean repeated. A grin flashed onto his face and stayed there. “Awesome. Me neither. I mean, besides Sammy and Charlie. But,” he nodded. “Awesome.”

He darted in for another quick hug, squeezed, then sat back, wearing a goofy, delighted grin.

“Uh...” He swiped his mouth with his hand, then lowered his hand and licked his lips. “You want me to play you a few songs? I brought my guitar, so...”

Castiel nodded.

Dean grinned again. He reached for his guitar, lay the instrument in his lap, and began to play.

“This one’s for you, buddy,” Dean said. “To best friends.”

“To best friends,” Castiel repeated, quietly.

The tunes Dean played, they were ones Castiel vaguely recognised, but he didn’t know the words. He listened, swaying along to make sure Dean knew he was really listening, and appreciating. Whenever Dean met his eyes, he felt hot and excited. But when they looked away, Castiel felt at peace.

He peered at the scrunches in Dean’s middle a few more times, but mostly watched his relaxed face, and his delicately strumming hands, and thought about how amazing it was to have a best friend. Someone he loved to spend time with. Someone silly, and clever, and hard-working, and... and handsome.

Very handsome.

“Won’t you sing?” Castiel asked, as a third song ended.

Dean smiled a wonky smile. “Ain’t warmed up.”

“You could sing badly and I’ll still appreciate it,” Castiel insisted.

But Dean shook his head. “If I’m gonna sing for you, Cas, I wanna – I dunno. Blow you away. First time, at least.”

“Oh. Another time, then,” Castiel said.

Dean nodded. His smile was secretive, and shy, and even though Castiel didn’t understand why, he liked that Dean could be nervous about sharing a part of himself he’d shared a thousand times before with millions of other people. Castiel couldn’t see it as vanity. Dean wanted their moment to be special. He wanted to be prepared, and he wasn’t ready yet.

But someday, he would be.

Castiel looked forward to that day.

—
to: Sam Winchester | [email protected]

Hey, Sam. Sorry it took me a couple days to get back to you. Cas hadn’t run updates on his laptop for a few years and obviously I decided to do that for him, not realising it would take 28 hours. I dunno how he survived so long without me.

Gardening tips aside (on that note, ummmm... thaaanks? I think you fail to understand THESE ARE NOT NORMAL PLANTS)
I
am
EXHAUSTED.
To quote that screenshotted post you sent me that one time, “I came out here to have a good time and I’m feeling so attacked right now.” Freaking bully plants. They broke a window yesterday. I’m still not over it.

At least the weather’s stayed fine. We’re clearly heading into fall now, the leaves are starting to turn. This place is gorgeous in the afternoons, all lush greens with fiery spots of gold and orange. (I attached a photo Cas took yesterday. Right? Right???? Yeah.)

Damn. This email is so short but it just took me 20 minutes to type. Cas keeps humming something while he cooks dinner and it’s so distracting. He has a real ear for minor key.

^(that last part is sarcasm. he’s out of tune.)

My record player is only half fixed, I’m still waiting on a few parts to come in the mail. Mail takes a week longer than you’d expect, way out here. I’m learning to be patient. Once the thing’s all working again, I won’t have to listen to this woodland hippie humming constantly. God, he hums as much as his collection of beehives. Endless buzzing. Bees everywhere. They come inside at breakfast time now, because one of them figured out that Cas’s homemade marmalade is delicious and then told all its little bee friends. I shared the table with a big fat bumblebee the other day. Cas talked to it for a good five minutes before he put it back outside.

He still tells me to leave gifts for the non-existent fairies every day. I’ve quit leaving food out – because seriously, what is the POINT? But I still write a little something-something. I haven’t told Cas exactly what my ‘offerings’ entail, since he’d wanna read them. You know me. Don’t wanna share a song until it’s done.

Thanks for keeping my Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter, Facebook and weekly livestreams updated while I’m away, by the way. Only thing worse than having your mental health collapse down around your ears, is seeing your social media numbers drop, am I right? (I’m kidding. Sort of. But thanks, little brother. I’m wondering whether to pare down to just one account once I get back home. If my fans want to find me, they’ll seek me out where I lead them, I’m guessin.)

But... actually. I typed that and then did a huge SIGH.

I wonder if I even wanna come back. I know you miss me, Sam, I miss you too. But as terrible as the house is out here, I’m still having a good time. There’s something about this place, about living out of the way, busying yourself with only the essentials, that just forces you to look at all the unnecessary things you clutter your life with on a daily basis.

Like. I don’t miss it. The life. The rockstar thing.

What I miss is working with you. That’s all.

I don’t miss the crowds. Cas listens when I fiddle with my guitars, and that’s all I’ve ever needed – someone to listen and tell me what works and what doesn’t. You were never musically inclined, no offence.

I don’t miss the schedule. All I have out here is a job to do, tools to do it, and a friend to complain about it with.

I don’t even miss the food. Cas’ burgers are the best I’ve ever tasted, and they’re frickin VEGETARIAN. If you can even believe that.

What do people work for all our lives, anyway? Money? Success? Why, so we can retire when we’re old? Afford health insurance, take care of our parents and children? Live on a farm upstate, do some gardening and read some books? What am I working for that isn’t right here?

This life doesn’t cost Cas a dime, besides the Internet connection. It’s cost me a lot in household and renovation supplies, but that’s because I’m doing it wrong and I know it. If he needed to, Cas could sell his crop at some frou-frou vegetable market. We both have some money in the bank, enough for emergencies. No parents. No kids. No spouses to dote on.

I had success, but it ultimately felt draining. Everything was always for other people, y’know? There’s nothing I value more in a person than bottomless unconditional love, and we both know that’s how I roll when it comes to certain people, and always will. But damn does it feel good (relieving?) to look after numero uno and nobody else, at least for a while. After all the time I spent loving everyone else, while I was busy making sure a few million people are kept happy, I kinda... stopped loving myself. Like Cas said when I told him: you can’t pour from an empty cup.

God, I DO sound like a muddy hippie. Gotta go wash my mouth out with homemade soy soap, BRB.

Anyway, this is the stuff I’m thinking about (and discussing with Cas) on a daily basis. I have everything I need out here. And if I ever came back to you, Sammy, I’d have everything I need with you. But right now, I want to be here.

And maybe Cas is a big reason for that. Just sayin. I haven’t told him anything, but I’m guessing he knows. I hug him enough that he expects a big ol squeeze when I arrive now. (Or when we get within two feet of each other. Ugh, a pair of cuddlemuffins, both of us. I am disgusted in myself.)

(Wait, no I’m not??? I wuv hugs.)

(And I wuv you too, Sammy. Let me know how your next class goes.)

Dean

—

to: Sam Winchester | [email protected]

P.S. got home last night and ended up writing some more melody for the song. i think it was inspired by cas’s humming and the bees?? dammit

Dean

—

Chapter Text

Throughout the early autumn months, Dean rebuilt the house from practically nothing. He fixed up his record player, bit by bit. He wrote his songs, night by night, word by word, note by note.

But of all the things Dean built – though he still never said it aloud – the most rewarding for him was the cultivation of a friendship.

Unlike with the cursed house, once something was stuck down, it remained in place.

Once Dean and Castiel started to hug, they never stopped. They’d hug hello, goodbye, and hug ‘just because’. Sometimes they’d lean against the kitchen counters for half an hour, having a casual discussion, drinking coffee, arms pressed together.

Castiel lent Dean his clothes, and eventually Dean didn’t need to ask before borrowing underwear daily.

Dean once offered to fix Castiel’s leaking faucet, and from then on, Castiel simply told Dean what needed doing, and Dean did it with a smile, and a wrench spinning around his fingers.

Nothing felt too overwhelming or strangling, like vines – or out of place, like weeds.

Dean and Castiel would sit snuggled together on the couch, sharing a blanket, half-watching the TV, all the while talking over it about entirely irrelevant subjects.

The concept of personal space ceased to be a concept. Only on a single occasion did Dean consider that massaging Cas’ feet while Cas lay with his heels on Dean’s chest was kind of an intimate thing, but then Cas laughed at Scooby Doo on the TV, and Dean grinned, and he forgot what he was thinking about before.

When storms came, Dean didn’t live in fear of the roof collapsing. Not when it came to Cas.

They argued, sure – but never about Dean overstaying his welcome, or Cas wanting his own space, or Dean not doing an equal share when it came to meal preparation. They argued about Dean’s socks, dripping muddy water in the bathtub. They argued about whether or not Dean needed new shoes (the answer: “Dean, look at them! LOOK at them! Don’t you think six holes and a missing sole is reason enough for a replacement? Stop fighting it. You deserve better, and I ordered you some already. You’re welcome.”) or whether Dean’s chesty cough was because of the mouldy hovel he worked in all the time (the answer: damn straight, and Dean was fixing it, for God’s sake).

Line by line, Dean’s favourite song grew longer. And his friendship with Cas became the deepest, most profound bond he’d ever experienced with anyone in his lifetime, besides his brother.

Sugar and the smell of pancakes hung comfortingly in the air, reminding Dean that there was breakfast waiting for him. Castiel already had his plateful, and he stood keeping watch nearby, eating slowly so there’d be some left once Dean was finished.

“Last bit... Almoooost...” Dean chewed his bottom lip, sliding the record player’s outer casing into place. It clicked secure, and Dean breathed out in relief. “Did it. Four months, fourteen broken pieces, two hundred dollars in rare replacement parts—” He held out his hands, beaming at the completed prize. “Ta-daaaaah.” He leaned back, still kneeling on the floorboards.

Castiel set a warm hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Heh.” Dean grinned and huffed, getting to his feet. “It’s half your doing, you paid for the parts.”

“But I did break the thing to begin with,” Castiel countered, showing Dean the plate of pancakes he’d put together. “Syrup?”

“Thanks,” Dean said, taking the syrup and slathering it over the plate. “Let’s say we were equally to blame for breaking it. Sometimes shit happens, right?” He lifted a shoulder, meeting Castiel’s eyes. “But we played an equal part in fixing it.”

“What are we listening to first?” Castiel asked, nodding towards the player. “You brought all your records here for safekeeping. So pick something.”

Dean grinned. “I know exactly the thing.”

Breakfast set aside, he spent five minutes rifling through the vinyls’ sleeves, which were all fanned out in a circle around a raw wooden pillar that held up the ceiling. He finally straightened, bright-eyed with excitement. With an air of sweet delight, Dean closed his eyes to listen to the kissssss of the vinyl record pulled from its cardboard sleeve. His grin fluttered, downturned and trembling as emotion took him over.

Castiel smiled, watching as Dean placed the record on the turntable, set the needle down, and let it spin.

“E.L.O.’s Strange Magic,” Dean said, returning to Castiel and his food, as the first upbeat notes warbled through the living room, bass tumbling through the floor. “I’ve had it in my head for weeks.”

They sat together, listening. Castiel swayed to the music, while Dean simply sat, forgetting to eat, eyes glazed as he let the noise carry him back to old times.

Strange maa-agic!
Oh, what a-aa... straaange maa-agic,
Oh, it’s a-aa straaange maa-agic!
Got a—! Straaange maa-agic!

The ambience filled the open room with trills and sparkles, tumbling-tumbling through Dean’s heart. He smiled to himself, at peace, full of joy.

He looked over at Castiel, and sighed in utter bliss.

Pancakes. Good music. A friend. A mind no longer burdened by anxiety, stress, self-hatred, or depression. Sunshine, dancing in rainbows through the crystals in every window.

This was probably one of the best moments of Dean’s life.

When the player’s needle started to click, repeating an empty note, Castiel slid from his seat and went to silence the contraption. He stroked the side of the record player with his fingers, wondering what its completion might signify. This was an end of an era. Now he wouldn’t be making snacks every other day, fuelling Dean while he knuckled down in the evenings, trying to make the player work.

Dean showed up beside Castiel, empty-handed, licking a final crumb from his lips. His gaze was soft and solemn, locked on Castiel’s.

“What’s up?” Dean asked.

“What do you mean?”

Dean rolled a shoulder. “You look like you’re thinking.”

“I’m always thinking. That’s why I meditate, so I can stop for a while.”

Dean chuckled. “You know what I mean.”

Castiel drew a breath, looking away from Dean. “How...” He pressed his lips together, resigning himself to a different, easier question. “How are things going, down at your place? Are you sure you won’t accept my help?”

“I told you man, I got it,” Dean said, cupping the back of Castiel’s bicep with his fingers. He stroked up and down, wrinkling his t-shirt, then letting go. Dean inhaled with his mouth open, eyes rising to the ceiling. “I mean,” he grinned in a grimace-y sort of way, “Things are as good as they’ve ever been. I feel like I’m making’ progress.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders tense. “The place is clean. Tidy. Most of the stuff works some of the time. I haven’t seen a weed growing out between the floorboards for about forty-eight hours, which is – pfft – basically a new record.”

Observing Dean’s expression, Castiel slowly came to the realisation that Dean was quickly becoming as borderline-unhappy as Castiel felt himself. “What,” Castiel urged. “What’s the matter?”

Dean scowled for a moment, but then laughed gently. “Nothing’s wrong. Just—” He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, then breathed out through his nose, as if giving up the lie. “Sometimes I wonder if finishing the house is even... even worth it.” He spoke quietly, ashamed to say such a thing.

Castiel swallowed his shock with a single gulp. Did this mean Dean wanted to go back home, back to civilisation, back to his brother? If he wasn’t going to finish the house, where would he live?

Dean swept his palm over his mouth, dragging his stubble. “What do I use that house for, anyway? Y’know? I go down there to fix things, and sleep. That’s basically it. Hypothetically, if the house was livable, what would I do down there? How much time could I honestly spend there per day before going mad with boredom and loneliness? Everything—”

His breath caught, his eyes lowered, and he had to swallow before he could speak again. This time he gazed at Castiel’s chest. “Everything worth doing is up here with you.”

With a flutter of worry speeding his words, Castiel said, “You’re always welcome up here, Dean. Anytime. You don’t even have to leave tonight, if you don’t want to. There’s places for you to sleep here. The couch. My bed, if you wanted it. I really don’t mind.” He felt heat in his neck and cheeks as he heard his own words, filling the ten seconds of silence that followed.

Dean stared. He stared for quite some time, and Castiel only stared back, feeling scrutinised, vulnerable, and maybe a little aroused because of it.

Finally Dean hung his head, mouth open, lips curled up in an embarrassed smile. “Uhhhh.”

Given the chance to clarify – he’d meant Dean could take the bed alone while Castiel took the couch – Castiel didn’t. “I mean it, Dean,” he said, quietly. “Stay if you want.”

“Cas,” Dean spoke so softly, worried gaze lingering on Castiel’s lips. “Look, um. I appreciate the offer. I do. It’s just...”

“You want your own space,” Castiel nodded. “It’s all right. I understand.”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Dean huffed, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “I like you, man. A lot. It’s kind of a big problem for me.”

“Ah,” Castiel began to smile. “You imagine that if you stayed the night, you’d have insinuated yourself into my home once and for all, and would never leave again. It may well surprise you, but I am open to that, if what’s what you’d like.”

“Yeah. But you mean it in a friend way.” Dean’s fearful eyes made their way to Castiel’s, and the two of them stared again.

Uneasily, Dean explained, “The closer you n’ me get, Cas, the harder it is for me to... step back. And I... I’m seriously starting to want something from you that I don’t think you’re willing or able to give. Host of the year award goes to you, buddy. Easy as pie. But, um.” Dean shook his head, sadness and love leading his gaze down again, overcome with shame. “There’s some stuff you can’t give me. It’s not your fault, so don’t you go thinking it is. I just gotta deal with it and settle for how things are now.”

He sighed, reaching to touch Castiel’s chest. “I can’t sleep in your bed, Cas. It’ll just hurt me, and upset you. So.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the woodland, its blustery fall ambience gushing, clacking and rattling beyond the arched windows. “Woodpecker’s knocking. Tellin’ me to go fix some physical shit before I break what we’ve got between us.”

Dean forced a smile, then met Castiel’s eyes and managed a real one. “See you tomorrow morning, Cas. I got enough food at my place for dinner. I’ll give you some breathing room. Give us both a chance to reset.”

Dazed and weakened by Dean’s confession, Castiel just nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

Dean clapped Castiel on the shoulder, stepped in for a hug—

A long hug...

Then he stepped back, eyes on Castiel’s lips. He drew a fast breath and looked away, blinking rapidly. “Right.” He headed for the exit. “Enjoy the records, Cas. Take your pick, they’re all awesome.”

Castiel hurried for the door, calling, “Dean!” – and grabbed the front door before Dean could close it. “Wait.”

Dean turned on the doorstep, t-shirt hem lifted and twisted by the wind. He hugged himself, already chilly.

Castiel desperately wanted to give him some assurance, letting him know there was perhaps some hope; maybe they could have something more sexual someday. But at this moment, Castiel was’t certain. So he instead told Dean, “The woodpecker’s tapping foretells rain. Wrap up warm tonight, won’t you.”

Dean seemed disappointed, and not because of the weather. He pushed up a small smile. “Will do.”

“Good. Have a beautiful evening, Dean.”

“You too.” Dean turned away, descending the log steps. He went slowly. Castiel was convinced he’d turn back at any minute, running back to ask for shelter tonight – but he didn’t.

He reached the bottom of the steps, and still hadn’t looked back.

He crossed the rising river, splashed up to his knees, and not once did he turn his head.

He approached his house.

He paused, three feet from the door.

And, at last, he looked back.

Castiel stood in his own doorway, knowing Dean could see his face.

Dean resumed his course to the house. He opened the door, and was then gone from sight.

Castiel sighed. He had matters to attend to now: he had to make sure the bees all returned to their hives before the rain came.

Chapter Text

Final notes were always the worst, Dean thought. It seemed so cliched to end a song with a final hard strum, or even a strum that ended gradually, a last note pinging into silence. He’d tried to fade out, bringing his song to a gentle resolution, but it never sounded right.

After a four-month journey of basically endless inspiration, melodies and lyrics taken from his daily life, it frustrated him that he couldn’t find the right way to finish what he’d started.

He’d never worked so long on a single creative piece in his life, besides his Chevy Impala, and this house. Was this song going to be forever incomplete?

He sighed into the shadows, watching his breath cloud up, yellowed by the candlelight. One sniff, and he screwed up his nose, resenting the smell of damp soil. After all the cleaning and refurbishing he’d done for the house, it refused to quit stinking like a vegetable patch. Long ago, that scent had occasionally seemed pleasant, but now it was like poison.

With a deep groan, Dean flopped backwards over his bed, acoustic guitar set aside, hands sinking into his hair. The air in this house was so damp tonight that his hoodie felt like it was clinging to his shoulders, and he hated it.

The frame of the house pushed inwards until it clacked, teased by the wind. The first rush of raindrops smashed against the back wall, and went on from there, sound like a sizzling snare drum, gushing down in waves across the roof.

Shaking his head, Dean lifted the guitar and sat upright again. A little rain never got to him.

“I don’t wanna... mm mm mm-mm...” Dean hummed weakly, not bothering to cover all the lyrics, he just wanted to skip to the end. “...Somethin’ deeper... Evergreeeen...”

He strummed, rocking into the flow of the song. “Evergreee-een... EHvergreen.”

Again, the notes fumbled and went on too long, but he huffed, and tried again. What if he just stopped playing, and then sang “EHvergreen—” once it was silent?

Ah, that was better. Not perfect, but better.

“Grrh,” he complained, first because of the song, then because the house jumped on its foundations, shocked by the wind. “Oh, come on. Hold it together. C’mon.”

The rain on the roof began to sound... louder. Wetter.

Dean peered into the darkness, reaching into his hoodie pocket for his flashlight. He aimed the white beam at the eaves over him, left, then right. Huh. Those grey shadows, in the fresh white paint... Dean’s mouth slid open as he realised what he was looking at. It was not a blur of dirt projecting from the flashlight, but water seeping into the ceiling from above.

“Shit,” Dean said, getting up off the bed, kicking his socked feet into the soft slippers Castiel had lent him.

He took a closer look, figuring maybe the water damage wasn’t so bad. It would dry out, probably.

But then he heard a drip. He spun around, and saw with growing horror and despair that there was a small, trickling, gleaming runnel of water making its way down his bedroom wall, going right past the sconce light.

“Mm. Just what I needed tonight.” Without looking, he patted his hand on the bedspread until he grabbed his guitar, and he hugged it to his chest, looking suspiciously at the leak.

He stared at the water, daring it to ruin everything.

The light sconce puffed – then sparked, spitting white lines out in a burst. Dean yelped, shaking his head as he left the room. “That’s it. Oh, that’s it. I’m done. I’m done. Not getting electrocuted tonight. Nuh-uh.”

He stormed into the living room, cramming his feet into his rubber boots, slippers and all. Wild-eyed, he fetched his other guitar from the couch, taking its power cord and wrapping it around the neck until it was all secure. He shook his head again, in disbelief and defiance. “N-nn. N-nn. Not happening.”

At that moment, Dean heard a great heaving complaint from the ceiling in the next room, and the sound of running water grew more forceful.

Unable to resist, Dean held tight to his two guitars and wandered closer to the bedroom. He peered in, curious—

The beams across the ceiling gave in simultaneously; they did not snap but sagged, releasing a torrent – nay, a waterfall of rainwater across the bed. At first Dean only jumped back, gasping for each breath, but as the water washed over his boots, he huffed at what he saw. The thatched roof was slowly peeling from its place, collapsing down into the bedroom.

A great and rumbling thunderclap overwhelmed the sound of the rain, its vibration shaking under Dean. He could see moonlight through the roof hole now, mottled and strangled by stormclouds. But as he looked... he was almost sure... he saw a little flicker of gold, dancing along the broken roof.

But it was gone as soon as he noticed, and Dean laughed, turning his back.

“You win,” he said to the house. “Grow as many plants as you want. Winchester out.”

Dean marched out of the house, cradling that ugly plastic raincoat Sam insisted he buy, as it was the only thing protecting his guitars from the slashing rain. Water saturated his hair, plastering it to his scalp and forehead, blurring his vision, but Dean trudged into the dark with his flashlight beam guiding his way.

All around him the trees waved, rocking at their roots, howling back as the wind called their names. Homeless leaves flew at Dean, smacking into his face before falling away into the undergrowth. Dean stumbled but didn’t fall, stepping high over the weeds and mushrooms, passing rain-bruised foxglove flowers as he made his way to the river’s edge.

The water was running high, overwhelmed with runoff from higher hills. Dean couldn’t see how muddy it was, but his boots slipped more the closer he came to the water. He could hear it roaring, the engulfing the roots of some unlucky trees.

Dean didn’t know how to get across the river. He couldn’t see the stepping stones.

Calling for Cas would be useless; nobody would hear anything in a storm like this. The thunder even drowned out Dean’s own thoughts.

But, as Dean waited, thinking, lightning struck – and in one lucid moment, Dean saw the runestones. For a fraction of a second after the lightning vanished, their symbols glowed gold.

Yes, they were hidden far below the water. And yet Dean had every confidence that he could cross, regardless.

Was he crazy? Was he actually mad? He wondered, he really did, as he approached the water. The mud was so slick here that even standing so close drew him in. His toes slipped into the chill without his knowing.

He was already sinking. He had to cross or he’d be washed away.

Dean took one step forward, into the thrashing river.

His boot landed on something solid. He looked down, and as thunder rolled, the water lit up with electricity; Dean saw his silhouette, haloed in pure white. The runestone he stood on was nowhere near his boot. It was two feet below.

Yet he was only soaked up to his ankles.

This was no time to question things. Riding on the high of not being dead yet, Dean hopped forth – right foot, left foot, one, two, three, jump – until he arrived safely on the path on the other side.

Falling to his knees in relief, Dean hugged his guitars, turning his chin back over his shoulder. The river was dark like a void. He could see nothing, only hear its gargantuan crashing as it stampeded past, searching for life to take.

For a moment... on the other side of the river... Dean saw a frail sheen of golden, a little line of swirling dots. He blinked rain from his lashes, and the lights were gone.

Gathering his strength, and a deep breath, Dean pushed himself to his feet, and made his way up the staircase.

Castiel sipped at his hot cocoa, snuggling deeper into his fluffed-up blanket. He chuckled at the book he was reading, turning the crisp page with his free hand. He could just about see the words in the firelight, brown serifs on stippled orange paper.

Someone’s fist slammed on the front door, and slop of cocoa escaped Castiel’s mug.

Castiel perked up, neck long and head up like a suspicious meercat. “Dean?” he wondered to himself. “What are you doing out in this weather?”

He left his cozy blanket, placing his cocoa on the little table near the couch. He switched on a lamp, as well as the living room’s main light as he approached the front door.

Whoever was out there knocked again, more urgently this time.

Castiel opened the door, and raised his eyebrows: on his doorstep was a very alarmed, very, very wet Dean Winchester. He had a translucent yellow coat with him, but he held it in his arms instead of wearing it, as it protected his precious guitars.

“Dare I ask?” Castiel said, inviting Dean in with a sweeping arm. “Oh dear. Take those clothes off, you’re shaking. Come on, quickly.” He touched Dean’s back, and recoiled immediately; Dean was freezing, his grey hoodie soaked a far darker grey, dotted with wet leaves. Castiel looked down and saw Dean’s flannel pyjama bottoms were muddy to his calves, but the mud was travelling up the waterlogged fabric.

“Roof,” Dean said, putting his rain-spotted guitars and his flashlight onto Castiel’s nice dry blanket. Dean cast an exhausted look in Castiel’s direction, waving a hand in a downward motion. “Pkggjhshhh.”

“Oh dear,” Castiel said in concern.

“Electricity,” Dean said, flashing his hands like an explosion. “And then... like...” He seemed confused. “The river...”

“How did you find your way across?” Castiel asked, stepping close to Dean, taking the dripping-wet hoodie Dean gave him.

Dean shook his head, eyes on the floor. “Don’t know.” He set a hand behind his neck and peeled off his t-shirt, which was wet from the neck downwards and the hem upwards. Castiel accepted the shirt, eyes unintentionally drawn to Dean’s bare chest.

“Take those off before you walk anywhere,” Castiel said, nodding towards Dean’s flannel pants. “You’re leaving a mud trail.”

“Any excuse to get me to strip, huh,” Dean said, a tired grin crooking up his face. He was already undoing the waist tie, though, so clearly he didn’t mind. “God, I need some coffee.”

“I can make cocoa?”

“Coffee,” Dean said firmly. “Like hell I’d wanna fall asleep while this monster’s raging outside. I’m never trusting a roof again.”

“Coffee it is,” Castiel agreed. “Go warm up in a hot shower,” he suggested, walking with Dean to the bathroom door. “I’ll bring you clothes and a big towel when you’re done. Dean—”

Dean paused before entering the bathroom.

Castiel exhaled. “Are you okay?”

Dean gazed at him for a while. “No,” he said softly. “Are you kidding me, my house just caved in, and I’m pretty sure I’m only standing here right now because of divine intervention. But...” His eyes lowered to Castiel’s lips, then back to his eyes. He smiled. “I’m as safe as I’m gonna be, now. And I’m gettin’ more okay by the minute.” He patted Castiel’s stomach as he went past. “See ya in five, Cas.”

He shut the door between them, and after a few seconds, Castiel heard the shower running.

Determined to do anything he could to help, Castiel left to put some smooth jazz on the record player, put Dean’s clothes in the laundry hamper to wash in the morning, and then made him his hard-earned coffee. With extra cream, and a cookie. Or three.

“Ah, you look better,” Castiel said, spying Dean as he emerged from the steamy bathroom. He had a towel around his waist to preserve his modesty, but as Castiel handed him a bigger towel, Dean whipped off the first one, hung it around his neck, and only then took the one Castiel offered.

Castiel kept his eyes politely averted until Dean was decent again, thick towel tucked neatly into itself.

“Coffee?” Castiel asked, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“God, please,” Dean said, his voice dry and exhausted.

“I made up a pot, here.” Castiel tipped hot water from two mugs into the sink, then poured black liquid from his favourite ceramic teapot into each mug, one after the other. “I warmed up the mugs so it won’t get cold.”

“With cream,” Dean requested, perching himself on a barstool.

Castiel poured cream into both their coffees, but then he shook his head. “We can sit somewhere more comfortable. And I believe you need some clothes.”

“Hey, I’m warm enough.” Dean accepted his coffee mug with both hands. “Fireplace is burning nice n’ hot. My bare nipples ain’t turned to daggers just yet.”

“Nevertheless,” Castiel said. “Bring a guitar, you can play me something. It’ll take your mind off things.” He lifted the needle from the record player, and now all Dean could hear was the rain on the roof, and the crackle of the fireplace contained at the heart of the house.

Castiel cocked his head, leading Dean from the living room into Castiel’s own private quarters, following the steam that rose from the coffee mug in his hands. “You’ve had a rough night. I think it’s time you got to wear your favourite of my shirts, don’t you?”

“Awww.” Dean smirked, tucking his acoustic guitar under his arm so his hands could hug his coffee mug. “You’re too good to me, Cas.”

“I should think so,” Castiel said, pretending to take offense.

Castiel’s bedroom was small and cozy, with a lamp already lit beside the bed. All the walls were slats of red wood, the velvet curtains drawn shut to keep out the drafts. Dean could still hear the rain splattering on the glass, and it became louder as he went forward to Castiel’s dresser drawers, right below the scarlet curtains. The handles and corner details of the dresser were curved from brass, with little swooshy things where the hardware was fixed to the wood.

Setting down his coffee and guitar for a moment, Dean pulled out the top drawer, plucking out a pair of Castiel’s elasticated cotton boxers – dark red, which Castiel had once said looked ‘exquisite’ on him – and from the second drawer, Dean chose the Three Wolf Moon t-shirt. He wasn’t sure why he liked it best, but it reminded him of summer, the first nights he’d stayed here.

When Dean turned around, all made up with grey sweatpants hugging tight to his thighs, he expected to see Castiel sitting on his bed, waiting for a pair of used towels to be thrown his way – but he was over by the other window, the big one that stuck out over the forest.

Five panels of stained glass surrounded a platform, where Castiel’s grand piano made its home. Castiel reached and turned on a lampshade on top of the piano, lighting his face and hands in gold. The curtains around this bay were still drawn open; in a flash of lightning, the outline of Castiel’s silhouette was painted in white.

“I thought I was playin’ you something,” Dean said, sitting at the end of the bed, hugging his coffee. He sipped it, savouring its smooth ride past his throat, warming him all the way down.

Castiel sat at the piano stool, and began playing a soft rhythm, four almost-consecutive notes, mid-range, rising, half major, half minor. He played them over and over, and their serenity washed over Dean, physically tingling on his skin. So sweet and gentle.

The thunder came in like a bassline, humming low, crashing across the notes yet still harmonising. Dean pined for a cello, thinking that was all this moment needed to be epic.

But he turned his head, seeing his guitar lying there on the bed. Lightning and thunder coincided; the guitar glowed at the edges, and the strings sang in the thunder’s vibration, all by themselves.

Maybe it was time. The song was as complete at it ever could be, without a proper ending.

Dean took his coffee firmly in his hand, gulped three sips down his throat, then set the mug on the dresser. He took his guitar in hand, sitting forward at the edge of the bed, borrowed socks steadying him on the rug.

“Cas?”

Castiel kept up his little rhythms. “Yes?”

Dean licked his lips. “Don’t stop playing. I just want you to hear somethin’. It’s not perfect, and it’s not finished, but, uh. It’s kind of about you. Sort of. Just figured—” He grinned, shrugging a shoulder. “If I ain’t playing it tonight, when am I meant to, you know?”

In the golden lamplight, Dean could see Castiel was already rapt. His gaze reached for Dean, not even looking down to watch what his fingers played.

Dean began to thumb at the strings, matching the four-note rhythm Castiel had made up. After a long introduction, Dean strummed for real, setting his shoulders into the movement, bobbing his head, tip of his tongue set just over his lower lip.

“This is maybe more... Bon Iver meets Ed Sheeran, than Taylor Swift,” Dean explained, glancing up at Castiel. He shrugged. “Been trying something different.”

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel said.

Dean grinned. “I ain’t started yet.” He shut his eyes. “You’re generous, kinder than anyone I’ve ever known,” he sang, pulling from deep in his chest, heart pounding already. “But your head is full of magic and mine is rock and stone.”

Castiel’s rhythm deepened, moving down an octave in response to the song. He moved easily, on instinct, working to harmonise with Dean without drowning out his melody.

“Whatever you offer me, whatever I take,” Dean grinned, “Yours cannot be a place I call home.”

This was where a strum became a storm, a Mumford and Sons-eque collapse of notes and rhythm, filling in the gaps between the thunder’s struggling hum. Dean shook his head, grinning because Castiel kept up, pouring notes from his piano like the rain against the window, falling, falling.

Silence—

“Something’s taken root, deep down insIDE’aaa me— And left untended it’ll only grow.”

Dean shut his eyes, aching at the way these lines brought back memories. “'Cause sometimes? We can’t upturn a whole bed of weeds... Can’t undo the seeds we sow.”

Straight into the chorus. Dean’s full strum became a fingernail stutter, and he stomped the floor on the hard beats.

“If I were to lie with you,
Wouldn’t take away from the truth:
That I’m in love—
Where’s the proof?
I just know it.”

The piano went quiet, Castiel lost in the lyrics.

“Darlin’ let our life grow tall;
Let it stay magnificent
Flowering even in the fall.”

Here Dean launched back into the overwhelming music, the gathers of notes and the strings of melodies, hoping bouquets bloomed in Castiel’s heart at the same time they bloomed in his own. He’d played this song so many times he’d forgotten how it affected him, how the words meant something, how it was actually beautiful, not old or tired or frustrating. He heard his own song in a new light, saw its colour through Castiel’s eyes. And Dean smiled, seeing how Castiel smiled.

“Evergreen,” Dean sang, deeply, with all his heart. “Evergree-ee-een...”

Silence. Dean stopped playing, almost speaking now: “I don’t wanna leave by winter, I want something deeper...” With a cheeky grin, he said, “Here’s a hint—

“I used to think I could only paint by numbers. But you taught me, you showed me your freedom.” Dean’s smile faded, looking over at Castiel as he hit the perfect piano chords again, matching the third verse. “Set loose the colour on my world... All along I was ruled by gut feeling.”

Now Dean gave singular strums, changing up the melody for the bridge, the most important part of all.

“Nothin’ I can build
Is stronger than what I built with you.
Nothin’ that I want
Has ever come close to you.
The only thing I’ll regret
About this place, now we’ve met
Is leaving here without having said—

“If I were to lie with you,
Wouldn’t take away from the truth:
That I’m in love—
Where's the proof?
I just know it.

“Darlin' let our life grow tall;
Let it stay magnificent
Flowering even in the fall.

“Evergreen...” Dean felt tears spring to his eyes, allowing the weight of the song’s title to fill him up from the inside out. “Eh-vergree-ee-een...”

Dean had to gulp, hearing his voice break as he told Castiel again: “I don’t wanna leave by winter, I want something deeper. Here’s a hint: If I were to lie with you, wouldn't take away from the truth: that I’m in love— where's the proof? I just know it.”

“Darlin' let our love grow tall!” Dean slowed his singing here, making sure to emphasise, “We aaare magnificent, flowering evergreen.”

“‘Cause I don't wanna leave by winter,
I want something deeper.

“Evergreen.

“EH-vergree-ee-een...
Evergreen.”

The song was meant to end. Dean couldn’t finish, though. He kept playing. And playing. He began another verse, wordless.

Castiel took a breath, lifting his fingers from the piano keys abruptly. “Dean, keep going. Don’t stop.”

Why? Why couldn’t he stop? Things were meant to end. Everything ended, always. Dean craved silence now, but his fingers moved, compelled to dance on the strings.

“Don’t stop,” Castiel whispered again, getting up from the piano, walking in delicate steps towards Dean. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“I can’t,” Dean promised, shaking his head. “I never wrote an ending, Cas. I don’t know how it ends. I don’t know.” He breathed out. “Maybe it doesn’t end. You and me. Maybe there’s no end. Maybe that’s the point. I can’t end the song, ‘cause I don’t want what we have to be over.” Dean looked up to meet Castiel’s eyes in desperation. “I— I wanna be with you, Cas. Maybe forever.”

“I believe you, Dean,” Castiel said softly. He placed his hand on Dean’s, holding him while Dean held his guitar. “But that’s not the reason I ask.” He tipped his head forward, nodding to something behind Dean. “Look.”

Dean angled his chin over his shoulder, looking towards the dresser and the velvet curtains above.

Seventy little golden lights hovered there, bobbing on the air in time to the music.

All the breath went out of Dean in his awe. Fairies. They were here. They were real?!

“A fairy’s favourite pastime is to observe love,” Castiel said quietly. “They enjoy good music. And they hate running water. I can only imagine they despise rain, and worse: crossing the river to fly between you and I. They’ve come to shelter from the storm. And look what they found, Dean.” His comforting hand curled behind Dean’s neck, no doubt feeling the flush of heat that rose through him. “Look what they found. Good music, so full of love.”

Dean breathed out a laugh, shaking his head. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the tiny creatures. They were certainly not fireflies; their glow was dainty, and constant, and something about their collective movement made it clear that they were listening.

“I thought they were trying to kill me,” Dean whispered to Castiel, as his hands pulled another endless refrain from thin air. “All this time. The uncontrollable plants in the house? Then tonight, I saw these little guys when the roof came down. Again as I crossed the river. But—” Dean bowed his head, eyes glazing over as realisation came to him, one strike after another, faster than the moments between lightning flashes. “But this whole time they were just trying to get me over here. To you.” He turned his head and gazed up at Castiel, who was already looking back, with immense love in his eyes. “They don’t wanna cross the river. They want us together.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in them,” Castiel said.

“I mean, I figured I had company,” Dean answered. “Like I wrote in the song, my gut feeling said there was something out there. Instinct said I oughta stick around to get to know you, too. Rock-solid logic aside.”

He shook his head, eyes lowering, watching himself strum his guitar, on and on. “The fairies, they ignored my offerings—” He grinned, then laughed, another exciting realisation taking hold in his gut. “Oh my God. Cas. Dude. If I thought fairies were actually reading my lyrics from the get-go, I would’ve packed up and left after two days, without getting to know you, or the forest, or myself.”

Dazzled by this, Dean stared up into Castiel’s blue eyes, beaming. “They left my notes exactly where I put them. And that meant I still had the lyrics written down. So I added to the song every night. If they’d taken what I gave them—? I never would’ve— Cas—”

“Shh,” Castiel smiled, taking Dean’s face in his hands, cradling his jaw and chin. He kissed his forehead. “I told you, didn’t I? This forest is full of fairy blessings.”

Dean sank into Castiel’s hug, face turned towards the window. His body cooled in shock as he saw the fairies were gone. “Cas...”

Castiel straightened, taking a look. “Oh.”

Dean still smiled, and he set aside his guitar on the bed. So his song had no proper ending. It would remain that way, if he had any say in the matter.

With a shaken breath, Castiel collapsed to sit on Dean’s left, staring at the rug. Dean took his hand, feeling a rush of warmth as Castiel held tight.

They turned to look at each other – and they grinned, and laughed, and collapsed back onto the bed, guffawing and giggling as all their heightened senses exploded into relief and overwhelm. They’d seen fairies! Dean had confessed his love! The storm still thrust at the house from all sides, but they were safe and lay in comfort here, arm against arm, hands interlocked.

At last, their euphoria settled into something that only simmered, a more sustainable joy that tickled around inside them.

“Dean? Can I tell you something?” Castiel asked, looking shyly at their joined hands.

“Anything.” Dean’s damp hair crushed to the blanket, his eyes set lovingly on his best friend.

Castiel swallowed. “For much of the time you’ve been here, I thought... I thought what you felt for me was mainly lust. Beyond our friendship, that is. I thought you just wanted to— To have me. And then you’d be done with me. Or else, you wanted ah-an – umm. A ‘friends with benefits’ situation.”

“What? Cas, come on. That ain’t what I’m—”

“I know,” Castiel interrupted. “I realise that now. And I’m sure a misinterpretation went both ways, Dean; I can only imagine you wrote your song thinking I didn’t have any sexual capability. That perhaps I’d never want to lie with you, or was... disgusted by the thought of being intimate.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Castiel drew in a slow, thoughtful breath.

“That’s a no,” Dean realised. “Holy shit. You do want something.”

“I-It’s new,” Castiel stammered, glancing nervously in Dean’s direction. “For much of the time you’ve been here – since the first or second day, even – I’ve wanted hugs or... or to share my clothes...” He started to blush, looking at Dean’s chest as he touched it. “I really enjoy how they fit you. And I like how they smell after you wear them.”

“That’s a crush,” Dean smiled. “Hey, goin’ by the way you look at me, I figured you were sweet on me, at least a little.”

“But,” Castiel eased a little closer on the bed, fingers tracing Dean’s throat, over his Adam’s apple. “But then I started... thinking about...”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “What? All my clothes randomly going missing while I’m takin’ a bath in the river – thieving raccoon, probably – and me having to come up to your place totally naked? And you looking at me all shy-like and then gettin’ me some blankets or somethin’— No?”

Castiel stared. “Was that one of your fantasies?”

Dean’s cheeks flooded with heat. “No.”

Castiel’s lashes fluttered, and he peered down at Dean’s chest, a small smile pulling on his lips. “Did you ever fantasise about being so cold and unhappy in the night that you come to visit me, but there’s somehow no firewood, and the couch is inexplicably unusable, so the only sensible solution is that you have to share my bed?”

Dean’s heart was thumping hard again. “Is that what you imagine?”

Castiel shrugged a shoulder. “What about that you visit me but then it snows for no good reason and you’re trapped here overnight and w-we ha-have to... um.”

Dean took a guess. “Snuggle to keep warm? But our clothes are all wet so we have to be naked and it’s somehow not that weird?”

Castiel met his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

Dean grinned, still blushing. “Nah, me neither.”

“Good,” Castiel said firmly. “I would never fantasise about that. Nor about you becoming obviously aroused while we huddle for warmth, and me wanting to see what it’s like to touch you, so we try it – but I like it more than I ever expected, and both of us accidentally achieve climax under the blankets.”

“Disgusting,” Dean said softly, as his penis throbbed. “I can’t believe you even thought of that, let alone said that out loud, Cas.”

“And then we kiss.” Castiel stared at Dean. “A lot. And fall asleep together, and wake up together, and then you... forget to go back home.”

“What home?” Dean asked, sinking closer into Castiel’s embrace. “Only place I’m callin’ home is right here, Cas.” An inch away from Castiel, he shut his eyes and sighed into his warmth, accepting a kiss.

They both smiled, nosing into the touch, feeling the press of the others’ lips, prickles of stubble, the softest slip of Castiel’s curious tongue.

Dean smooched back until the kiss broke, and they shared the same blush, eyes darkened, breath hot in their intimate little nook. Dean rubbed his arm down Castiel’s back, and Castiel stroked his fingers through Dean’s hair.

Voice deep and eyes blazing, Castiel said, “Undress me, Dean.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “You— You really wanna?”

Castiel pressed a kiss to Dean’s lips, breathing out. He murmured against him, “I want as much as I can handle. It might not be a lot, or what you’re expecting. But I do want you, Dean.”

To prove it, he slowly pushed his groin against Dean’s upper thigh. Dean gasped, eyes wide, gaze locked on Castiel.

Castiel’s cheeks shaded with pink. “I’m very excited.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean uttered, chuckling around his words. “Jeez. Cas—” He licked his lips, trembling once. “I don’t... I’m not really prepared. No condom. I had a shower but I didn’t – y’know.”

“Y’know?”

“Y’know. I’m not up for, uh... the full works.”

Castiel seemed startled, and he recoiled slightly when he realised what Dean meant. “Well, good! I am certainly not up for that. Not tonight, by any means.”

“So...? What d’ya want, exactly?” Dean asked, stroking Castiel’s cheek with the backs of his knuckles.

Castiel wriggled close, lying his body against Dean’s, so Dean could feel both his heartbeat and his erection. “Is it okay if we could...”

“Hm?” Dean smiled, pecking Castiel’s cute little blush.

In a small, uncertain voice, Castiel asked, “Aggressive naked cuddles?”

Dean grinned. “Hell yeah.”

Castiel practically pounced on Dean, fingers stretching into his hair, breath gushing against his face; deep, licky kisses overwhelmed Dean for a moment, until he got his bearings, and laughed, huffing on Castiel’s lips as he finally lifted away to breathe.

“Wow,” Dean uttered, gazing up at Castiel in amazement. “You, uh. You’re really into it.”

“Quickly,” Castiel whispered, apparently desperate for something. “Here.” He took Dean’s hand, holding his gaze as he placed their hands together on the drooping t-shirt Castiel wore. Castiel curled his knuckles, making Dean close his fist around the fabric.

Dean got the message, and together they lifted away Castiel’s t-shirt, up over his head, leaving his hair a mess – and they tossed the shirt onto the bed.

Castiel wore an eager, yet bashful grin. Pinkness was painted across his cheeks, and the sight dazzled Dean for a while. He knew a nervous blush when he saw it, but this was more than that. Awed, Dean tilted his head to the side. “Cas... Damn. You’re totally turned on right now, huh.”

All Castiel could do was lick his lips. His lashes fluttered, eyes lowering. “Hmh,” he breathed, placing a warm kiss on Dean’s chin. “I... I suppose I am.”

He breathed out there – and Dean groaned, tipping back his head as Castiel’s exhale poured heat down his throat, sinking against his heart. Castiel’s kisses resumed, tight and bristly on Dean’s Adam’s apple, his neck, just under his ear.

“Mmmhh,” Dean whimpered, toes curling, fingers gripping Castiel’s back. “Mmcassss...” He slowly bit his lower lip, feeling how it had swollen. No doubt a pretty pink blush had bloomed across his own face by now, too.

“Dean,” Castiel said lowly, his voice so gruff that it sent shocks between Dean’s navel and his groin. “I... I think I want to...”

Dean breathed out his reply: “Anything. Anything you want, Cas. Just do it.”

A flash of a smile; Cas’ teeth slid against Dean’s neck. “Anything?” Castiel asked.

Dean shivered, shutting his eyes, giving himself over to Castiel’s desires. “I owe you, don’t I?” he smiled. “You’ve served me breakfast, lunch, ‘n dinner.” He caught Castiel’s eyes as Castiel raised his head. “Your turn to get dessert.”

“What? Dean, no,” Castiel said, frowning. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Ain’t it, though? A little?”

Castiel scowled now, sitting up. “No!”

Fear dashed through Dean’s chest. Cas’ warmth was missing from his side, and his stare had become chilling.

“You just told me you love me,” Castiel complained, apparently both scared and upset. “In song.” His eyes rounded, his mouth trembled as he spoke, shaking his head. “You serenaded me, and the lyrics— I thought you wanted me... to m-make love with you.”

Dean sat up straight, breathing softly against Castiel’s lips, even though they both remained alert. “I... I do. Cas. Obviously I do.”

Castiel’s frown softened, and he looked at Dean more kindly. Worried, perhaps. “Dean, you don’t owe me anything. Least of all sex. I only want you because – I fell in love with you too.”

Despite everything – or because of it, who could tell? – Dean felt a garden of roses bloom inside of him at those words. His smile turned lopsided, revealing a grin, and his blush began to tingle on his cheeks. “Hee.”

Castiel pushed Dean’s chest. “How can you think that you allowing me to take anything I want from you is how I want to be repaid?” Before Dean could think of a response, Castiel went on, “You don’t realise how much you’ve given me, Dean. Before I met you, I... I was lost.” His gaze was intent now, deep in the way an ocean was deep; endless and promising and full of things unknown. “You owe me nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all.”

The warmth of his left hand took Dean’s jaw, caressing him, holding him, as Dean felt his drive to please other people drain away to almost nothing. How Castiel looked at him now, it was so damn reassuring.

“Tell me, Dean,” Castiel murmured, pressing a single kiss to his cheek. “What do you want from me?”

Dean searched Castiel’s eyes, to be sure he meant it. Dean swallowed, now convinced he was... safe. Safe enough, secure enough, in good enough hands to admit why he’d offer himself unreservedly in the first place.

“I want you to take what you want from me, Cas. Whatever you want. And don’t— Don’t think about my needs until you’re done.”

As expected, that surprised Castiel. He withdrew by a few inches, uncertain whether Dean had missed the point, or had stopped listening a while back. But no. Dean saw the moment Castiel figured out what Dean really was, how he was.

“This was how you got hurt, wasn’t it,” Castiel realised, looking at Dean with care in his touch, in his eyes. He stroked Dean’s hair back, eyebrows scrunched in sympathy. “The people you worked with just kept taking, and taking, because they weren’t done yet. Both in and out of the bedroom. They drank from your cup so deeply that you were never given an opportunity to refill it. They never gave back.”

Dean nodded. First it hurt, but then he realised it healed him to be read and understood like that.

Castiel gave him a kiss, helping him to lie down again. “I can promise you, Dean,” Castiel whispered, kissing him again, then again, “Yes, I’ll take what I want.” He held Dean’s cheeks, lying over him, gazing lovingly into his eyes. “But then I’ll give it back to you. I’ll give back more than you ever offered me. Tenfold.”

Honestly, not in a single one of his hundreds of fantasies had Dean imagined that his first night with Cas would’ve left him teary-eyed. At least, not before they got completely naked. And certainly not because he was relieved, in a happy way.

Castiel chuckled when he saw Dean trying to wipe away tears. “Oh, Dean,” he sighed, kissing his wet hands. “Oh, my love.”

Dean giggled through an accidental sob, embarrassed to be called something that sweet. “Stoooppp.”

“No,” Castiel said, kissing Dean’s hands, then his wrists, then his neck. “No, my love, I will not.”

He wiggled up tight to Dean’s body, pressing his weight against Dean’s belly and thighs. Dean felt his thighs pushed apart by Castiel’s, and he sighed out a moan, so excited to be moved like that. Castiel’s right hand spread wide on Dean’s wolf t-shirt, but didn’t move to remove it; instead he moved his palm downward.

“Oh,” Dean whispered, tensing. His cock throbbed, eyes blanking out.

Castiel slipped his hand palm-down into Dean’s sweatpants.

“Ohh, Cas,” Dean breathed, hands gripping Castiel’s biceps, eyes tight shut. “Ah-haaahhh. MmmMMm.” He squirmed, lifting his hips in his enthusiasm. Castiel’s hand squeezed around Dean’s borrowed underwear, and Dean gasped, starting to pant and sweat in burning flashes. “Aahhh—”

As Dean blinked a few times, his blurry vision allowed him to see only what was right before him: Castiel stared at him, watching every change in Dean’s expression, enjoying how he blushed and bit his lip and trembled. Castiel lifted his chin, curious and daring. Deep within the warmth of the sweatpants, his hand pushed Dean’s underwear down, and took hold of his erection.

Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went blind for a moment, seeing only colours and spots of red. “Cas,” he whimpered. “Hmhmmmm...” Weak hands shook on Castiel’s shoulders, pressing into his skin.

Though his movements seemed unsure, Castiel began to pleasure Dean, slowly, his grip tight.

Dean’s mouth opened wide, his breaths heavy, too fast and too deep; he cried out as he arched his spine, already mad with bliss. He’d only felt his own hand in four months; feeling another’s fingers explore his more sensitive areas was special enough, but having it be Cas—? Dean sobbed, screwing a fist into Castiel’s hair, hearing him laugh at the pain the pulling caused.

“Dean,” Castiel growled, hot breath on Dean’s cheek. “Oh, incredible...”

“Ahh-h-h?” Dean was shaking by now, his body flaming, his toes numb from all the clenching, his muscles too weak or too tense or both at the same time. Pleasure rose in him like searing-hot summer tides, and he kept pushing the feeling down, wanting this experience to last. But he could barely breathe now, let alone repress an orgasm. He couldn’t hold back much longer. “C-Cas. Ple... I— I’m...”

Couldn’t speak any more. Head full of blurs. Heart thumping, loud as the thunder that rolled across the stormy night sky.

Castiel and his too-fast, too-hard tugging hand seemed determined to make Dean scream, and by now he had no choice in the matter; he gave up trying to fight it, and just let himself come.

As if leaping in a backward dive, the sensation of climax rose upward, over – then down into an abyss.

Dean’s yell rasped into silence the moment it escaped his throat; he only croaked, breath whispering from him. His hair crushed to the bed, throat exposed, hands probably pushing white marks into Castiel’s back. He felt the wet heat of his own release, gushing, gushing across his navel. God, it had been too long.

The sound Castiel made was the perfect medium of satisfied and smug. He laughed too, nuzzling the side of Dean’s head, kissing his cheek.

“Mm?” Dean opened his eyes, seeing the ceiling twirling around him. “Hmmmm...”

“I’ve... wanted to do that,” Castiel breathed, unstable words wobbling into Dean’s ear. “So badly.”

Dean’s grin was feeble and he knew it. “Wha? Make me – s-so turned on that I – cah— can’t stop myself from – coming?”

Castiel nodded, and kept nodding. “Uh-huh.”

When Castiel lifted his head, and Dean finally saw how his eyes sparkled, his mouth pulled into an effortless smirk, and his cheeks glowed with that luscious, lustful pink.

Though he was still short on breath, Castiel teased, “Did it ever occur to you, Dean,” he said, kissing his nose, “that what I want most is to make you happy?”

Dean snickered. “Happy?” He grinned, batting a helpless hand at Castiel’s ear. “Dude, you didn’t make me happy, you made me lose my freakin’ mind. Honest-to-God, thought the world collapsed around me for a moment.”

“Ah, that would be the thunder,” Castiel noted. “But,” he half-winked, beaming, “I’ll take the compliment.”

As they caught their breath, and cleaned each other up, they listened for a while, hearing the rain splatter on the window, running in rivers down the roof. The thunder rumbled on, bellyaching about nothing in particular.

Slowly, Dean closed his eyes. He opened one again as he felt himself smooched. He peeked out at Castiel, admiring the dark flare of his eyelashes, his attractive flush, the way his lips sealed softly to Dean’s skin as he applied another kiss.

“So,” Castiel said, lifting his gaze to meet Dean’s, eyes full of warmth and adoration – enough to make Dean’s heart tingle. “What would you like me to do for you now?”

Dean blushed, a smile curling up one side of his face. “More than you already did?”

“Yes,” Castiel said softly, crading Dean’s hot cheek.

Determined, Dean rolled himself and Castiel over so they were lying on their sides, legs entwined over the bed, so close that their stomachs touched. Dean bit his lower lip, playful eyes roaming Castiel’s face.

“Tell me,” Castiel insisted.

“‘Kay,” Dean whispered. “In a sec. Just—” He nodded towards the head of the bed, the pillows and the neatly-folded part of the blanket. “Let’s get tucked in?”

Castiel laughed through a grin. “So you’ll take me up on tonight’s offer after all.”

“Well,” Dean said, cocking his head as he and Castiel snuck upward, scooting their way under the blankets, losing what was left of their clothes on the way. “Don’t have much reason to turn you down, now I know you like me back.” Dean tossed out his wolf t-shirt last of all, while snuggling down into the warmed sheets. “In the sexy way,” he added, in case his meaning was unclear. Rolling a shoulder, he squished up tight to Castiel’s naked body, kissing his chin. “I kinda feel like an ass, though. All this time, being so caught up on the idea that we gotta be banging to have a ‘real’ relationship.”

“Of course you say that after I’ve made you come,” Castiel teased.

“Mm,” Dean agreed, hiding his smile against Castiel’s throat, smooching him. He breathed out slowly, stroking down Castiel’s chest, palm seeking his heartbeat, then the lift of his breath. “I’m serious, though, Cas. You clearly get off on making me get off, right?” He looked Castiel in the eyes to check, nodding slightly when Castiel peered back, silent. “If you don’t want me to – y’know – reciprocate? Let me know. ‘Cause it’s one thing to want what I want, but it’s totally another kettle of bears, saying yes when you don’t actually want somethin’, deep down.” Grimly, he added, “And I would know.”

Castiel blinked a few times, processing that. “Y... You’re saying...?”

“Right now what I want is to hug the stuffing outta you,” Dean smiled. “And get you off while doing it. But...” He turned serious, the weight of deep consideration in his expression as he looked into Castiel’s eyes. “If you don’t want me to touch you like that—? Tell me now. And I won’t.” He shook his head, whispering again, “I won’t.”

Gradually, over a number of seconds, something seemed to change in Castiel’s eyes. He went from curious and loving to soft and overwhelmed. His breath huffed a little, his gaze lowering to Dean’s chin. Dean realised there were tears twinkling in his waterline, and the sight made Dean smile, cooing to himself as he pressed a kiss to Castiel’s cheek.

“Aww, you sweetheart,” Dean said. “It’s okay, Cas.”

“I want something,” Castiel said quickly. “Something. I do want you to touch me, I just don’t know how. I’ve— I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what it’s like.” Pleading flooded his expression, hungry for advice.

“Okay,” Dean nodded. “We can... figure it out. Right? Start easy.” He licked his lips. “How about we cuddle?” He squeezed Castiel closer, eyebrows raised. “And I can just...” Lowering a hand, he placed his palm deep under the blankets, touching to Castiel’s lower back. Slowly, he slid the hand down, cupping Castiel’s ass. “How’s that?”

Castiel was blushing. “I-I-I don’t know. It’s strange but I feel silly trying to think about it.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Dean asked, letting one finger slide under Castiel’s buttocks, touching the sensitive groove between his legs.

Castiel tensed like he was struck by lightning, but a smile flashed with his gasp. “Don’t stop,” he said.

Dean kissed him, eyes closed. Slowly. Deeply.

Castiel let Dean squeeze his ass – they both laughed, their gazes meeting, eyes blazing with intense sexual darkness. Dean’s hand moved to the side, stroking Castiel’s hip.

Leading his hand over the mountains and valleys of Castiel’s body, Dean avoided the most obvious place to touch, and it wasn’t long before Castiel realised.

“Dean,” he managed, unable to say the rest of the words.

Dean took a second, but then understood. “You want me to...?”

Castiel nodded.

“Okay.” Dean slid one hand between Castiel’s neck and the pillow they shared, placing a kiss on his lips. “I felt you getting harder, but... I wasn’t sure you were into it, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Castiel said, both hands holding Dean’s neck, fingers locked behind his nape, thumbs stroking. “I’m very much into it, for the record.”

“Hmm.” Dean grinned, carefully holding his hand over Castiel’s erection. He pushed against it, palm and body, but waited until Castiel’s breath caught and his eyelashes fluttered before making his next move. He bent his head and began to kiss Castiel’s neck, licking and nosing at his flushed skin. He listened for Castiel’s whimper of pleasure, feeling him part his thighs, allowing Dean’s hand to take hold of his erection fully.

“Dean,” came Castiel’s helpless breath. “Oh...”

“This good?” Dean whispered, nibbling Castiel’s earlobe. His fist tugged, relaxed, then he slid his thumb upward. Castiel arched his back, crying out in shock.

“Yes!” Castiel gasped, hands grasping Dean’s hair. “Auh, Dean—?”

Dean chuckled, nodding against Castiel’s cheek. “Yeah, it’s awesome, ain’t it?”

“Mmmm?” Castiel began to sweat, squirming as Dean touched him, writhing in slow motion under the blankets. He gasped and whimpered and kept his eyes shut, but then breathed deeply, a dazed stare rolling in Dean’s direction, trying to signal his appreciation. Dean grinned back, planting a kiss on Castiel’s forehead.

“OH my goodness,” Castiel breathed. “Oh. Dean. Deeean. It’s so— Auh! AH! AH!”

“Keep goin’,” Dean assured him. “It’s okay. Shout it out, I’m right here.”

Castiel’s mad eyes locked onto Dean, his mouth gaping open, all of him wild with shock and reeling with a craving for more. Dean could see he was fearful in some ways – he tried to shy away from Dean’s hand, but upon a gentle hush – “Shhhh, sh-shh, it’s all right, Cas—” – he settled down, trusting Dean again.

Dean applied lavish, copious kisses, to Castiel’s shoulders, his neck, his ear, his cheeks; he nuzzled his jaw and cuddled him tight, and held on when Castiel’s grip became grappling, clawing.

“Dean— Deanohhh, oh my—” Castiel was dizzy, Dean could see it in his face. The blush in his cheeks had spread to his chest and forehead; he was totally euphoric, galloping across the pleasure plateau on his way to climax. Dean tried his best not to let his hand’s rhythm falter too much; he shifted his fist and changed up the angle, but dared not stop too often, because Castiel immediately became ravenous, demanding another touch and another renewed hug.

“Dean— Dean—”

Somehow that was all Castiel could say.

“Right here,” Dean promised him. “Not goin’ anywhere. I’mma keep going until you come, Cas.”

Castiel held him desperately, watery-eyed, trembling, burning up from the inside out. “Dean,” he whined. “Deeean...”

“Come on,” Dean whispered, kissing and kissing and pulling and nuzzling. “I’ve got you.”

All of a sudden, Castiel took Dean by the back of the neck, hugging him down with all his strength. Dean heard Castiel grunt, teeth gritted, breath forced through his nose.

Dean tried to lean back, uttering, “It’s meant to be easy, dude—” but Castiel’s expression had already melted, and finally, he cried out, kicking into the mattress, chin lifted, mouth wide, wide open.

Dean sighed in relief, as he saw and felt Castiel reach his climax. Wow. Coming that forcefully had to feel mind-blowing.

Castiel lay stunned for a while, breathing hard, eyes unfocused. But then he saw enough to recognise Dean, who beamed proudly down at him.

Castiel held out his arms and brought Dean in for another cuddle. They both felt how Castiel’s heart pounded, thumping against Dean’s skin.

Dean stroked Castiel’s hair, smiling to himself. Damn. That really had been something. Something and a half.

When Dean rolled away a little, Castiel rolled after him, wanting to kiss him.

They shared a laugh, and smooches, and a cosy, too-hot, now-sticky space, all tucked in under the covers.

“How was it?” Dean asked, as he helped Cas clean himself up.

Castiel licked his lips, peering at the ceiling. “Hmm,” he said. He shrugged a shoulder, and met Dean’s eyes. “So-so.”

Dean huffed out a breath of astonishment. “So-so?!”

A chuckle escaped Castiel’s throat, and shook his head. “I, um. I did enjoy it.”

“Buuuut...?”

“But I liked it better when I was touching you.”

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed, in a teasing sort of way. “Hm,” he chirped. “More action for me, then.”

Castiel nodded, kissing Dean’s shoulder. “I have no doubt, Dean. There’s plenty of ways we can be intimate. I just don’t think... sex is the answer, at least for me.”

Dean shrugged. “Hey, at least we tried it. Good experience, right?”

“Yes.” Castiel smiled. “Very.”

All full of love now, Dean cradled Castiel’s head in the crook of his arm, settling close to rest. He gave Castiel one more kiss – soft on his lips – and then held his eyes for as long as he could, before blinks became too long, and warmth seemed to cocoon them in a comforting darkness.

“Cas?” Dean murmured, summoning energy in his last remaining moments of consciousness.

“Mmm?”

Dean smiled, breathing out. “Love you.”

Castiel’s smile was audible in his sleepy hum. “Mm too.”

And... slowly... they slipped into slumber.

The storm outside rumbled on – but its strength grew distant, and eventually, a boom of thunder and a wash of fresh rain was all but indiscernible from the exhausted snores of two sleeping men, cuddled up together under their blanket, in their bed, in their house, in the middle of a forest.

Chapter Text

Castiel woke when Dean woke, jerking upright.

“Muh... Dean?” Castiel mumbled, patting around for the lamp switch. As the golden glow hit the walls, Castiel rolled closer to Dean, sitting up too.

Dean had a hand on his chest, leaning forward, breathing hard.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” Castiel asked, placing his palm comfortingly on Dean’s bent knee, where the blanket spilled like a waterfall.

Dean exhaled through narrow lips, blinking a few times. “Just—” he panted, smiling in a flash, then scowling, “nightmare.”

With a sympathetic noise, Castiel hugged his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, massaging away some tension. “What was it?”

Dean shook his head, finally maintaining a steady breathing pattern. “The house. The storm.” His eyes rose, looking at the beams across the ceiling, no doubt hearing the soft hush of water on the roof. The thunder and lightning had faded, but the rain carried on.

“You saw your ceiling collapse,” Castiel remembered. “It must’ve been frightening.”

Dean chuckled, running a hand over his mouth. “Heh. Kinda.” He nodded, a frown properly denting his face now. “Yeah, it was. It was... terrifying.” Warily, he met Castiel’s eyes, and gulped. “If I hadn’t left my room, the ceiling would’ve come down on top of me.”

“But you’re safe now,” Castiel reminded him, holding his hand. “You’re with me. My roof is holding.” He kissed Dean’s too-hot cheek. “You’re okay.”

Dean nodded.

“Do you want to get back to sleep?”

Dean nodded again, eyes downcast. He shifted around in the bed, but when Castiel lay down, he rolled close, wrapping both arms around Castiel’s waist, burying his face against his heart.

Carefully, Castiel stroked his fingers through Dean’s messy hair, peering down at him, all snuggled up to Castiel’s bare chest.

Castiel wanted to impart so many words, reassurances, promises that he’d never let Dean get hurt. But he couldn’t promise those things, as fate was changeable and he was not all-seeing. But as he blinked slowly, shutting out the golden light, he breathed out, and promised one thing: “For as long as you stay with me, Dean, I will do everything in my power to make you feel safe. And loved. And appreciated.”

Dean fluttered his delicate lashes, turning his face a little way up so they could look at each other. “Right back atcha, Cas,” he promised, with an adoring smile.

When Castiel woke again, he groaned, squirming closer to Dean – only to find that part of the bed empty. He inhaled slowly, deeply, filling his lungs... then he opened his eyes.

He sat up, limbs fighting him the whole way. He squinted around, trying to see in the gloom. The bedside light was off again, but the drapes were still drawn shut, so the daylight remained faint.

Dean was definitely not here.

Although his inclination was to remain in bed for another hour, Castiel got up and went to the bathroom. And although he would much rather have slumped back to bed afterwards, he instead shuffled his way to the living room, a blanket over his shoulders.

“Dean?” he called, his voice sluggish and weak.

“Right here,” Dean called back from the kitchen at the side of the room, far too cheerful for the morning.

“Hm,” Castiel frowned, shuffling up to Dean and hugging his back for warmth. His cheek got stuck to Dean’s bare shoulder.

Dean chuckled. “Mornin’, sunshine. You’re not usually up at this time, huh. Want some coffee?”

“Obviously.” Castiel released Dean and shucked his blanket further up his neck. “Why are you up so early?”

“Evolutionary programming, dude,” Dean said, plucking the coffee pot off its stand, swirling it around, then replacing it to percolate. “I sense sunrise, so I rise.”

Castiel snatched the coffee pot off its stand again, pouring himself a full mug. He ignored Dean’s offended spluttering, taking a sip while it was still scalding hot and black as night.

Ahh. Perfect.

Whether or not the caffeine had hit his system yet was irrelevant; the mere scent of coffee was enough to rouse his mind from grogginess. Castiel smiled, and sauntered over to the tall windows at the side of the living room.

Sipping his coffee again, he overlooked the forest valley, seeing the first rays of sunlight touching the river far below. In the pink haze, he saw the flashes of fish fins, silver sparks leaping over the stepping stones. The storm’s overflow had receded slightly, enough that the brown river water was again confined to its usual route, leaving a thick muddy residue all around.

“Let’s go down there,” Castiel suggested, as Dean finally approached his side, hugging his own well-creamed, well-sugared coffee to his chest. “See what’s left of the house.”

Dean warmed his nose over his coffee mug, eyes drawn to the sunrise, where pink and coral blazed through the trees. “Hm,” he said. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You never know,” Castiel said. “Something might be salvageable.”

Now truly subdued, Dean just stared at nothing. He sipped his coffee, held it in his mouth, then swallowed.

“Get dressed and we’ll have a look,” Castiel encouraged. “Yes?”

Dean snorted, giving Castiel a bemused look. He said nothing, but he raised a hand in a ‘stop’ gesture, then bowed his head, pointing to his coffee.

With a smile and a sigh of resignation, Castiel sank down to sit in the breakfast nook, drinking his coffee, and waiting for Dean.

Dean complained all the way down the log staircase – about his socks being itchy, about the raincoat and sweater Castiel loaned him being too ugly for use, about a headache, about the crisp September chill— “How about you go over there, and I’ll, y’know, go back inside and watch cartoons. It’s Saturday morning, man, that’s the best time to watch cartoons. Eat toast and cereal and watch shit you’ve already seen ten times. Best damn part of the week. C’monnn, we can do this laterrrr—”

“Dean,” Castiel said, taking Dean’s hand before he could run away. “You’re not going to be any more prepared by lunchtime, or tomorrow, or next week, or in a month. All that’ll happen is that the damage in the roof will worsen, the rain will get in, and by the time you are feeling brave enough to visit, the place will be overgrown, festering, and no longer ripe for saving. Your belongings are in there, Dean. We can rescue them, at least. But you have to come with me.”

Dean stood, wavering at the edge of the riverbank, unwilling to set his boots in the mud. The river had risen more than a foot last night, and silt covered everything up to that line, coating plants and rocks like brown paint.

“Come on,” Castiel said, giving Dean’s hand one more tug. “It’ll be all right. You’re stronger than you think, and it’s probably not as bad as you’re expecting.”

Dean hung his head. “‘s muddy.”

Castiel smiled. “Yes it is. But your clothes are ugly already, apparently. A little mud would hardly make them worse.”

Dean snorted, trying to hide a smile.

“Look,” Castiel pointed, “there’s the stepping stones. A hop, skip, and a jump, and we’ll be on the other side.” He tried to tug Dean towards the river, but Dean pulled back.

Castiel turned to him, looking into his eyes. He saw child-like fear there, but he couldn’t be sure why Dean would be so afraid. “Are you worried you’ll find the place in terrible shape?” he asked. “Overgrown already?”

Dean looked away. “It’s just real muddy and cold, okay, and I wanna go ho— Back. I wanna go back to your place.”

Castiel hadn’t missed the curtailed word. “You see my house as your home.” It wasn’t a surprise.

There was no shame in Dean’s expression, only sadness.

“Dean, what’s wrong,” Castiel asked him, stepping close, taking his jaw in his hand, giving him warmth. “What’s really the matter?”

This time, Dean let his eyes meet Castiel’s, and he exhaled in defeat. “I— This place.” His eyes darted to the house over the river, grey and brown and ruined. “Look. I came out here, and this little house, it was Bobby’s place, it wasn’t mine. It was temporary shelter. Then it became a summer project for me. Fixer upper, easy-peasy.

“Then it was a money pit, something I resented, but kept working at ‘cause—” he spread his arms, “I put so much work into it already, seemed a waste to give up at that point. And...”

A small smile crept up his face, wrinkling beside his eyes. “And I didn’t wanna stop. I wanted a reason to keep comin’ back to you, Cas.

“Then—” He rolled his eyes to the clear blue sky. “Then it was nothing but a shitty symbolic manifestation of my life. Can’t move forward, can’t give up. Stuck in limbo, fighting the weeds, preventing them from flourishing like they wanted to. Yet somehow not actually moving forward. Then last night, it became an actual, literal danger to me. To my life.”

With his jaw firm, Dean gazed at the house, somehow looking emotionally detached and fully invested at the same time. “I never loved this place, Cas. Never. I never once sat back and thought, ‘ahh, this is where I wanna be’. Every day I was with you, thinking that about your place, and you. I basically only came down here to sleep. And last night—? I didn’t even do that.” He sighed. “Cas, I don’t think it was ever home for me.”

“So?” Castiel asked, shaking his head. “All we need to do is go over there and retrieve what’s yours, and we can leave. You live with me now. You never have to come down here again.”

Dean seemed ready to say something else, but he bit his tongue instead. He nodded, defeated, and went ahead, boots sinking into the soft earth as he led the way across the river. With a hop, a few skips, a careful pause, and then a final jump, he landed safely on the other side.

Castiel joined him, taking his hand.

He led Dean to the shack, stepping over the wide ring of weird mushrooms that surrounded the foundations. Dean hung back, taking deep breaths – but when Castiel pushed open the unlocked door, Dean was the first to enter.

Castiel lifted a vine out of his face as he followed, half-sure that the vine had been cut back months ago. It must’ve grown back in the meantime. He stepped into the house, and looked down, feeling an unexpected texture underfoot – and discovered a layer of leaves and plant droppings carpeted over the welcome mat.

“Oh,” Castiel said, lifting his eyes.

He heard Dean’s breath become unsteady, turning around and around on his feet, looking here and there and everywhere. The roof had come down completely, leaving only the bare outer bones of the house. Autumn reds and oranges made up the canopy above, gushing in the cool breeze. The smell of rain permeated the air, damp on the tongue, tangy in scent.

This house was no longer a house. Overnight, it had become a garden.

There were thick branches growing up what was left of the walls, their arms bearing green leaves, their fingers glistening with the gold light of the fairies. Mushrooms and moss had taken root on the collapsed thatching, making it hard to tell a roof even fell down here.

As Castiel and Dean watched, stunned silent, a baby oak tree thickened upon the living rubble, its stem turning from a twig to a rod, to a log, draping the house in its spreading branches, laden with green gifts. It shot from a sapling to a full tree in mere moments. Dean’s shaking hand took hold of Castiel’s, and they clung tight, mouths hanging open, watching the forest reclaim the land.

“There’s nothing left to take back,” Dean whispered, helplessly. “Nothing here is mine. It’s not Bobby’s. This land doesn’t belong to him, it doesn’t belong to you, some wildlife preserve – anyone.”

He looked at Castiel, eyes tearful and pleading and full of relief and grief and awe. “This place belongs to them, Cas. These weird magic lights. I don’t know what I ever did to piss them off, but I’m taking the hint. I’m leaving and never coming back.”

“Dean—”

“Forget it,” Dean said, placing a hand on Castiel to stop him from grabbing him. “They’ve made their point. I’m just a guy, Cas. I live in the real world. I make music inspired by the generation before me, and I sell it to kids who’ll outlive me and everyone I know. I found my place out there. But this?” He gestured at the flowers that now bloomed, foxgloves and daisies and roses alike, washing the insides of the house with colour. “This is so far from home I don’t know where to start. I’mma get my things. I’mma pack them in my car. And I’mma go before it gets dark. Long drive back.”

Castiel could only shake his head, holding Dean’s raincoat with a weakening hand. “No... No...”

“Just let me go, Cas.”

“Dean— Dean!” Castiel ran after him, trampling through the grass, leaping over the mushrooms to catch up with his friend. He grabbed his arm, stopping him so suddenly that they both slipped in the mud, sliding to their knees, hands in the slick, cold sludge.

Dean breathed, so distracted that he didn’t even seem to notice the mud. He tried to get up, but Castiel yanked him back down.

“Dean,” Castiel said, ignoring a tear that dripped down his face. “I love you. This place loves you. Don’t you leave us now.”

“Cas—” Dean almost laughed, finally meeting his eyes. “I came here to remind myself who I am. And I did. Job done. I’m a musician. I’m a city boy. I live in motels and the back of my car and Sam’s place, because I never found a million-dollar mansion that suited me. I like wild sex and forgetting people’s names in the morning. I give away the money I earn ‘cause that’s the only good reason to get rich. That’s who I am. I believe in bears. Not—” His lips trembled. “Not fairies.”

“No,” Castiel said, furious. He took Dean’s face in his hands, pressing mud onto his jaw. “You’re not that person any more. You’ve grown to be more, have more. You’ve changed for the better. Maybe you’ll always be fond of city nightlife, and wild sex, but you’re an expert gardener now too, and you’d take cuddles over kinks – don’t you try and tell me otherwise. You can’t go back to the smoky city and not pine for the open sky of a million stars. You can’t go back believing you’re the same person as when you left. If that were true, your mission failed. And I know – you know – that you succeeded.

“You came here to retreat from a toxic community and heal a poisoned mind, the same way I did. You came here to remember what it felt like to feel wonder and curiosity like a child, at the sight of a blue sky, or a the way a plant grows a little more every time you see it. You came here to receive a lesson from the Earth, that you are small, and humble, and no matter what you do, how hard you work on something you think you want, the thing you really, truly want is on the other side of the river, waiting to welcome you the moment you stop to rest.”

Tears spilled from Castiel’s eyes now, hot lines running to his chin, dripping away as they cooled.

“The fairies aren’t trying to drive you out, Dean. They’re not trying to scare you. They’re giving you a gift. And they have been all along. Your house is destroyed, you have nothing left. Everything you worked on is gone. I understand. I know why you’re scared. This is rock bottom for you. But you can’t run away. You can’t.” He sniffed, then leaned in and placed a wet kiss on Dean’s lips. “We’ve only just begun. We’ve planted a seed. And... Ah-hnd...”

His voice shook too much, and he had to lower his chin, letting his face crumble into the expression of grief he’d been resisting. Tears dripped, his breath shook; his hair ruffled in the wind.

Dean wiped tears from his own eyes, leaving a warrior’s stripe of mud across his cheek. One warm hand took Castiel’s, fingers curled.

Castiel looked up again, voice thick with emotion as he said, “You came here to refill your cup, Dean. All this time, I’ve tried so hard to do that for you. If you leave – you’ll empty mine in an instant.”

Dean’s face looked weary. Old. Lines had formed around his mouth, under his eyes; his soul was heavy with regrets and sorrow, and it was visible in him, clear as the day. He shook his head. “I won’t do that to you,” he said. A trembling smile curled the side of his lips. “We promised last night.”

Castiel harrumphed. “Yes, we did. I’m so glad you remember.”

Dean laughed, headbutting Castiel gently. “God, you’re adorable.”

Even Castiel cracked a smile now. Relief coated his insides, honey-sweet and warm. “You’re not leaving.”

“No.” Dean kissed Castiel’s cheek. “No, I’m not.”

After a moment, Dean said, “Cas? Here.” Taking the backs of Castiel’s hands, Dean put his weight on his knees, sinking into the mud, and leaned them both closer to the water’s edge. The river pooled at the banks, little spirals of bubbles forming beside a broken stick. With Castiel’s hands cupped within his own, Dean guided their hands together into the water.

Castiel gasped at the chill, but Dean remained steadfast, fingers pressed together as they dipped in, scooping out a double-handful of water. What didn’t fall away immediately settled clear in their curled palms, reflecting the sky, shadowed by their craning heads.

“That’s our cup,” Dean whispered, kissing Castiel’s ear. “All full up now.”

“Together?” Castiel asked, peering towards his shoulder, where Dean rested his chin.

They gazed at each other, and Dean nodded. “Complete emotional fulfilment. If not right this second, then... by lunch. Or tomorrow. Or next week. We turn over a new leaf, you ‘n me together. Growin’ stronger every day.”

Castiel smirked. “We can start with cereal and cartoons. And cuddles. And more coffee.”

“Hm!” Dean gave Castiel a full-on smooch. “What d’ya know, you are perfect for me.”

“And you’re a muddy hippie,” Castiel said smugly, letting their cupped water flow back into the river, taking Dean’s hands instead. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

“I mean, it’s your clothes I’m ruining right now,” Dean said, one eyebrow up. But he grinned, and shrugged. “I’ll, uh... run the laundry. Your stuff too. And dinner’s on me, how ‘bout that. Know you love my apple pie, I’ll do us one of those.”

Castiel kissed him, breathing out warm air for long enough that their noses defrosted. They were both smiling as they pulled apart.

At last, the morning sunshine fluttered down, caressing their faces through the tree canopy. Castiel heard sweet birdsong, and they listened together as they helped each other to their feet.

Dean turned back to his collapsed house, seeing how the young oak tree was now well-rooted, tall enough to peek up past the missing roof, strong enough to survive the winter. Its leaves had turned a mottled orange and yellow amongst the green, and were it not for the house frame around it, it might’ve looked like it had grown there for a lifetime.

All around its leaves, fairies fluttered, swishing and swaying to celebrate the sunshine.

“I have an idea,” Dean said, clicking his fingers. “These lil guys want to cross the river, right? We can take what’s left of this house – all the wood, the cables – whatever structural crap we can find. And we can build a—”

“Bridge,” Castiel said, at the same instant as Dean. They shared a smile.

“We build a bridge,” Dean said again. “And leave this place to become what it wants to be. What it wanted to be all along.”

“A garden.” Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand, content they’d found a solution. “One full of flowers and vines and trees. A home for all the animals, but not people.”

“And we can leave out offerings,” Dean smiled, eyes ablaze now he was inspired by a new project. “Every night. Food and little notes and – and music.” He beamed. “I can sing the fairies all my new songs. And if they like them, I’ll record them here and send them to Sam, and he can do all the business—”

Dean laughed, punching the air. “Yeah! I don’t have to go anywhere! I thought of it before, y’know? But I never thought I could actually do it! All I gotta do is order in some professional recording equipment and I’m good to go, Cas. Like, forever. The kids get their music, and I get to stay put. Embrace the muddy hippie minstrel lifestyle, once and for all.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Castiel told him, taking Dean’s hand again as he lowered it.

“I don’t have to leave by winter,” Dean sang, gazing with love into Castiel’s eyes. “We got something deeper...”

Castiel leaned in and kissed him, staying close, sharing his warmth as he sang back, “Evergree-ee-een...”

Dean laughed, and nodded. He spoke, not in song, but in promise: “Evergreen.”