Archive of Our Own ^beta

Castiel never expected to open his front door and find a baby staring back at him.

Well—technically, the baby was nestled in a bassinet, fast asleep, cheeks flushed pink and fists curled under their chin. But still. His porch was now home to a very real, very tiny human, swaddled in a duck-print blanket and wearing a knitted hat with bear ears.

Atop the blanket sat a folded envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in quick, uncertain handwriting.

He blinked once. Twice. Then picked it up.

The letter was short. Blunt.

This is your child. Her name is Claire. I'm sorry. I can't take care of her. The DNA test is enclosed.

Castiel stood in stunned silence, envelope trembling in his hand as he stared down at the child.

“I’m sorry— what ?”

The letter wasn’t signed. But the DNA report, clipped to the back of the note, was legitimate. A full analysis. Two names: Castiel Novak and Claire Grace [REDACTED] . A 99.98% match.

He read it three times, certain it would change.

It didn’t.

His brain couldn’t compute it. He was gay. Capital-G, have-never-had-a-moment-of-doubt gay. He hadn’t so much as kissed a woman since high school, and even that had felt like trying on a shirt that didn’t fit—tight in all the wrong places, itchy and claustrophobic and wrong.

And yet.

College. Money. That one week where he’d been flat broke, running on ramen and desperation. A flyer on a bulletin board. “Help Families Grow. Get Paid.” He hadn’t thought twice. It had been clinical. Anonymous.

He never imagined—

“Shit,” he breathed, staring at the baby like she might vanish if he blinked. “Oh my God.”

Claire stirred, a tiny, sleepy noise escaping her mouth.

She looked nothing like him, but somehow looked like him. Except for the blonde hair. She had the same mouth and the same perpetual furrow between her brows that he saw in the mirror every morning, and the small curls that Castiel has when his hair gets a bit long.

“Hello, Little Bean,” he whispered, crouching beside her.

She yawned and Castiel, feeling his world tilt dangerously off its axis, did the only thing he could think to do. He reached out with trembling arms and picked her up, and the baby snuffled as she turned her face into Castiel and sighed before falling asleep. 

Castiel just stood there and looked at this little human in his arms, completely untethered from reality.

Claire.

She was warm. Heavy in that strange, new way—like she belonged nowhere else but against his chest, and yet he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Her fingers twitched near her cheek, and her nose scrunched up, like even in her sleep, she was trying to make sense of him too.

He hadn’t moved in minutes. Couldn’t.

Her breath hitched softly, then evened out again, her small chest rising and falling against his sweater. Castiel didn’t breathe at all.

This had to be a mistake. Or a dream. Or some cruel joke engineered by the universe, because he was not meant to be a father . He didn’t date women . Didn’t want to. He’d built his life around that truth with quiet, unapologetic clarity. He hadn’t thought of it as real . Not really. It was biology, not family. Anonymous. He’d walked in, signed some paperwork, did what was required in an awkward, fluorescent-lit room with a plastic cup and a pile of outdated magazines, and then left with enough cash to pay for groceries and a month’s rent.

He hadn’t thought about it since. Not once.

And now— now —a baby with his eyes and his bloodline was curled against his chest. Castiel’s breath caught.

She smelled like milk and baby shampoo. Her skin was impossibly soft. Her weight anchored him in place in a way that nothing else ever had,

But he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even own anything a baby might need. His apartment wasn’t childproofed. He didn’t have a clue how to sterilize a bottle, let alone raise a daughter. Claire shifted in his arms and made a small, gurgling sound, Castiel rocked her gently without thinking.

It was like something ancient and terrifying and tender had taken root in his chest and he looked down at her again, and something inside him cracked wide open.

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it was divine punishment. Or maybe it was fate, cruel and beautiful and utterly indifferent to the plans he’d made.

But whatever it was—he was holding it now.

And he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

🍼

“Claire, honey, don’t put that in your mouth,” Castiel said, voice strained as he leaned over the arm of the couch.

The toddler in question froze mid-crawl, one chubby fist clutching a suspiciously sticky plastic dinosaur, the other already halfway to her mouth. She blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes like she had no idea what the problem was.

Castiel gave her a flat look.

“I saw you. Don’t pretend you weren’t about to chew on that tail.”

Claire, newly two and full of opinions for someone of her age, scowled like he’d personally offended her. With a dramatic little grunt, she flopped onto her diapered butt and held out the dinosaur with tragic, world-ending betrayal and started to babble angrily at him. 

Castiel chuckled as he plucked the dinosaur from Claire’s outstretched hand, wiping it with a napkin even though he knew it had probably been through worse. “You’re going to turn into plastic one day if you keep putting things like this in your mouth,” he teased gently.

Claire gave him a look that could only be described as deeply unimpressed . “Nuh-uh.”

“Yes-huh,” he said with mock seriousness, sitting back down on the floor beside her. “It’s science.”

“Dino,” Claire demanded, holding out her hand and making grabby fingers at Castiel. “Dada, Dino.”

Castiel blinked at her, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he held the plastic dinosaur just out of reach. “Claire, sweetheart, we just talked about not putting your friends in your mouth.”

She frowned, as though deeply inconvenienced by the memory of rules. Her grabby fingers intensified. “Dino now , Dada.”

Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide with the relentless determination only toddlers could wield. There was no negotiating with her when she was like this; when she’d made up her mind that Dino was hers and Dino was important and he must be returned to her kingdom at once.

Castiel sighed in exaggerated defeat, handing it over. “Okay. But no chewing. Dino gets kisses only. We don’t eat the prehistoric.”

Claire snatched the toy with a triumphant little squeak and promptly gave it a very dramatic, very loud smooch on the head. Then she held it up like Simba in The Lion King and declared, “Dino love me.”

Castiel pressed a hand to his mouth to hide his laugh. “Yes, well, you’re very lovable.”

“Dino’s my baby,” she added with great solemnity, now rocking the creature gently in her arms like a swaddled infant.

Castiel watched her, a warm ache settling deep in his chest. Some days, the weight of it all still caught him off guard—the diapers and the tantrums and the endless, wonderful nonsense. But then there were moments like this. Moments where she was safe, and happy, and his , and he couldn’t imagine ever living without her.

“You’re doing great, Mama Dino,” he murmured.

Claire beamed at him, then plopped down beside him and leaned against his arm, still cradling her beloved prehistoric creature. She started kicking her legs until Castiel caught a scent wafting up from her diaper. He looked down at her, and she was staring straight ahead with the innocent blankness of a child who definitely knew something was brewing and was trying very hard not to be involved in it.

“Claire,” Castiel said, voice wary.

She didn’t blink.

“Claire,” he repeated, leaning slightly away now, nose wrinkling. “Did you…?”

Still no reaction.

He reached over and gently patted her diaper from the outside, then immediately pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove. “Oh no. No, no, no— Claire .”

Claire giggled as Castiel stood from the sofa and picked her up, nearly gagging at the biohazardous smell that came from her.

“Oh my God,” he choked out, holding her at arm’s length like a hazardous materials technician unsure of whether he needed backup. “Claire. What did you eat ?”

She cackled, legs swinging with glee. “’Nana and cheese!” 

“No more nana and cheese for you,” he muttered as he walked back to her bedroom. 

Castiel had tried, he really had, to approach the situation with calm and composure. He’d wiped down most of the catastrophic mess with trembling hands and at least a dozen baby wipes, but the moment he peeled back the final flap of the diaper and saw the full extent of what lay within, his stomach turned so violently he had to pause, brace a hand against the wall, and breathe through his mouth. 

“Okay,” he gasped, blinking back tears. “You win. Straight to the bath.” Claire, unbothered and humming to herself, kicked her legs happily while he scooped her up, his arms stretched out like she was some kind of war-torn survivor, and carried her straight to the tub, muttering prayers and questioning every life choice that had led him to this exact, horrifying moment.

A short while later, Claire—now freshly bathed, dressed, and diapered—was resting against Castiel’s chest, sleeping like she hadn’t just unleashed a toxic event of epic proportions that would haunt his nostrils for days. Her curls were still damp, smelling faintly of honey and lavender baby shampoo Castiel bought at the local farmer’s market, and one tiny hand was curled into the fabric of his shirt. Her breath came in slow, even little puffs, completely content and utterly innocent. 

Castiel sat on the edge of her bed, one arm wrapped around her, the other resting gently across her back, as if to keep her anchored to him even in sleep. He glanced down at her peaceful face and shook his head with a tired smile. 

“You are lucky you’re cute,” he murmured. “So, so lucky.”

🍼

Spring had arrived in Manhattan with a soft burst of warmth and the fresh scent of blooming cherry blossoms drifting through the air. The city’s usual rush seemed to slow just enough to let moments like this breathe—sunlight filtering through budding trees, birdsong weaving between the hum of distant traffic.

Castiel stood in the park, hands steadying the handlebars of Claire’s bright pink scooter as she pushed off with determined little legs. Her laughter bubbled up, light and pure, as Castiel pulled her along the sidewalk, the wheels making a slight rhythmic clatter over the uneven pavement. 

“Do you want to give it a try?” Castiel asked, his voice gentle, offering the scooter toward her with a small, hopeful smile, and he explained simply how to place one foot on the board while using the other to push off. He crouched beside her, guiding her hands to the handlebars, steadying her balance with careful fingers. “Just little pushes,” he said softly. “Keep your eyes forward. I’ve got you.” Claire nodded with wide, serious eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in concentration, and Castiel felt a swell of affection so strong it made his chest ache.

“Look, Dad, I’m doing it!” she called, cheeks flushed with joy as she kicked off the sidewalk, lifted her foot, and pushed herself forward across the concrete. She wobbled slightly, arms stiff and focused, the scooter veering just a little off course—but she stayed upright, determination written all over her face. 

Castiel walked alongside her, hands ready but not interfering. “You’re doing amazing, Claire,” he called back, his voice full of awe. “Keep going!” And she did—shakily, bravely, a little more confident with every push.

That was until someone stepped onto the path, directly in line with Claire and she let out a startled squeak as her scooter wobbled violently to the side.

“Whoa, whoa—I gotcha!” the man said, swooping down in a flash and catching the handlebars before she could topple over. His hands were steady, firm but gentle, and he crouched down to Claire’s level with a warm, reassuring smile. “You alright, kiddo?”

Claire blinked up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, then nodded solemnly. “I almost crashed.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t. That was some pro-level scooter control,” the man grinned, his voice low and rough with the hint of a Midwestern drawl.

Castiel reached them in a few quick strides, heart pounding. “Claire, are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” the man said, standing as he offered Castiel a small, apologetic nod. “Sorry—I wasn’t watching where I was walking.”

Castiel opened his mouth to respond—but stopped short as he really looked at the man.

Beard a little rough around the edges, hair longer than what he might’ve called practical, but somehow still neatly pushed back beneath a dark green cap. He wore a faded flannel open over a white tee, and his jeans looked like they’d been worn to work and lived in. He looked rugged, maybe even a little world-weary, but the crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the crooked smirk on his face was as bright as the spring sun. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, blinking out of it. “Thank you for catching her.”

“No harm done,” the man said, sticking his hands in his pockets. Claire, now fully recovered, looked up at the stranger with a grin. 

“I got a scooter. It’s pink.”

The man chuckled. “I can see that. Bet it goes real fast, huh?”

“Super fast,” she confirmed, chest puffing with pride. “Faster than the red one Krissy got for her birthday!”

Castiel felt his mouth tug into a small smile despite himself. “She’s just learning. It’s her first real ride.”

“Well,” the man said, stepping aside and offering Claire a grand gesture down the path, “don’t let me get in your way.”

Claire giggled and kicked off again, wobbly but determined.

Castiel watched her go, then glanced back at the man. “Thank you again for catching her.”

“No problem,” he said with a slight grin. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

Castiel’s brows lifted a little, surprised. “Castiel.” 

“Lived in Manhattan long, Cas?” Dean asked.

Thrown off by the immediate nickname, Castiel blinked, his mouth opening slightly before he managed to gather himself. “It’s… Castiel,” he corrected gently, not unkind. “And yes, a few years now.”

Dean nodded, apparently unfazed. “Right. Sorry—force of habit. I shorten everything. You could introduce yourself as Maximilian and I’d still call you Max.”

Castiel gave a small nod, glancing toward Claire, who was now halfway down the path, dragging her foot to slow herself down like he’d taught her. “That’s… fine, I suppose.”

Dean followed his gaze. “She yours?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied, eyes still on her. “She’s mine.”

“She’s cute. Got a good laugh,” Dean said, a flicker of genuine warmth in his voice.

Castiel’s shoulders softened just a touch. “She does. It’s louder than she is most days.”

Dean chuckled. “That’s how you know they’re doing it right.” He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “I’ve got nephews. Loud little monsters. One of them tried to stick a fork in the toaster last Thanksgiving.”

Castiel winced faintly. “I assume he’s alright?”

“Oh yeah. Got yelled at by four different adults at once and somehow still managed to look proud about it.”

Castiel let out a quiet huff of amusement. “Sounds about right.”

There was a brief pause, just the chirping of birds and the hum of passing traffic in the distance.

Dean shifted on his feet. “So… you always come out here? It’s a good spot. Kinda tucked away.”

Castiel looked at him fully now, head tilted slightly. “Yes. It’s peaceful. She likes the open space.”

Dean nodded, lips pressing into a small, thoughtful line. “Yeah. Peace is hard to find in this city. Good that you’ve got a corner of it.”

Another pause.

“Well,” Dean said, glancing at his watch. “I should get going. Good luck to her on the scooter; she’s got guts.”

Castiel nodded politely. “Thank you.”

Dean offered a casual wave and turned to leave, and Castiel watched him go with a faint furrow between his brows.

“Dean,” Castiel called out before he could talk himself out of it.

Dean stopped and turned, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”

Castiel hesitated, glancing down at his shoes for a brief second before lifting his chin. “I don’t… normally do this,” he started, already feeling ridiculous, “especially not with my child in tow, and I understand if it’s strange or out of place, or—” he paused, then tried again, clearer this time. “I was wondering if I could have your number?”

Dean blinked, a bit surprised, but his expression quickly softened into something brighter—something warm.

“Just,” Castiel continued, hand gesturing awkwardly in the air, “for conversation. Or coffee. Or—I don’t know. You seem… like someone worth talking to.”

Dean’s grin came slow and steady, easy. “Well, Cas— Castiel —I’m real glad you asked.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, already tapping into his contacts. “Here—let me give you mine.”

Castiel handed over his phone, fingers brushing briefly as they exchanged devices. His heart was beating faster than it had in a long time, but not in a bad way. Not at all.

Claire zoomed by on her scooter again, giggling wildly as she went, completely unaware that her father had just done something impulsive and terrifying and maybe a little hopeful.

Dean handed the phone back, his smile still lingering. “Looking forward to that conversation, man.”

And then he tipped a casual two-fingered salute and turned to walk away again—this time leaving Castiel standing in the middle of the park with a name and number in his phone… and a massive smile on his face.

🍼

It was strange, how easily Dean had woven his way into their lives.

What began as an unexpected exchange in the park had become a steady rhythm of shared afternoons and easy conversation—first with casual texts, then coffees, then “Hey, Claire and I are heading to the zoo, want to come?” until suddenly it was always Dean, in the background or beside them. In the yard, in the kitchen, laughing on the couch with Claire’s glittery stickers on his sleeves like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And now, months later, Castiel stood at the kitchen window, watching as Claire shrieked with laughter while Dean chased her in the backyard, both of them bundled in jackets, their boots kicking up little tufts of brittle autumn grass. She darted behind a tree, Dean following close behind, making dramatic dinosaur noises like the world’s loudest T-Rex.

Claire had taken to Dean with the kind of innocent, boundless affection that could never be faked. Castiel had been cautious at first— wary , even—but it was hard to remain guarded when your child lit up every time someone walked through the door. Harder still when that someone made a conscious effort to show up, again and again, without expectation.

Dean was good with her. Patient. Goofy. Protective in a way that wasn’t performative. He never talked down to her, never treated her like a chore. When Claire had scraped her knee at the play center, Dean had crouched beside her and whispered something that had her giggling through tears before the Band-Aid was even out of the wrapper. When she couldn’t find her favorite stuffed rabbit, it had been Dean who scoured the entire apartment with her until it turned up wedged behind the couch cushions.

And as for Castiel… well, that part was more complicated.

He hadn’t intended to let Dean in—not beyond polite parenting small talk and a maybe-we’ll-run-into-each-other-again kind of acquaintanceship. But Dean had made it impossible to keep him at arm’s length. He was— steady . Not perfect, not polished, but present . Kind in a way Castiel wasn’t used to, especially without strings attached. And when they talked, really talked, it was easy. Like slipping into warm water. Like breathing.

Their friendship deepened like roots under soil—quietly, steadily, without either of them needing to name it. What had started as occasional meetups had become something constant. Predictable, but never dull. Dean was simply there now, in all the spaces between chaos and calm. He was the extra set of hands at dinner when Claire refused to eat her broccoli, the voice reading bedtime stories when Castiel’s was hoarse, the man who carried Claire asleep from the car without complaint after long days at the museum or aquarium or anywhere she’d burned through her boundless energy.

They’d had whole conversations about nothing over takeout. Quiet afternoons where Claire napped and Dean stayed just a little longer than necessary, lounging on the floor with his arms behind his head and his voice low and thoughtful. Castiel had found himself laughing more. Relaxing. Letting the tight grip he’d kept on everything for years finally loosen, bit by bit.

Winter crept in slowly, the last leaves clinging to branches, and outdoor afternoons turned into indoor adventures. Play centers, museums, pillow forts in the living room. Dean kept showing up—hands full of hot cocoa or cheap sticker books or a new story to read. And every time, Claire lit up like it was Christmas.

And Claire adored him. If Castiel ever tried to go somewhere without inviting Dean, she’d ask, “Where’s Deanie?” with wide, betrayed eyes, like he’d left behind her favorite stuffed animal on purpose.

In the quiet of night, when Castiel lay in bed and the apartment was finally still, he found himself thinking about Dean’s laugh, about the way he tucked Claire’s hair behind her ear when she was sleepy, about the softness in his eyes when he looked at them—both of them.

It wasn’t just friendship anymore—it was habit . It was the way Dean always grabbed Castiel’s coffee without asking, and how Castiel started saving a spot for Dean on the couch without realizing. It was knowing which mugs Dean liked and which cartoons he let Claire watch because he secretly found them funny. They didn’t talk about it—didn’t need to.

He was terrified of what it meant.

And still… he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

🍼

They were walking to a diner on a cold Sunday morning, bundled in scarves and coats, Claire nestled in Dean’s arms with her chin tucked against his shoulder. She was still yawning, half-asleep, her fingers tangled in Dean’s flannel like it belonged to her.

Castiel walked beside them, his hands in his coat pockets, steam curling from his breath as they chatted about nothing. It was easy, like always.

A woman with two kids stepped out of the diner just as they were approaching, holding the door open politely. She smiled at Claire, then at Dean, then Castiel.

“She’s adorable,” she said warmly, then nodded at Dean. “Your husband’s a natural. You’re lucky.”

Castiel blinked.

Dean gave a polite, slightly confused smile but didn’t correct her. Claire didn’t even notice—she was halfway to napping on his shoulder.

Castiel, however, felt his breath catch somewhere between his chest and throat.

His husband.

He opened his mouth to explain, to clarify, but the words didn’t come.

Because as they stepped inside and Claire stirred in Dean’s arms, reaching sleepily for Castiel only to be soothed instantly by Dean’s quiet hum, he realized—

It didn’t feel like a mistake. It didn’t feel like something to laugh off.

It felt… right.

🍼

The apartment felt wrong without Claire in it.

Too quiet. Too still. No trail of toys underfoot, no soft thump of her feet padding down the hall, no “Dad?” echoing from her room as she woke from a nap. Castiel stood in the center of the living room, arms crossed, his eyes darting toward the door like he might hear her voice through it.

It was her first sleepover— her first night away from him—and every instinct in his body screamed to turn around and go get her.

“She’s fine,” Dean said calmly from the kitchen, where he was pouring them both a glass of wine. “Eileen’s probably already got them in matching pajamas and halfway through a Disney movie.”

Castiel didn’t respond, just exhaled tightly and rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s never spent the night anywhere else. What if she doesn’t sleep? What if she gets scared or—”

Dean walked over and handed him the glass. “What if she has the best time of her life and doesn’t want to come home in the morning?”

Castiel gave him a withering look. Dean just grinned.

“Look, Cas. Sam and Eileen are solid. Their boys adore Claire, and they’re probably all in a pillow fort right now arguing over popcorn flavors. You’ve done everything right—packed the overnight bag, remembered the bunny, went over the emergency contacts twice.”

“Three times,” Castiel muttered.

Dean smirked. “Even better. She’s safe. She’s happy. You need to breathe.”

Castiel glanced at the glass in his hand like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated. “Like I left a part of myself somewhere.”

Dean’s teasing faded into something gentler. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That sounds about right.”

Castiel sat down on the couch and stared at the quiet spot where Claire’s scooter usually leaned against the wall. “I know it’s healthy. That she needs to have her own experiences. That she’s not a baby anymore. But I feel like I’m doing something wrong by… not being there.”

Dean sat beside him, wine glass cradled in one hand, his knee brushing Castiel’s. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re raising a kid who’s confident enough to spend a night away. That’s a win, Cas. And I know it’s hard. But you can’t hold your breath every time she steps out into the world.”

Castiel blinked, the weight of Dean’s words settling into his chest.

“Tonight’s about her being brave,” Dean added, “and you letting yourself be a person outside of her too.”

That struck something deep. Castiel looked at him then—really looked—and for a moment, the air felt heavier between them. Familiar. Charged.

Dean smiled again, softer this time. “You’re allowed to enjoy one night off. She’ll come back to you in the morning. Probably with glitter in her hair and a new favorite song you’ll have to listen to thirty times in a row.”

Castiel huffed a quiet laugh. “That sounds likely.”

Dean lifted his glass. “To surviving your first night off-duty, Dada.”

Castiel clinked his glass to Dean’s, lips twitching at the corners. “To Claire. And whatever ridiculous story she’s going to tell me when she gets back.”

It took him a moment to realize what was different.

Dean was drinking wine.

Not beer. Not one of those bourbons he sometimes brought over in a paper bag and poured with the ease of long habit.

Wine.

Castiel narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head. “You don’t usually drink wine.”

Dean, halfway through a sip, gave a nonchalant shrug and swallowed. “Yeah, well. You do.”

The simplicity of it settled over Castiel like a stone dropped gently into still water. No big announcement. No teasing. Just a small adjustment, quietly made, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Something flickered behind Castiel’s ribs—warm and a little dangerous.

“I didn’t realize you paid attention to that.”

Dean smirked, gaze still fixed ahead. “I pay attention to everything, Cas.”

Castiel’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of his glass, heart skipping in that subtle, disorienting way it sometimes did around Dean—usually when Dean said something that felt casual but landed like a stone in a pond.

He turned his head, watching Dean in profile—how his smirk softened into something almost fond, how his eyes didn’t quite meet Castiel’s but lingered close enough to feel intentional.

“I’m starting to realize that,” Castiel murmured, his voice quieter now, nearly lost beneath the hum of the city through the windows.

Dean finally glanced over, the corner of his mouth still curled. “Took you long enough.”

There was no teasing bite to it, though—just warmth. A kind of steady patience that made Castiel feel seen in a way that was… dangerous. And comforting. And wholly unfamiliar.

He set his glass down and leaned back into the couch, letting out a slow breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had room to notice anything that wasn’t Claire.”

Dean nodded, a brief, understanding tilt of his head. “That’s fair. You’re a damn good dad.”

The words made Castiel’s throat tighten unexpectedly. He swallowed, eyes darting briefly to the ceiling as if that might help him compose himself.

“She’s everything,” he said softly.

“I know.” Dean’s voice was quiet too now. “But even everything doesn’t mean you stop being… you .”

Castiel looked at him again, and this time Dean held the gaze, steady and open. No pressure. Just presence.

“I think,” Castiel said, after a long pause, “I’m starting to remember who that is.”

Dean’s smile returned, slower now. Real. “Good. I like that guy.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, watching Dean with a softness he wasn’t entirely used to showing. The wine had loosened him just enough to let the truth slip past the guards he usually kept up—especially around things that mattered. Especially around Dean.

“You’re… really good with her,” Castiel said quietly. “With Claire.”

Dean glanced over, caught off guard, but didn’t say anything—just waited, letting him finish.

Castiel looked down at his hands, then back at Dean. “I’ve never seen someone just… get her the way you do. You don’t talk down to her. You don’t get impatient. You make her laugh. And she trusts you. So easily.” He paused, exhaling slowly. “That means more to me than I think I know how to explain.”

Dean’s expression softened, his smirk fading into something far more sincere. “She’s a great kid, Cas.”

“She is,” Castiel agreed. Then, after a beat, “But watching you with her just…it does something to me.”

Dean turned a little more toward him, the quiet between them settling like a held breath.

Castiel continued, voice low and unguarded, “It makes me feel things I didn’t think I would again. Not just hope or relief or gratitude—though there’s all of that too. But watching you with Claire, seeing the way you are with her… it makes me feel safe. Like we’re not alone in this. Like maybe… There's room for more. For something I didn’t think I’d ever have.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched Castiel’s face, calm and steady, but there was something there, something Castiel hadn’t quite noticed before, but he knew it was in his own eyes when he looked at Dean.

“And what’s that?” Dean asked, shifting closer to Castiel on the couch. His voice was quiet, but there was a hint of challenge in it too, like he already knew the answer and was just waiting for Castiel to catch up.

Castiel swallowed, the warmth between them pressing in, familiar and terrifying all at once. “That I trust you,” he said, barely louder than a breath. “With her. With me.”

Without hesitation, Dean leant in and pressed his lips against Castiel’s, warm and sure, like it was something he’d been meaning to do for a long time. Castiel froze for the briefest second—just long enough for the world to tilt—and then melted into it, his hand finding Dean’s shoulder, holding on like the kiss was a lifeline. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t unsure. It was steady, and certain, and everything Castiel hadn’t let himself hope for until now.

Castiel’s hand found its way to Dean’s cheek, the bristle of his beard tickling the palm of his hand as he deepened the kiss, slow and reverent. There was nothing hurried about it—just a quiet intensity, like they were both finally stepping into something that had been waiting for them all along. Dean’s hand settled at Castiel’s waist, grounding them both, and for a moment, everything else fell away. No noise, no worry—just this. Just them .

Dean hummed happily as Castiel’s fingers threaded into his hair, the soft pull coaxing him even closer. His lips curved into a smile against Castiel’s, contentment blooming in his chest like warmth spilling into all the quiet corners. When they finally broke apart, just enough to breathe, Dean rested his forehead against Castiel’s and murmured, “I’m not going anywhere, Cas.”

Castiel snorted out a laugh before rubbing his nose against Dean’s. 

“I know that now.”

🍼

The late afternoon sun spilled across the driveway, casting long shadows as Claire leaned over the open hood of the Impala, hands smudged with grease, her brow furrowed in concentration. Dean stood beside her, wiping his hands on a rag, offering quiet instructions and the occasional dad-joke that made her roll her eyes—though she never tried too hard to hide her grin.

From the garden, Castiel knelt among the lavender, fingers buried in the soil, coaxing stubborn weeds from the roots. The scent of crushed herbs and motor oil mingled in the warm summer air. He glanced up at the sound of Claire laughing—full and unguarded—and paused, simply watching them.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years since Dean had kissed him on that couch and promised he wasn’t going anywhere. And he hadn’t. He'd stayed through everything—toddlers and tantrums, scraped knees and homework, heartbreaks and birthdays. Dean had become Claire’s second dad without hesitation, like it was always meant to be. He taught her how to throw a punch, how to change a tire, how to spot a lie—and somehow, he still made time to bring Castiel coffee in bed on Sunday mornings.

Watching them, Castiel was hit with a random memory. 

Claire had been quiet for days, which was unusual for a ten-year-old with a penchant for animated storytelling and dramatic reenactments of her favorite movies. Castiel noticed, of course—how she lingered near Dean a little more, how she’d start to ask a question and then think better of it, how she kept something folded and hidden in the back pocket of her jeans. It all came to a head on Christmas morning.

They had finished unwrapping the gifts, the living room littered with ribbons and crumpled paper, when Claire slipped off the couch and approached Dean, holding out a crisp manila envelope with both hands. 

“This is for you,” she said, voice small but steady. “I asked Dad for help with it.” 

Dean took it with a puzzled glance at Castiel, who only gave him a soft nod, his eyes already shining. Inside were adoption papers—every line filled out carefully, Claire’s name in her neatest handwriting. At the bottom, she’d scrawled a note: Can you be my dad? For real?

Dean’s voice caught in his throat, and he blinked rapidly as he pulled her into a tight hug, arms wrapped fiercely around her small frame. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Yeah. Of course I will.”

Two weeks later, just after the New Year, they went to the courthouse. Claire wore a new dress and sparkly shoes, her hand gripping Dean’s tightly as the judge confirmed the adoption. But before they left, Castiel and Dean stood before the same judge again—this time with rings in their pockets and vows written on scraps of notebook paper. Sam and Jess stood beside them, beaming, as they said the words they’d both long carried in their hearts.

It was simple, quiet, and perfect. By the time they walked out of the courthouse, they were a family in every way that mattered—name, love, and bond sealed tight between the three of them.

Castiel sat back on his heels, brushing dirt from his hands, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. The life they’d built wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs , stitched together with laughter, love, and loyalty.

He wouldn’t trade it for anything.