Chapter Text
Dean will never forget the very first time he felt Cas’ Grace inside him.
Granted, he doesn’t remember how it happened. Or even when specifically. But he remembers the feeling. The liquid cool surge racing through him to the very place where he was hurting and the Grace just. Healing him - as simple as that.
He remembers the heady rush of sensations which lingered, tingling on the surface of his freshly healed skin. Like the burn after a wax. Except… y’know. Nicer. Not that Dean waxes.
Once, Lisa slapped a wax strip on his leg while they were messing around. He’d told her it couldn’t be that painful ‘cause she barely winced the whole time she was doing it. She was used to it, she’d said, and bet him he wouldn’t be able to deal with it. The pain, that is. And yeah, it fucking hurt. She’d swiped it off him, pulling his leg hairs off at the root with it, and a smooth, landing-strip of bare skin was left behind on his shin. How the fuck do women do this all the time? He’d thought, but not actually said out loud. ‘Cause, yeah. He’s not a pussy. Not like he hadn’t had worse pain before. It was a shock though. He won’t deny it.
Anyway, Cas’ Grace had felt kind of like that. Aftershocks of pain but somehow - nice? Point is, it was good. More than good. Tantalising. Surprising. And at the time, he’d been so focused on the fact that his wound was gone in two seconds flat that he hadn’t dwelled on it until way, way later. And by then he’d forgotten the basics of what had actually led to Cas healing him but the point of the issue itself…
It was a fine, focused point. Dean often caught himself lying awake wondering when or even if he’d get to experience it again (Cas’ Grace. Not the waxing).
Turns out it was more. Way more.
And every time was, like, better than the last somehow. The Grace penetrated deeper and harder and just fucking better each and every time Cas healed him. Like a really intense massage but without the oil and grease and awkward, shirtless silences. Or the happy endings. Not that Dean’s had many of those. Once, actually, and he hadn’t even asked for it. She just went ahead and - yeah.
Damn, the Grace was good. Better than a massage or a happy ending or the slide of ice-cold beer down his throat after a long, hard day.
Dean’s no poet, but if he could wax lyrical about the way Cas’ Grace felt coursing through his veins and straight to that place where everything hurts and then suddenly doesn’t and instead is replaced with this brief, but oh, so glorious tingle of - something? Well… he probably wouldn’t wax lyrical about it because poetry’s embarrassing as shit and he’ll hold onto that until the day he actually for-real dies but it’s - it’s good. Yeah. Better than good.
And then Cas died.
And that sucked. For so many reasons. The Grace being the least of them, but a constant, selfish thought in Dean’s head nonetheless.
The sluggish time in between Cas being stuck in the Empty and Jack pulling him the hell outta there is a blur to Dean. There was a whole lot of whiskey. A whole lot of… not talking. To Sam. To Claire. To anyone. Some really fucking bad nights where he considered just drinking and drinking until he -
Yeah. Until he didn’t wake up, basically. Dean isn’t particularly proud of the night Sam found him semi-conscious and crying on the bathroom floor of the bunker, two empty bottles next to him, covered in tears and snot and his own vomit. Not that Dean remembers much of it at all. Sam, thankfully, didn’t go into the gory details. He just made sure to keep a strict hawk-eye watch over Dean’s every waking motion during the following weeks. The bottles of liquor he bought mysteriously disappeared when Dean didn’t have an eye on them for more than a second and the only place Dean could go and get blackout was at one of the local bars in the next town over. And it wasn't long before they caught on and 86'd him too.
There were hunts. A few. Not as many as before. Dean’s pretty sure Sam deliberately kept a few potential cases away from him because he was scared he would “do something reckless” to which Dean could only reply, “our job is reckless, Sammy. That ain’t an excuse and you damn well know it.”
Claire came with them sometimes, and Dean had the sneaking suspicion Sam had asked her to be another pair of eyes because Dean had been so careless lately. He’d accumulated more scars in those couple of months than he had in the last couple of years. The only hunt which really sticks out to Dean is that whole deal with the vampires when he got slammed onto a rebar and impaled right through his back. Instead of letting him slip into sweet, sweet oblivion, Sam went and got a med kit and an ambulance. Dean’s last waning thought before passing out on that rusty-ass nail had been:
Shit. I could really do with a nice dose of Cas’ Grace right now. Just to experience it. One last time. And then he’d felt guilty for thinking of the Grace instead of - y’know - Cas who was dead and had spent his last moments confessing his supposed love for Dean and all of this was pretty fucking typical really because Dean realised he was gonna die with guilt, guilt, guilt, and that was all he got at the end of a long, hard slog at life and then he’d just.
Woken up.
Cas was returned topside a short time after Dean was discharged from hospital. And yeah, Sam and Claire were mad at him but they were both very deliberately Not Talking About It. So, yeah. Maybe Cas’ return came at a time when the vibes were pretty fuckin' dismal but damn if Dean cared.
Or Sam, for that matter. Because it wasn’t just Cas who’d come back, but Eileen too. Dean’s pretty sure they weren’t the only ones Jack had managed to resurrect, but the rest is all white noise to Dean. The last few months kinda just faded into insignificance, and Dean was content to never mention it again if the others didn't.
Not only was Cas back, but he was back at full-power. His wings were restored. All his Grace. All the good (better than good) stuff. Trenchcoat, messed up hair and all.
And, yeah, Dean knows now when Cas is all Angel because he has this… look. It’s distinctive. Nostalgic, almost. Detached in a way that most people aren’t, but simultaneously more attentive and attuned to the world than anyone else is. Dean knows, because it was exactly how Cas had been when they first met. Not that he was any less Cas when he was human but.
Well, it’s a thing. Like two separate people in Dean’s mind, almost. Besides, Dean hates thinking about when Cas was human because he’d treated him like fucking shit and he knows that but it’s - it’s fine now 'cause Cas is back for good and so far - in the month he’s been back - he hasn’t left them for any significant amount of time or voiced any plans to head out and start a new life without them.
Cas is back, and so is his Grace, and they’re not talking.
Truth is, Dean is going insane. When Cas had shown up on the doorstep of the bunker like it was any old Thursday afternoon, Dean physically had to pinch himself. He’d dreamt this before. On the better nights. The ones where the whiskey lulled him into that perfect place where his dreams felt real enough that, just for a moment, he could pretend he was nearly happy. Well, not happy but... content? Yeah. Content.
It wasn’t a dream.
Cas had blinked in surprise at Dean, looking as taken-aback to see him as Dean was and Dean had just kind of thrown himself at the angel and somehow they’d ended up kneeling on the ground, embracing, knees knocking together. He thinks there might’ve been some tears. There was a wet patch on the shoulder of Cas’ trenchcoat when they’d let each other go and Dean’s hoodie (the one he lives in these days. The thing is soft and washed to within an inch of his life and the Metallica logo on the back is faded beyond legibility but it’s huge and black and all encompassing) had definitely been damp around the neck where Cas had buried his face into him.
Then they’d just kind of - stared into each other’s eyes for a long time. Dean’s not sure how long. All he knows is he kept thinking, you’re real. You’re alive. Cas. Cas. Cas. On repeat until Sam bolted up the stairs and found them like that.
Unbeknownst to them at that moment, Eileen had spawned in the kitchen of all places and the reunion between her and Sam was nothing short of cinematic. There were more tears. Dean vaguely recalls making a huge pot of coffee - hands shaking - and them all gathering around the map table to just talk and catch up and cry a little more and stare at one another in blissful disbelief. Jack deigned to visit them from his upstairs duties to explain and - yes, reassure, because Dean was still a little convinced this was a djinn dream - that Eileen and Cas really were back for good. He was swift to arrive and swift to leave, saying there was still so much to be getting on with before announcing, heartbreakingly sincere, that he was sorry he hadn't been able to bring them back sooner. Apparently negotiating with the Empty wasn't a two-working-days kinda deal.
Dean was so overcome with joy and pure fucking relief that he’d forgotten to be angry with Jack for leaving them and refusing to answer Dean's prayers. Hell, he’d forgotten to be angry with Cas for leaving him. For dying. For making him so damn close to following him into oblivion. All those things still nag at Dean a whole month later but it’s not been the right time to - talk. Yet.
See, Dean knows this better than anyone, there’s a lot of tedious life admin you gotta do when you come back from the dead. Not that Cas had many of the IDs or fake birth certificates to sort out or anything like that, but there were a lot of people in their lives now who deserved to know about his and Eileen’s return. So for the past month that’s pretty much all they’ve been doing. Driving cross-country and reuniting with everyone who thought they were gone forever. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many tears.
So, yeah. They’re not talking and Dean is definitely going insane. Going? Gone. He was gone even before Cas came back.
Dean drives them everywhere for a whole month and eats burgers and pancakes at diners with Sam and Eileen and Cas and stays in motels and has his own room because Cas (helpfully) reminds him - he doesn’t sleep. So he leaves Dean alone at night and returns in the morning.
Dean’s pretty sure he sits in Baby all night and reads the books he somehow keeps managing to find and get through in, like, a day, which is actually fine ‘cause some of the motels are dodgy as all hell and Dean feels better knowing Baby’s safe under Cas’ guard.
It’s not a routine, exactly. They travel too much for that. But it’s a kind of - rhythm they’ve got down. They drive. They eat. They find the many people who adore Cas and Eileen. There’s hugs and comically huge dinners and sometimes they stay the night at a friend’s house and they definitely. Do. Not. Talk.
Until they (sort of) do, which is right after they get back from their month-long Reunion Road Trip. Truth is, Dean's frickin’ tired. Between the driving, the barely-sleeping, the heartfelt embracing and the unending think cycle he's stuck in, he's just about used up all his energy. He can't wait for some peace and quiet in the comfort of his room with its three-foot-thick concrete walls and unintentional rug trail of unwashed t-shirts and flannels. Sue him, he had other shit to be doing. So when he gets back, he flops forward onto his bed and squishes his face into his pillow, expecting sleep to come.
It doesn't.
Dean winds up lying awake. Head whirring, thoughts screaming, until the early hours.
Defeated, he hauls on his old Metallica hoodie and pads, barefoot, to the kitchen. He ran outta clean socks a while ago.
Thank all that is blessed that Eileen had the bright idea of picking up groceries before they got back, because now there's a nice pack of bacon waiting for Dean in the fridge, and it doesn't take long for him to spritz some oil into a pan and get a couple of strips sizzling, his tired eyes drifting and blurring over the golden, greasy meat as it cooks.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean jumps and grabs onto the counter.
“Wear a bell, Cas.” He snipes before remembering that this isn't five years ago and Cas was dead and now he's here and - oh, yeah. They're not talking.
He hauls in a breath on a sharp inhale and faces Castiel in the kitchen.
He's not wearing his trenchcoat. He's down to just his suit jacket. Tie loose around the undone top couple of buttons of his collar and there's a paperback hanging open in his hand. Lit only by the extractor fan lamp, his features squint at Dean in high, stark contrast. He's narrowing his eyes at Dean like he always fucking does. Actually… he hasn't done it in a while. Not since - yeah. Before. Is it weird that Dean’s missed it? He huffs out a short laugh and rubs the back of his head.
“Shit, Cas, I - uh. Not sleeping. Hence the”- he gestures at the pan with his spatula. It's not exactly an apology. More a garble of words in no particular order but Cas seems to accept it.
He nods. “I understand.” Then he looks down at his shoes and his eyes just sort of… stay there.
The bacon goes “shaaaa” in the pan. If Dean concentrates hard enough, it sounds like rain. But it isn't. And this is awkward, isn't it? Shit, he should say something. He should -
“What're you reading?” Internally, he smacks himself. In the real world, he waits for Cas to answer like he hasn't just dorked out an awkward as fuck question.
“The Bell Jar.” Says Cas, flipping the cover a little in Dean's direction for him to see. Dean pretends to be interested in the flowery, powder-blue illustrations.
“Ah. Right. Is it - good?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“It's reflective.” Cas muses. “The themes and leaps the story takes are somewhat relatable to my own situation in some ways. Much of the content is dated, in today's world. Regardless, I find the words… comforting.” His mouth twitches upwards into an almost-smile as he takes in what must be Dean's blank expression. ‘Cause he's not really sure what to say to that. “Would you like to read it?”
“Uh, sure but you're”-
“I've read it seven times, Dean. Here.” He hands out the book and Dean just - takes it. He holds it, still staring at Cas. For lack of anywhere better to put it, he tucks it into the kangaroo-pouch pocket on the front of his hoodie. It sticks out - a small but bulky rectangle in the front. It looks fucking stupid. He's fucking stupid. He can't even remember the last time he read something that wasn't research or - worse - some shitty skin mag from the gas station.
“Thanks.” He says. And then, because he's a big boy and also, as he's established, insane now, he goes on to mutter: “Actually, Cas, I wanted to”-
Unfortunately, Cas chooses the exact same moment to say:
“Dean, we need to talk.”
Their voices overlap. They lock eyes. Dean coughs. “You first, man.”
Cas sighs. His shoulders drop just enough that Dean can read the out-breath.
“We need to talk, Dean.” He's looking somewhere around Dean's knees again as he speaks, and without the book in his hands his arms hang by his sides. His frown is deeper than ever and his jaw twitches under the stubble which Dean hasn't seen grown out since purgatory. He vaguely wonders when Cas finds the time to shave, or whether he just uses his mojo to do it or -
“You have to know that when I confessed my love for you, I didn't expect to return.”
Oh. Yeah. Talking. Fuck.
“Uh huh.” Dean says dumbly, spinning the spatula in his hands as his insides squirm with discomfort. He doesn't want this. They were doing fine before. With the not talking thing. It was fine. They were comfortable - kind of.
Cas meets his eyes again. Searching. Scrutinising. Looking hard and intense and blue. Blue blue blue, Dean’s insomnia-riddled brain helpfully supplies.
“I am in love with you, Dean. Having my Grace restored has not altered that.” He waits. Dean says nothing. Can't, actually. He's not sure he has a tongue right now. “I was reluctant to talk about this with you on the road. There was… so much. So many people. It didn't feel”-
“Cas, it's uh - it's good, man. It's cool.”
Cas blinks. “What?”
“It's alright.” Dean says, his mouth taking over where his brain has failed. “Listen, man you're - you're back now and it's okay. We can forget about it and just carry on like before and, yeah. I'm not gonna, like, freak out or anything, okay? You're my - we've known each other for a long time. We've died and come back more times than we can count and I'd be really keen for that not to happen again so we can just - yeah. Carry on. It's fine.”
It's silent for a long time. Except for the sizzling. Dean turns back to the stove. Shit. Bacon's getting a little crispy. He shuts off the gas and pushes the bacon around the pan, not really doing anything and definitely not hungry anymore. There's maybe a few minutes of this. Dean thinks Cas must surely have gone. Conversation over. Right? Then he makes the mistake of turning around and sees that Cas is still standing there, exactly as before. Right. The guy watched mountains form for millennia, a few minutes of weird silence won't mean anything to him.
“Did you, uh… did you get all that?” Dean asks.
Cas takes a step forward. Then another.
“I just told you - again - that I am in love with you. I have non-platonic feelings for you. And you're content to carry on a relationship with me?”
Dean’s heart thuds against his ribs. It's kind of loud actually. He hopes Cas can't hear it. Probably can. Magic ears and shit.
“Relation”- He coughs on bacon-scented air. Clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. We’re friends, Cas. We've been through enough shit that I - I don't wanna lose that.” Fuck. Shit. This is why Dean had been avoiding this talk for so long. ‘Cause now Cas is gonna leave again and he could - what if he dies again and Dean doesn't find out until, like, years after his death when some distant friend or - heaven forbid - Claire tells him he passed away on some dumb hunt or he -
“You… don't want to lose that?” Cas echoes.
“O-of course not. I care about you, man.”
“But you don't reciprocate my feelings.” It isn't a question.
Dean looks away. The blue is so - just there. Too intense. Too much. He feels - a lot of things. All at once. He can't make sense of them. Not with Cas’ blue eyes and his lack of sleep and the bacon lazily sizzling as it cools and the whole past decade and a bit hanging over their goddamn heads.
“No, Cas. You know I'm not”- No. Don't say that word. Can't say it. “I don't swing that way.”
It comes back to him then - the image he sees etched onto his eyelids every time he shuts his eyes. Cas’ blue ones (so fucking blue) swimming with tears and that broken, face-splitting smile as he declares he loves Dean and he's happy. He can't fucking bear to see Cas cry like that again so he just. He keeps talking.
“But listen, man, i-if I was, you know I'd - fuck, I dunno. I- I care about you and if I did swing that way you know you're the only guy I'd ever - I mean, I know I have kind of a track record of fuckin' around with - people - and I'm not saying I don't but.” He short circuits. Squeezes his eyes shut. Plants a hand over his face and scrubs it. “What I'm… what I'm trying to say, Cas, is I… would. If I could. You - deserve to be happy. I know before you got taken to the Empty that you said you were but - but that's just because you've never known anything else. Cas, y-you deserve to be loved. Properly, man. With someone who can - someone else who's - y'know. That. You can stop me any time, buddy, or I'm just gonna keep going.”
Cas isn't crying. Thank fuck. But he does tilt his head curiously to the side as he regards Dean.
“You would… if you could.” He repeats. He's doing that a lot. Echoing. And it makes Dean wince, hearing the way those words sound. Then he says, “You don't love me.”
“You're family, man.” It's as close to an answer as Dean can possibly get without saying yes, because it's not yes but it's not no. “We - I need you.”
Cas takes another step and if he gets any closer he'll be all up in Dean's business (personal space much?) so Dean does the only thing he can and backs away. Which is really stupid because there's nowhere else to go, so he ends up planting his hand, palm down, on the burning hot stove.
He yelps and snatches his hand back, quickly inspecting the rapidly reddening skin.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He spits, holding his searing palm close to his chest and squeezing his eyes closed. His heart is pummelling. From the pain. From the talk. Right now he's not sure which is worse. And it's about to become clear - all crashing down on his head - as Cas extracts Dean's wrist from where he's clutching it against himself and presses two fingers to his scorching palm.
There's a moment of sharp pain, and then -
Grace.
It's been so long. So, torturously long since Dean felt this - this cool, soft, slipping sliding ice-white-shining liquid grace seeping into his skin - that he's almost forgotten what it felt like.
Dean closes his eyes as this time - and every other time - come pouring back to him like long lost friends. The aching, too-brief high of having Cas’ Grace live inside his body for a short while. Fuck, it's good. It's so damn good. Dean sucks in a huge breath and holds it as the feeling fades. He tries to keep it. Grasp it.
It leaves. It always leaves.
When he opens his eyes, Cas is staring at him, his eyes wide and oh, so fucking blue.
“Did I hurt you?” He asks, sounding more uncertain than Dean has ever heard him.
“Fuck, no, Cas. No. No, you - you healed me.” He laughs - the euphoria of having Cas’ Grace, however briefly, pushing the sound up and out of his throat. “Thanks. That hurt like a son of a bitch but you - yeah. Thanks, man.”
He might be going overboard, he thinks. With the gratitude. He's never really thanked Cas for healing him before, has he? No wonder Cas finds it weird. Before he can say anything else, Dean reaches out (with the healed, tingling hand) and claps Cas on the shoulder. Solid and unmoving muscle beneath his palm.
“You know, I - I'm actually really tired now, dude. I, uh. I gotta hit the hay, Cas but you - thanks. For the book and the… talking. It helped. Night, man.”
On his way out of the kitchen, bacon long forgotten, Dean hears the quiet,
“Goodnight, Dean.”
He sleeps. He sleeps really fucking good.