Work Text:
Castiel walked into the kitchen in the bunker, and heard Dean and Sam’s laughter come to a snorting halt. He narrowed his eyes and glared at them where they stood leaning next to each other against the counter.
“What?” he demanded, pushing his hand through his hair in case it was standing on end after his twelve hours of sleep.
“Oh, nothing… Thorin,” Dean said, and Sam half-choked on his coffee. Cas frowned in exasperation and moved over to the coffee pot sitting on the table. He needed caffeine, and fast, if Dean and Sam were tuned into ‘Cas Has a Beard and It’s Hilarious’, Episode 297.
“The only thing I have in common with the King under the Mountain,” he grumbled, “is his temper. And his willingness to throw people from high places.” He thought for a moment. “And the fact that he died. Which I have also done.”
There was a brief pause, which Sam broke.
“I’m going to finish up the research on that case down in Tennessee. It’s a long way but this looks like a bad one, guys. We might have to go ourselves.” He began to head for the door, putting his mug into the sink as he passed.
“I’m only going if weirdy-beardy here manages to find a razor,” Dean called after his brother.
“I know the exact location of your open razor,” Cas said placidly, somehow managing to make the simple statement sound like a threat. Dean grinned at him, and took a gulp of his own coffee.
“Seriously, though, man. Isn’t it time to tend the hair garden?”
“Why does this matter so much, Dean?” Cas said, running his thumbs up and down the sides of his steaming mug to warm them. Every morning for the past week or so, Dean had been coming up with a new way to tease him for having facial hair. For Cas, it had got old within the first ten minutes.
“I dunno,” Dean said, using an evasive tone that made Cas look up and catch his nervous shrug, the defensive cross of his arms. “I guess it’s just… you look like you’re not taking care of yourself. Or like you’re homeless, or something. And you’re not.” The last three words were said with a strange force; Dean was staring down at his mug of coffee, watching the steam curl away. Cas looked down at his own cup, feeling the warmth seeping up through his fingers.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
He saw Dean look up at him out of the corner of his eye. As usual, they were speaking in gestures and half-expressed thoughts, but Cas thought that he understood. Dean wanted Cas to look like he had a home, a place to stay – stay being the key word, of course. By growing out his beard, he’d given the impression of being ready to leave at a moment’s notice, of this being just another stop on the road. Cas tightened his grip a little further on his coffee mug. Leaving was the last thing that he wanted to do.
It was no good. He’d just have to tell Dean the real reason that he wasn’t shaving.
“Dean… the truth is,” he said, his voice relaxing a little further into roughness on a sigh, “I don’t – I don’t know how to shave.”
Dean stared at him for a second, before his lips curled into a smile.
“What?” he said, and Cas shrugged.
“I never needed to, before,” he said. “I was able to control my vessel’s appearance entirely, including its… hairiness.”
“So… you really don’t know how to do it?” Dean said, making little effort to hide the laughter in his voice. “Seriously?”
“I understand the general principle,” Cas snapped, and the edge of mockery left Dean’s smile. “But I tend to catch my skin or leave patches of hair. It’s simpler to just… let it grow.”
“I see that,” Dean said. “But we can’t leave you not knowing how to shave your beard. You’ll look like freakin’ Dumbledore this time next year.” He took a swig of his coffee and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, turning away to put his mug down on the counter behind him. “I’ll show you how to do it.” When Cas didn’t reply, he threw a glance over his shoulder; his eyes were a little wider than usual, his lips slightly parted. “If you want?” he added, with a touch of self-deprecating humour, his lips quirking up. Cas swallowed at the sight of him, standing at the kitchen counter full of bluffness and nerves. Even after all Dean had done for Cas, he still offered his help tentatively, as though expecting to be rejected. “You could live with us. If you want?”, said with a shake in his voice. “I could make you dinner. If you want?”, asked with a half-shrug and a grin. And now, again, the ‘if you want.’
I could take you in, if you want? Cas thought. I could alter the course of your existence forever, if you want? I could catch you after you fall from Heaven, if you want?
“I would like that,” Cas said, keeping his tone bland with an effort. Dean rarely showed how he felt, and Cas also was careful not to overstep those lines in the sand. His feet would scuff them away, and he’d never quite remember where he’d been standing before; at least now, he had a place to live, clothes of his own, and Sam was here, and – Dean was here.
I could be the reason you get up in the morning, Cas thought ruefully. If you want?
Dean, meanwhile, was beaming in the way that made Cas’ heart twist in his chest, a physical ache of longing that grew a little more powerful every time it made itself felt.
“Come on, then,” he said. “No time like the present.”
Cas followed Dean out of the kitchen and along several hallways. He watched the back of Dean’s head, his shoulders, and his relaxed, slightly loping gait. Even from behind, Cas could tell that Dean was smiling slightly; it was there in his walk and in the loose swing of his arms. And then, there – the slight stiffening, the little flick of the head – he wasn’t smiling any more. He was probably telling himself off for thinking too hard about the thing that had made him smile in the first place. Yes, there was the admonitory clenched fist, the tight, castigated shoulder muscles.
I could be the one you notice, always, Cas thought. If you want?
“Here we go,” Dean said gruffly, pushing open the door to the bathroom. “Let’s do this.”
The bathroom was fairly large, tiled in a surprisingly soft pastel blue. To one side was the sink, wide enough for two people to stand next to each other comfortably and look into the long mirror on the wall. This was probably deliberate, Cas reflected, thinking back to the days when the Bunker had been a busier place, and having space for two people to shave at once must have been of real use.
“Run in some water,” Dean said, moving to the bathroom cabinet and pulling out a can of shaving cream and a pair of plastic razors. Cas did as he was asked, eyeing the razors curiously.
“We’re not going to use the open one?” he asked. Dean smiled.
“I’ve seen the things you can do with an open blade,” he said. “I’d rather you didn’t do that to your own face, if it’s all the same to you.” He handed Cas a razor, holding it by the very tip, so that their fingers couldn’t possibly brush against each other.
I could care about you so quietly, you barely hear it, thought Cas. If you want?
“OK, first thing to do is wet your face with the water,” Dean said, reaching over to switch off the hot tap that Cas had left running. The steam was already starting to fug over the mirror, clouding Cas’ reflection, softening it. He cupped some water in his hands, and splashed it over his face. He could feel the warmth reddening his cheeks. Beside him, Dean was still scooping water, so Cas followed his lead.
"Good. Now, we lather up." Dean squirted a generous amount of shaving cream into the palm of his own hand, and then into Cas’. Following Dean’s lead, Cas smeared the gel onto his left cheek, rubbing it in circles until it turned white and soapy.
“Should really have brushes for this,” Dean commented. “Never got around to buying ‘em, somehow.”
“I like the feel of it,” Cas said, enjoying the smoothness of the cream between his fingers. He saw Dean swallow.
“Clean it off in the basin,” Dean said, his tone a little curt. “Now, pick up your razor. You’re gonna have to go slowly, so you don’t hurt yourself.”
“Where do I start?” Cas said, meeting Dean’s eyes in the mirror. Dean held the gaze for a long moment, his jaw tight.
“Wherever you want to,” he said, soft and rough. After a few seconds, Dean blinked, and it seemed to break the spell; he cleared his throat. “I usually start on one side. Up here.” He put the razor against his foamy cheek, and drew it down in a smooth, slow line, leaving a track of pink skin in its wake. He rinsed the razor in the warm water inside the basin, and then lifted it to his skin again, curving out a second line. A single drop of water from the razor ran over the skin, across Dean’s cheek, under his jaw and down his neck. Cas watched its progress.
I could be the one you think about touching, he thought. All the time. If you want?
“You know, the hair doesn’t magically come off on its own,” Dean said, rinsing his razor in the sink again. “This isn’t Nair, man. Get to it.”
Cas blinked back to reality and lifted the razor to his own cheek. Dean paused in his own work to watch.
“Not too fast, just firm,” he warned. “Or it’ll snag. Careful…” Cas could see Dean’s fingers twitching in the corner of his vision, wanting to reach out and take the razor, do it himself, so that Cas definitely wouldn’t hurt himself. Part of him wanted to feign nerves, give Dean a reason to offer, give them an excuse to stand face to face, closer than usual for longer than ever before…
Lines in the sand, Cas reminded himself. Lines in the sand.
I could make you wish we were closer, in every way imaginable. If you want?
He drew the razor over his skin, hissing as it snicked over his hair. His cheek didn’t come away completely smooth, but he hadn’t cut himself, either.
“You’re gonna have to go over that again,” Dean said. “But that was good. Great job.”
Cas felt himself going a little pink with pleasure, and was very glad of the shaving cream coating his cheeks. Dean usually praised in gestures, in a pat on the back or a smile or a nod of the head. To hear the words spoken out loud was a rare gift.
Cas rinsed his razor as he’d seen Dean doing, splashing it in the water before lifting it once more to his skin. After a few minutes, the motion was familiar; after a few more, it was repetitive. He was only halfway across one cheek, and Cas was getting bored.
Seeming to sense his mood, Dean looked over at him, and smiled.
“Want to play a game?” he said. He was moving faster than Cas, but not much; he must be making an effort to go slowly, Cas thought.
“Yes,” he said.
“Alright. Let’s play Word Association.”
“How do you play?”
“It’s easy. I say a word, and you say the first word that comes into your head, right? We try to get back to the word that we started with. Sam’n’me used to play it all the time, when we were waiting for my dad. You want to start?”
“So… I just say any word?” he asked, and Dean nodded. Cas considered for a moment. Well, if he got to pick, then surely the word should be his favourite one.
“Dean,” he said. Dean’s face twisted slightly at his choice, as Cas had known it would.
“Winchester,” he replied, with a little shrug, as though unable to think of anything better to say about himself.
“Gun,” Cas said, deciding to move away from the Winchester family. Dean lifted his chin, stretching the skin smooth so that he could shave it more cleanly, and Cas did the same.
“Colt,” Dean said.
“Horse.”
“Horse?” Dean scoffed, and Cas shrugged. “Fine. Cow.”
“Milk.”
“Butter.”
“Beer.”
“How’d you get from butter to – oh, butterbeer,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “I should never have let you read Harry Potter. Uh, OK. Whisky.”
“Fire,” Cas said, and then explained, “Firewhisky. Another wizarding beverage.”
“I know, I know,” Dean said, twisting his lips to one side to pull his cheek taut as he drew the razor across it. “Hell.”
“Heaven,” Castiel responded.
“Fall,” Dean said.
“Me,” Cas said, after a trace of hesitation. “Castiel, that is.”
Dean continued shaving for several long moments, his eyes intently focused on the reflection of his cheek in the mirror.
“You said it was supposed to be the first word that came into your head,” Cas prompted, and Dean waved his razor dismissively, accidentally flicking a little foam across the bathroom.
“I know, I know! I was just – there’s a lot, it’s quite hard to – it all comes at once –”
Cas watched him silently.
I could surprise you, again and again and again, he thought. If you want?
“Here,” Dean said eventually. Cas nodded, accepting Dean’s answer, and thinking for a moment.
“Home,” he said.
Dean nearly dropped his razor; Cas saw him fumble it, but pretended not to.
“Uh. Uh,” Dean said. “Family.”
“Dinner,” Cas said, an image in his mind of a family all gathered around the table, enjoying a meal together.
“Food.”
“Drink.”
“Uh, hot chocolate.”
“I thought you said it had to be one word?” Cas asked.
“Fine. Hot-chocolate, hyphenated.”
“Coffee,” Cas said, smiling slightly.
“Sugar,” responded Dean.
“Sweet.”
“Kind.”
“Dean,” Cas said, the word tripping off his tongue before he’d thought it through.
Most of Dean’s shaving cream was gone now, so Cas could see the bright red that blossomed on Dean’s cheeks. He opened his mouth – whether to make a joke, or demand that Cas give a better answer, Cas wasn’t sure – but then he closed it, and looked at his own reflection in the mirror for a moment before continuing to shave.
“I guess you win,” he said.
“I guess I do,” Cas replied. He was getting close to finishing, as well; most of his skin was smooth, and now he was just neatening up the places he’d missed. “This was much better than last time I tried. The hair has actually come off.”
“Ah, it’s all in the technique,” Dean said with a grin, giving a little flourish with his razor. “Or should that be the tech-cheek?”
Cas stared at Dean in the mirror and blinked once, slowly, allowing a slight smile to show beneath the flatness of his stare.
“And do you have any other tips for improving my tech-cheek?” he asked, noticing a little patch of hairs he’d missed, up near his ear.
“Well,” Dean said. “For one thing, it’s very important to get up ear-ly and do it.”
“That’s what I ear,” Cas replied seriously.
“It can all go wrong, if you don’t.”
“That would be jawful,” Cas said, nodding. “Anything else I need to know?”
“Ah, yeah, there is one thing,” Dean said, watching Cas press his lips together, stretching out the skin beneath his nose and pressing the razor to it. “You must never shave when there’s a lunar eclips.”
“Oh, really,” Cas said, suppressing a laugh. “Why’s that?”
“Nobody nose. Maybe you get huge warts.”
“Or maybe you start predicting the future,” Cas said, still shaving away the hairs under his nose. “Nostrildamus.”
Dean laughed, shaking his head.
“Nostrildamus? What, like Nostradamus? What the hell, man?”
“You were the one who used lunar eclips,” Cas said, putting down his razor and inspecting his own face in the mirror for a moment before reaching for a towel and drying himself off, removing the last vestiges of shaving cream.
“That was quality.”
“It didn’t make any sense!”
“It made perfect sense. You were asking for tips about shaving, and I said, don’t do it when there’s a lunar eclipse, only we were doing face puns, so it’s lunar eclips…”
“I understand the joke, Dean,” Cas said, his voice muffled through the towel. “I just think it’s bad.”
“Well, you’re… bad,” Dean said, grabbing the towel and tugging. He took a step closer. “OK, let’s see how you did.” He tucked his fingers under Cas’ chin, angling it left and right. “Seems good. Except…”
He took his hand away from Cas’ chin and stretched out the index finger, placing it lightly against the skin just beneath his ear, at the top of his jawline. Cas hissed a little through his teeth. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d cut himself.
I could show you where you’ve gone wrong. If you want?
“Does it hurt?”
“Not too much.”
Dean nodded. They had no reason to be close, no excuse at all, now, but neither of them was moving away. Cas didn’t blink, didn’t swallow, barely breathed, for fear of breaking the moment. They stared into each other’s eyes, both seeking to read the other’s expression and finding only an expression of seeking, a mirror of their own; Dean half-opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again.
“Thank you for showing me how to shave,” Cas said. Dean smiled and raised his shoulders in a tiny shrug.
I could pretend that everything I do for you means nothing. If you want?
“And thank you for taking me in,” Cas said. “Thank you for giving me a home.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Dean said, swaying a little, almost moving away, but not quite.
“You deserve more thanks than I can give you,” Cas said, daring to say more than he ever had before, his heart thumping hard in his chest. Dean huffed out a little disbelieving laugh, dropped his gaze and stepped away.
“Anyway, dinner will be soon,” Dean said. He moved past Cas, who closed his eyes at the brush of Dean’s shoulder against his. “You let me know if you want anything, yeah?”
Cas heard the door swing open, heard Dean start to pad down the corridor. His heart was twisting so hard that it felt ready to burst out of his chest; he couldn’t help himself, didn’t want to, he marched out the door and followed Dean, who turned at the sound of his footsteps.
“Dean, I do want something,” Cas said, feeling the words bubbling up inside him, carried forwards on the wave of his frustration, his impatience, surmounting the dam that he’d maintained for years and completely obliterating those lines in the sand. “I do want something. But I don’t – I don’t think I can ask for it, because it’s not –”
“You can ask me for anything,” Dean said, his tone trying to be light, but undercut with nervousness. “You know that.”
“No, Dean. I can’t ask for it, because I don’t know what it is,” Cas said, his brow creased, his lips downturned. “I look at you and I – I want.”
“What do you mean?” Dean said, when Cas stopped speaking for a moment. His words came out in a rush, half-hopeful, half-terrified.
“I don’t know, I – I don’t know what it is that I want, I just want… I want you. And I don’t understand it. And I feel like I’m lying to you every time I look at you because there’s this – this feeling inside me. It’s such a huge part of me, but I’ve never told you about it and I’m tired, Dean, I’m – I’m tired of lying, and being careful, and not telling you, and wanting. I’m so tired of wanting, I just want – I want – I don’t know –”
Cas had talked himself into a corner; this wasn’t going at all how he’d planned. Somehow, when he’d envisioned telling Dean how he felt, it had always been with elegance, honesty, a touch of wry humour. It certainly hadn’t been this mess of words and feelings, handed over to Dean like a kite tangled in its own string. He stared at Dean’s right shoulder, and swallowed hard.
“How do I… make this better?” Dean said awkwardly, shuffling a little closer to Cas, reaching out an impotent hand that didn’t quite touch Cas’.
“I don’t know,” Cas said, dipping his head lower. “I – don’t know.”
Dean shifted his weight backwards and then forwards again, and then, hesitantly, he lifted up his arms.
“I could – if you want –”
Cas stared at him for a long second.
“What do you want?” Cas said. Dean’s mouth twitched upwards for a second, and then became a flat line again. “Please tell me the truth.”
Dean spoke slowly, grinding out the words as though they were heavy, hard to speak.
“I want… I want – everything. Anything you can give me. I want – jesus, I want you, Cas. I want you. If, if – if you want.”
Dean’s arms were falling back to his sides, anticipating Cas’ rejection. His eyes were already full of the pain that he expected to come, were wet with it; Cas almost shook his head, it was so absurd. In a rush, he wrapped his arms around Dean, pulled him in and held him; he could feel the heat of Dean’s skin under his t-shirt, the shape of his back, his shoulders. He took a moment to breathe, feeling the tight, nervous disbelief under his arms.
“I want,” he said, closing his eyes, so that he couldn’t see the wall of the corridor, so that his senses simply said Dean, his smell, his touch, the sound of his breathing. “I want. I want. I want.”
Dean’s arms were moving, lifting, wrapping themselves around Cas.
“Promise?” Dean said, the word a plea, or a prayer.
“I promise,” Cas said, and then with a little gasp Dean was holding him properly, arms strong, bodies pressed, faces touching, smooth cheek against smooth cheek. Cas pulled the sensations over himself like a blanket, burying himself in the warmth, the hardness of Dean’s muscles, the softness of his touch; he reached up a hand to cup the back of Dean’s neck, and felt his answering intake of breath, felt him tremble.
“Cas,” Dean said. “If you want –”
“You don’t need to say that,” Cas said. He felt everything go still, and pulled back so that Dean would be able to see the sincerity in his eyes. “I will always want.”
Dean watched him for a moment, and in the backs of his eyes, under the layers of disbelief and self-deprecation and hurting, Cas saw the first, tiny, shy sparks of a new trust kindling. He felt his heart, his poor, twisted heart, begin to unravel ever so slightly at the sight. It didn’t happen all at once, as he had thought perhaps it might. It was going take patience, it would take time – but they had time, didn’t they? They had time.
“Then, uh,” Dean said, blushing, smiling nervously, looking at Cas, “I’m going to – to kiss you now. Uh. Please?”
Cas smiled, and felt the wetness in his own eyes spill over.
“If you want,” he said, and Dean grinned.
“You have no idea,” he said, and kissed him.