Work Text:
The sky over Kansas looks bigger than it has any right to, and Dean’s still getting used to that. It stretches out in every direction, a wide winter blue with streaks of cloud, flat and open and quiet in a way New York never was. Even with the rumble of the moving truck’s engine cooling behind him and Sam whining about his back like he’s forty years older than he actually is, there’s something still and almost fragile about the air. Like if Dean talks too loud, he’s gonna spook it.
“Dude,” Sam groans, hauling another box out of the truck. “Did you pack your whole apartment in engine blocks?”
“Delicate keepsakes,” Dean says, leaning against the side of the truck and taking a moment just to breathe. He watches his brother shuffle backward down the ramp with a box labeled KITCHEN & MISC. “Handle with care.”
Sam snorts. “Misc meaning…?”
Dean flicks ash from his imaginary cigarette just to be annoying. “Dean stuff.”
“Super helpful, thanks.”
The front door of the house opens with the gentle creak Dean’s already fallen a little in love with, and Cas steps out onto the small porch, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He’s still in the faded blue Henley he put on this morning and his hair’s mussed from the wind. There’s a smudge of dust on his cheek from unpacking dishes.
Dean feels something in his chest go warm and heavy at the sight.
“How many more?” Cas calls, squinting against the afternoon sun.
“A million,” Sam answers, which isn’t that far off. “You’re gonna owe me so many casseroles for this, Cas.”
“I already promised lasagna,” Cas says, coming down the steps. “Eileen added it to the list. She’s a harsh negotiator.”
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles, but he’s smiling.
Cas slips up beside Dean and bumps their shoulders together, soft and familiar. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Dean says, looking out over the yard instead of at Cas because if he looks at him too long he’s gonna get sappy, and Sam will never let him hear the end of it. “Just. Y’know. Soaking it in.”
The house sits square in the middle of two and a half acres, the lawn brown and sleeping for the winter but edged with a couple of old trees that’ll look great in the spring. The driveway curves up from the street, where the moving truck is parked, and there’s a big enough patch of open space out back that Dean’s already mentally placed a grill, a fire pit, and maybe one of those ugly plastic dinosaur climbers for Dean Jr. if Sam ever lets him go full uncle mode.
He can see Sam and Eileen’s place if he looks down the street, just a couple blocks away. That still doesn’t feel real.
“Traffic bad?” Sam asks, dropping the kitchen box just inside the front door with a quiet grunt.
Cas nods. “Jersey was a nightmare,” he says. “We stopped in Pennsylvania, though. There was a diner with surprisingly good pie.”
Dean perks up. “More than ‘surprisingly good,’ babe. That was, like, top five pie.”
Sam huffs. “You rank them now?”
“Always have,” Dean says. “You just never paid attention.”
“We also detoured to see the world’s largest ball of twine,” Cas adds, too casually.
Sam pauses. “You’re lying.”
“I really wish I was,” Cas says, deadpan.
Dean laughs. “Hey, it was on the billboard.”
“You said, and I quote,” Cas mimics, lowering his voice, “‘Cas, we can’t just drive by world history.’”
Sam makes a face. “That sounds like something you’d say.”
“That’s because I have taste,” Dean says. “Now stop slacking and grab that box marked ‘FRAGILE.’ If you break our coffee maker, I’m telling your kid Santa’s not real.”
“Dean, he’s five,” Sam protests.
“Exactly. Prime emotional damage age.”
Cas squeezes Dean’s elbow. “Be nice,” he murmurs.
“Tell him to lift with his knees and not his back, and I’ll think about it.”
Cas gives Dean a fond little eyeroll and goes back inside. Dean watches his back for a second more than necessary, then pushes off the side of the truck with a sigh and grabs another box.
They fall into a rhythm. Dean ferries boxes from truck to porch. Sam grabs them and totes them to whatever room Cas hollers from. Cas organizes the chaos, stacking labeled boxes by room, already putting away dishes and setting aside things they’ll need tonight. It’s messy and tiring and exactly the kind of thing Dean’s weirdly good at—long stretch of grunt work, clear end goal, immediate visible progress.
They break once, standing in the driveway with plastic cups of water and the winter sun dipping lower behind the houses across the street. Eileen pulls up halfway through in her car, waves through the windshield, and trots over with a small bakery box.
“Bribe,” she signs, and says aloud at the same time. “For the movers.”
Dean brightens. “Is that—”
“Donuts,” she says, already opening the box to show them. “From that little place on Main. Figured Cas might kill Sam if he tried to unpack him while hungry.”
Cas appears on the porch like he heard his name. “You’re a saint,” he says, coming down to kiss Eileen’s cheek and peer into the box. His eyes light up in a way that makes Dean’s stomach flip for reasons that have nothing to do with food. “Are those maple?”
“Yes,” Eileen says. “Got a couple extra in case you two start hoarding.”
Dean points at Sam. “You raised her well.”
Sam just grins, reaching for a plain glazed. “So how was the drive, really? No breakdowns? No turning around halfway through and fleeing back to your overpriced shoebox?”
“Our shoebox was charming,” Cas says, mildly offended.
“And cost more than this entire block,” Sam counters.
Dean shrugs. “It was fine,” he says. “Hit some traffic. Took a couple scenic routes. Cas made us stop at that overlook in the Poconos so he could ‘commune with nature.’”
“You also took pictures,” Cas says. “You can’t pretend you’re not sentimental, Dean.”
“That was for the scrapbook you’re gonna make,” Dean says.
Eileen’s brows arch. “You’re making a scrapbook?”
Dean snorts into his donut. “Cas is making a scrapbook. I’m providing the dumb faces.”
“It’s more like a photo album,” Cas mutters. “With notes.”
“So… a scrapbook,” Sam says.
Cas glares half-heartedly and takes a vicious bite out of his maple donut.
Eileen laughs, her eyes warm. “You both look happy,” she says. “Tired. But happy.”
Dean glances at Cas, catches the way Cas’s expression softens as he looks up at their house, and feels that same warm weight settle in his chest again.
“Yeah,” Dean says quietly. “Feels good to be here.”
By the time they empty the truck, the sun’s slipped low enough that the air’s got a bite to it. Dean’s shirt is clinging to his back under his flannel, and Sam’s complaining about his knees in a way that makes Dean feel less bad about the sweat running down his spine. Cas has migrated into full nesting mode inside, rearranging and re-rearranging the minimal furniture they brought until it “feels right.”
“Dude,” Dean says, leaning in the doorway to what will one day be their living room. “That couch has been in three different spots in the last ten minutes.”
“The light is better here,” Cas says, nudging it a little more toward the window. “And we need space for a coffee table eventually.”
“We don’t have a coffee table,” Dean points out.
“Eventually,” Cas repeats.
Sam appears behind Dean, peering over his shoulder. “He’s already planning the whole layout in his head,” he murmurs. “You’re doomed.”
“I know,” Dean says, but there’s no bite to it.
He turns his head and presses a quick kiss to Cas’s temple as he walks past to drop an empty box in the corner. Cas hums, leans into it for a beat, and then goes back to fussing with their one houseplant.
“You two staying for dinner?” Sam asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Eileen’s making that chicken thing you like. We figured we’d give you some time to breathe and then you come over?”
Dean feels his stomach answer before his mouth does. “Hell yeah we’re staying for dinner,” he says. “What time?”
“Six?” Sam glances at his watch. “Gives you time to shower, pretend you’re not exhausted, lie about how much you lifted.”
“I did most of the lifting,” Dean says automatically.
Cas snorts. “You both did,” he says, because he’s fair like that.
Sam just shakes his head, amused. “Six, then. Need to go help Eileen wrangle dinner and a five-year-old dino nerd.”
Dean’s face softens. “How’s the little monster?”
“Currently obsessed with triceratops,” Sam says. “You may be asked to be one.”
Dean perks up. “Oh, that I can do.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but there’s no mistaking the fondness there. “See you at six.”
—Later—
They manage a lightning-fast shower, mostly because the hot water pressure in the new house is good but not great, and because Cas reminds Dean they’re guests at Sam and Eileen’s, not teenagers killing an afternoon with shower sex. Dean pouts about it the entire time he’s rinsing shampoo from his hair.
“We live five minutes away now,” Cas points out, toweling off. “There’s time.”
“That sounds like a promise,” Dean says, waggling his eyebrows.
Cas just flicks water at him.
They dress in soft, broken-in clothes—Dean in jeans and a flannel that’s seen better days, Cas in one of those sweaters that makes him look painfully huggable—and walk the few blocks to Sam’s house. The cold air nips at Dean’s ears, but it feels good after the heat of the shower and the long, sweaty haul.
Sam’s place looks lived-in in a way Dean’s both jealous of and relieved about. There’s a tricycle half-frozen into the front yard. A plastic stegosaurus lounges proudly on the steps. Holiday lights are still wrapped haphazardly around the porch railing even though Christmas is long gone. Dean reaches down and adjusts one strand that’s come loose.
“You’re nesting already,” Cas murmurs beside him.
“Just fixing what your future nephew will trip on,” Dean says. “Gotta preserve the next generation of Winchesters, you know?”
Cas smiles, eyes crinkling. “You’re good with him.”
“Yeah, well. He worships me. It’s good for my ego.”
Cas bumps his shoulder. “You’re good with him,” he repeats, softer.
Dean ducks his head because if Cas keeps looking at him like that, he’s gonna start talking about things they haven’t figured out the timeline for yet. Kids. Time. All the big stuff that lives somewhere in the abstract “future” box in his brain.
Sam answers the door before Dean can knock, like he’s been hovering by it. “Took you long enough,” he says, stepping aside. “Eileen’s been holding junior back from sprinting down the block to drag you here himself.”
“Uncle Dean!” The war cry comes from the living room, followed by the thunder of small feet. Dean barely has time to drop into a crouch before a five-year-old comet with messy dark hair and bright, shining eyes crashes into him.
Dean scoops him up easily, grunting on purpose like the kid’s heavier than he actually is. “Whoa, big guy,” he says. “What are you now, part T-Rex, part bowling ball?”
“Not T-Rex today,” DJ says very seriously, pulling back to look at him. “I’m Triceratops.”
Dean nods solemnly. “Ah. My mistake. You’re very pointy. I should’ve known.”
The kid beams, showing off a slightly crooked front tooth. “I got new dinosaur books,” he says in a rush. “And Mommy got me dinosaur mac and cheese and Daddy said when it gets warmer we can go to the museum and see the big bones again and—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Dean laughs, hoisting him higher on his hip. “Slow down, buddy. You’re gonna run outta breath.”
“Hi, Uncle Cas,” DJ says, like he just remembered there’s another adult present.
“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, his whole face softening. He reaches out and smooths the kid’s bedhead down. “You got taller.”
DJ nods solemnly. “I’m almost as big as a velociraptor.”
Cas glances at Dean. “That’s a little terrifying,” he says.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “We should probably start building fences.”
Sam snorts from the doorway. “You’re not helping.”
“Didn’t say I was.”
The house smells amazing. Garlic and roasted chicken and something creamy and cheesy that Dean sincerely hopes is the promised mac and cheese. Eileen’s in the kitchen, moving easily between stove and counter, her hair up and sleeves pushed back. She looks up when Dean and Cas walk in, signs a quick Hello! and flashes them a wide grin.
“Hey, Eileen,” Dean says, shifting his nephew to his other hip so he doesn’t block the view. “Smells awesome in here.”
“Thank you,” she says, speaking and signing at the same time. “Cas, you’re just in time. I need a second opinion.”
Cas perks up. “On?”
“The seating chart,” she says, handing him a folded piece of paper from the corner of the counter. “You know, for your wedding that you’re pretending isn’t sneaking up on you.”
Cas’s cheeks go faintly pink, and Dean’s heart does something stupid in his chest.
“I’m not pretending,” Cas says, unfolding the paper and scanning it. “We just… had a lot to deal with.”
“Like moving states,” Dean calls from the living room, where DJ has already wriggled out of his arms and is now dragging him toward a coffee table covered in dinosaur toys. “And me having to say goodbye to my favorite pizza joint.”
“You cried,” Cas says mildly from the kitchen.
“I did not cry,” Dean protests. “My eyes got a little misty. That’s different.”
“Is it?” Sam asks.
“Shut up, all of you,” Dean says, but he’s smiling.
DJ introduces him to every dinosaur on the coffee table like they’re at some kind of prehistoric meet-and-greet. “This one’s a stegosaurus,” the kid says, shoving a green, plate-backed toy into Dean’s face. “He’s herbivorous. That means he only eats plants.”
“Smart guy,” Dean says, turning the dinosaur over like he’s inspecting it. “Bet he’d like your broccoli.”
DJ makes a face. “No, Uncle Dean. Broccoli is gross.”
“Not to stegosaurus.”
“He likes… special tree plants,” DJ insists. “Not yucky broccoli.”
“Ah,” Dean says. “Obviously. My mistake.”
They go like that for a while, Dean sprawled on the floor, listening to his nephew explain the entire dinosaur kingdom with that intense, serious concentration that only little kids have. Every once in a while Dean glances up and catches flashes from the kitchen—Cas and Eileen standing shoulder to shoulder as they look at some website on Eileen’s phone; Sam stirring a pot while signing something over his shoulder; Cas laughing at something Eileen says, his body relaxing in a way it never fully did in their New York kitchen.
It hits Dean then, in a way that knocks the breath out of him for a second. This. This is it. This is what he wanted. He’s never really put it into words, not even in his head, but if someone had held him down and demanded he describe his ideal future, it would’ve looked a hell of a lot like this—family close by, a house to go home to, Cas at his side, some kid yelling about dinosaurs in the background.
“Uncle Dean?” DJ pokes him in the arm.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“You spaced out,” the kid says solemnly. “You gotta pay attention. The T-Rex is sneaking up.”
“Oh no,” Dean gasps, clutching his chest. “My greatest weakness. Surprise T-Rex.”
DJ giggles so hard he tips over sideways.
Dinner is loud in the best way. There’s clinking silverware and overlapping conversations and DJ narrating his own mac and cheese consumption like it’s a scientific experiment. Eileen’s chicken is perfect, the potatoes are creamy and buttery, and the dinosaur-shaped pasta makes Dean unreasonably happy.
“So,” Eileen says, after insisting Dean take seconds. “Tell me how the venue situation is going.”
Cas wipes his mouth with his napkin before answering, which is such a Cas thing to do they might as well stamp it on his forehead. “We’ve narrowed it down to two,” he says. “The place up near the lake, and the old barn about half an hour outside town.”
Dean stabs his potato. “The barn’s cool,” he says. “Lots of space. The lake’s pretty but it’ll be a pain in the ass if it rains.”
Eileen nods. “What about vibes?”
“Vibes?” Cas echoes.
“Yeah,” Eileen says, signing as she talks. “What feels like you two?”
Cas looks at Dean, and Dean feels that look like a physical touch. Warm, steady, familiar.
“I like the barn,” Cas says. “It’s… it feels like a place you could fill with people you love and not feel crowded. Like there’d be room to breathe.”
“Barn,” Dean agrees. “Plus, we could put those little lights up everywhere. You like those.”
Cas makes a face like he wants to argue and then seems to realize that, yes, he does like those. “They’re aesthetically pleasing,” he admits.
“They’re pretty,” Dean translates for him.
Cas sighs. “They’re pretty,” he concedes.
Eileen beams. “Barn wedding,” she says, like she’s stamping it into the air. “We’ll make it beautiful. Simple. You two and your people.”
Sam clears his throat. “Have you picked a date?” he asks.
“Not exactly,” Cas says. “We were thinking late summer, maybe early fall. Depends on work schedules. Venue availability. Weather.”
Dean shrugs. “Whenever we can get everyone there,” he says. “I don’t care about the day, just who’s around.”
Sam looks at him for a long second, something soft in his eyes, and Dean has to look away because he knows if he holds that gaze he’s gonna get embarrassingly emotional at the dinner table.
“What about colors?” Eileen asks Cas. “Dress code? General aesthetic? I’m assuming you have a Pinterest board.”
Cas looks offended. “I do not have a Pinterest board.”
Eileen raises her brows.
“Okay, I have an account,” Cas admits. “But I only use it for recipes.”
“And wedding stuff?” Dean asks.
“And some wedding stuff,” Cas mutters.
Eileen laughs and squeezes his arm. “We’ll figure it out,” she says. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight. But we are absolutely making a list.”
“Of course we are,” Cas says. “You and Sam are very good at lists.”
“You’ll thank us later,” Sam says, and gets smacked lightly on the arm by his wife.
After dinner, Dean helps Sam with dishes while Cas and Eileen sit at the kitchen table, a notebook between them, sipping tea and going over rough ideas. Every now and then Dean catches snippets.
“Small guest list—”
“Not too formal—”
“Dean will refuse to wear a tie if you give him an opening—”
“-we’re not doing mason jars, I refuse—”
He listens with half an ear, hands submerged in hot, soapy water, and feels something in him settle. Sam bumps his hip against Dean’s as he hands over another plate to rinse.
“You good?” Sam asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Dean says, watching Cas’s hands move as he talks. “Yeah. I’m… actually really good.”
Sam smiles, that soft, proud big-brother thing he’s somehow turned into even though Dean technically came first. “Told you this would be good for you,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters, but he can’t keep the grin off his face. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“It’s already there.”
They stay later than they mean to. DJ insists on one more round of “dinosaur chase,” which turns into Dean galumphing around the living room making terrible roaring sounds while Cas and Eileen pretend to be terrified and Sam videos the whole thing for future blackmail.
By the time they’re pulling on their coats in the entryway, DJ is drooping on his feet, rubbing his eyes and leaning heavily against Sam’s leg.
“Say goodnight,” Sam prompts, signing gently against his son’s shoulder.
“’Night, Uncle Dean,” DJ mumbles, peeling away long enough to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist.
Dean bends down and hugs him back, pressing his lips to the kid’s hair. “’Night, little dino,” he says. “We live super close now, okay? So you’re gonna be seein’ us a lot.”
DJ nods sleepily. “Can we watch the dinosaur movie?” he asks. “The one with the big teeth.”
“Soon as your mom says it’s okay,” Dean says. “We’ll have a whole dinosaur day.”
The kid seems satisfied with that and shuffles back to cling to Sam’s leg again.
Eileen hugs Cas and then Dean, firm and warm. “I’m really glad you’re here,” she says, looking between them. “Both of you.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and means it. “Me too.”
The night air outside is sharper now, the stars pricking the sky in a way you never see in the city. Their breath comes out in little puffs as they walk, shoulders brushing. The street is quiet. A car passes in the distance. Somewhere behind them a dog barks once and then goes silent.
Dean shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “You okay?” he asks Cas, though he already knows the answer. Cas’s whole posture is loose in that particular way that means he’s content.
“I am,” Cas says. “That was… nice.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Man, it’s so much better than, like, FaceTime once a month and then a mad dash at Christmas.”
He thinks about all the years of flying in for holidays, trying to cram a year’s worth of being a brother, an uncle, into a handful of rushed days. The airport runs, the delayed flights, the weird crash at the end when he’d watch Sam and Eileen and Dean Jr. wave as he disappeared back into security. Now he can just… walk down the street. Knock on a door. That’s it.
“I like that we can just… be here,” he says, trying and failing to find the right words. “Y’know? Like. We can go over for dinner and then come home and sleep in our own bed and then see them again in a couple days if we want.”
Cas’s hand finds his, fingers slipping into the space between Dean’s knuckles like they’ve always been meant to fit there. “That was kind of the point of moving,” Cas says gently. “Family. Slower pace. Less sirens.”
Dean huffs a laugh. “Gonna miss the 3AM guy who used to yell outside our window,” he says. “He was like our personal alarm clock.”
“I won’t,” Cas says. “Or the car alarms. Or the neighbor with the bass.”
“You liked the bass,” Dean says. “You said it helped you focus.”
“I lied,” Cas says, deadpan.
Dean laughs, the sound puffing white in the air. “Traitor.”
They’re nearing their house now, the shape of it dark against the sky, porch light glowing like a beacon. Dean slows a little, taking it in. Their house. Their place. No neighbors stomping above them or yelling through the walls. Just open air and a thin ring of trees and the faint buzz of the porch light.
“It is quiet, though,” Dean says, softer. “You weren’t kidding about that.”
Cas hums. “It’ll take some getting used to,” he admits. “The quiet. The space.”
“You okay with that?”
Cas looks at him, eyes reflecting the porch light. “I wouldn’t have moved if I wasn’t,” he says. “We chose this, Dean. Together.”
Dean nods, throat tight suddenly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we did.”
At the foot of the porch steps, Dean pauses. Cas takes half a step ahead of him, then stops when he feels Dean’s fingers slip from his.
“Dean?” Cas turns, brows pulling together. “Did you forget your keys?”
Dean shakes his head. “Nah, I got ’em,” he says. “Just… c’mere a sec.”
Cas makes a questioning noise but obliges, stepping closer. Dean grins, that stupid impulsive impulse rising fast, and before Cas can ask what he’s doing, Dean bends down and scoops him up.
“Dean!” Cas yelps, arms flying around Dean’s shoulders automatically. “What are you—”
“House tradition,” Dean says, shifting to get a better grip. Cas is solid in his arms, familiar weight, like he was made to be carried like this. “Gotta carry you over the threshold, right?”
“That’s for when we’re married,” Cas protests, but there’s laughter under it, his face already tucking into the crook of Dean’s neck like he’s used to being there.
Dean starts up the stairs, slightly exaggerated grunt in his voice just to make Cas smack his shoulder. “I’ll do it then too,” Dean says. “We can have a whole montage. First house. Wedding day. New dog. First time DJ sleeps over and we’re so tired we forget what beds are.”
Cas huffs a laugh, breath warm against Dean’s skin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, nudging the front door open with his foot. “You’re the one who put a ring on it.”
Inside, the house smells faintly like cardboard and cleaning supplies and whatever spices Cas used earlier when he tested the oven. It’s dim, the only light coming from the hallway lamp they left on, and the quiet wraps around them as the door swings shut.
Dean doesn’t put Cas down right away. He stands just inside the doorway, Cas in his arms, and lets the silence settle. It’s not the heavy, expectant silence of city nights. No distant sirens. No thudding bass. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of some old clock left by the previous owners.
“Well,” Dean says lightly, shifting his grip so Cas slides a little higher against him. “We’re officially in.”
“Mm,” Cas says, eyes half-lidded now that they’re in their own space again. “What now, then?”
Dean tilts his head, lets a slow grin spread across his face. “Now,” he says, lowering his voice, “was thinking we oughta christen the place.”
Cas’s eyes sharpen, the sleepy warmth turning quickly into something darker. “Dean,” he says, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “We did that at the apartment, remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” Dean says, chuckling. “I also remember Mrs. Rodriguez from 6C giving us the stink eye for like a week after.”
Cas’s cheeks flush a little at the memory. “We were… somewhat loud.”
“You were somewhat loud,” Dean says. “Pretty sure the entire building learned some new vocabulary that night.”
Cas gives him a withering look that’s ruined by the way his fingers tighten on Dean’s shoulders. “You’re the one who can’t keep it down when you’re—”
“Talented?” Dean supplies.
Cas rolls his eyes but he’s smiling now, soft and fond. “Insufferable,” he corrects. Then, because he can’t help himself: “And talented.”
Dean smirks, leaning in just enough that their noses brush. “Not my fault you get all worked up, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’m just over here minding my business, and you’re the one makin’ all the noise.”
“It’s not my fault you fuck me so goddamn good,” Cas mutters back, almost under his breath, but not quiet enough that Dean misses it.
The words hit Dean low and hot. His grin widens, turns a little feral. “Yeah?” he says, voice gone huskier without his permission. “That so?”
Cas swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against Dean’s throat. “You know it is,” he says, and there’s no point pretending otherwise. Not with the way his body is fitting against Dean’s, not with the way his breathing’s already picked up.
Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating between them. “Well,” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “Lucky for you, we’ve got, what, two and a half acres out there?”
“Two point seven,” Cas corrects automatically.
“Even better,” Dean says. “Point is, no neighbors sharing a wall, no Mrs. Rodriguez, no mystery guy who screams about the Mets at midnight. We can be as loud as we damn well please.”
Cas’s eyes flare, blue darkening, and that’s it. Dean can see the decision settle over him, the shift from amused to intent.
“Well then,” Cas says, smile curling slow and wicked. “What are you waiting for?”
Dean arches a brow. “That sounded like an invitation.”
“It is,” Cas says. “Take me to bed, Dean.”
Dean bites back the instinctive smartass reply because for once, the words aren’t necessary. The look in Cas’s eyes is enough. Raw trust. Heat. Home.
“Yeah,” Dean says, voice low, steady. “Yeah, okay.”
He adjusts his grip, feels Cas hold on tighter, and carries him down the hall toward their bedroom, the quiet house wrapping around them like a promise. He nudged their bedroom door open with his heel and flicked the light on with his shoulder.
The room was still half-finished—just the bed frame they’d put together earlier, a mattress, a set of plain sheets, and a couple of mismatched nightstands that had followed them from the apartment. Boxes were stacked against the far wall, one open with a couple of Cas’s folded sweaters on top. The curtains were cheap for now, thin enough that a slice of streetlight cut across the room.
None of it mattered. What mattered was the way Cas relaxed in his arms the second they stepped inside. His weight settled more fully against Dean, his nose pressing into the side of Dean’s neck, the little exhale he always let out when they were somewhere private and safe.
Dean kicked the door shut behind them and crossed to the bed. He set Cas down carefully on the edge of the mattress, hands lingering on his waist longer than necessary. Cas’s fingers tightened at the back of his neck like he didn’t really want to let go either.
“You okay?” Dean asked, even though he could tell, even though Cas’s pupils were blown and his cheeks were flush and his breathing had gone a shade heavier.
Cas huffed a little laugh. “I’m being carried to bed by my fiancé in our new house,” he said, voice rough in that way that did stupid things to Dean. “I’m better than okay.”
“Fiancé,” Dean repeated, letting the word roll around in his mouth like something sweet. He leaned in and kissed Cas, soft at first, just a press of mouths.
Cas made a pleased sound, one of those low hums in his chest, and kissed him back. The hand at Dean’s neck slid up into his hair, fingers curving against his skull. Dean parted his lips and Cas followed, tongues brushing, the kiss going from soft to hungry before Dean even realized he’d shifted. He’d missed this—that familiar slide, the way Cas tasted like dinner and tea and something always, unmistakably him.
“Dean,” Cas whispered against his mouth, and it sounded less like a name and more like a confession.
“Mm?” Dean murmured, nipping at his bottom lip.
Cas tugged lightly at his flannel. “Take this off,” he said. “I want—” He cut himself off, but the way his eyes flicked down Dean’s chest said enough.
Dean smirked. “Bossy.”
“You love it,” Cas said without missing a beat.
He wasn’t wrong.
Dean straightened up just enough to get his hands to the buttons. Cas didn’t move out of the way; he just watched, palms sliding up Dean’s sides under the open fabric, fingertips cool against heated skin. By the time Dean shrugged the shirt off, Cas’s hands were spread over his ribs, thumbs brushing the edge of his scar.
Cas’s face softened. “God, I love you,” he said quietly, like he couldn’t not.
Dean’s throat tightened. He swallowed it down, went for a smirk instead of the stupid soft smile trying to claw its way out. “Yeah?” he said. “Good thing, ’cause you’re stuck with this,” he added, gesturing at himself with one hand.
Cas’s mouth quirked. “I’m aware,” he said, then leaned in to kiss his way down over Dean’s chest, pressing his lips lightly to the jagged edge of scar tissue.
Heat flashed through Dean that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how careful that touch always felt. He cupped the back of Cas’s head for a second, thumb stroking through damp hair, then stepped back just enough to get his jeans open. Cas watched him, eyes dark, lips parted.
“Your turn,” Dean said, jerking his chin at Cas’s sweater. “Off.”
Cas rolled his eyes, but he pulled the sweater over his head, hair sticking up in random directions from the static. Dean grinned, reached out automatically to smooth it down, but his hand ended up just resting there for a second, feeling the warmth of Cas’s scalp and the solidness beneath it.
They worked the rest of the clothes off in that slow, unhurried way you only got when you’d been doing this for years and didn’t feel the need to rush. Socks ended up half-kicked under the bed, jeans pooled on the floor, Cas’s underwear flung somewhere toward the boxes and missing by a mile.
When there was nothing left between them but heat and skin and years of this, Cas scooted back on the mattress and sat up against the headboard, legs spread, looking at Dean like he was something worth savoring.
“C’mere,” Dean said, climbing onto the bed on his knees.
Cas didn’t move to meet him. Instead he crooked a finger, and when Dean got close enough, Cas’s hands slid around his hips and pulled him in until Dean’s thighs were brushing the outside of Cas’s.
“Thought I was taking you to bed,” Dean said, trying for cocky and landing closer to breathless.
“You are,” Cas murmured. “I plan to enjoy all stages of the process.”
His hands slid down to the backs of Dean’s thighs, urging him forward. Dean let him, let Cas manhandle him a little until he was straddling Cas’s lap, their cocks pressed between their stomachs. The friction made both of them hiss softly.
“Hi,” Dean said, because his brain was quickly heading in the direction of static.
Cas smiled up at him. “Hi.”
They kissed again, slower this time, deeper. Cas’s mouth opened under his, lazy and sure. Dean rocked his hips down without meaning to, swallowing Cas’s answering noise. It would’ve been easy to just stay like that, grind against each other until they came, but Dean felt Cas’s hands leave his thighs and slide up his sides instead, then down, then around, mapping all of him like he hadn’t done it a hundred times before. And then Cas’s hands settled on his hips, gentle pressure nudging him backward.
“Lie down,” Cas said.
Dean blinked. “I thought you wanted—”
“I do,” Cas said. Then that wicked little smile flashed across his face. “I just want to start by taking care of you.”
Heat shot straight to Dean’s cock. He was not immune to that tone, the quiet confidence, the way Cas could sound so damn polite while promising absolute filth.
“Fuck,” Dean muttered, but he let Cas guide him.
He shifted off Cas’s lap and stretched out on his back, head on the pillow, limbs loose. The fitted sheet was cool under his shoulders. He watched as Cas moved, the way his body flowed, all coiled control and intent. Cas settled between Dean’s knees, palms smoothing along the tops of his thighs. He looked up, catching Dean’s gaze, and held it as he bent down.
The first brush of Cas’s mouth over the head of his cock made Dean’s whole body twitch. It was barely a touch—just a slow, deliberate lick, tongue pressing into the slit—but the anticipation wound tight in him made it feel like a jolt of electricity.
“Christ,” Dean breathed, hand flying to Cas’s hair. He didn’t push, just threaded his fingers through, anchor more than anything.
Cas hummed, the vibration shooting straight up Dean’s spine. “Keep watching me,” he said, voice low, breath ghosting over sensitive skin. “I want to see your face.”
Dean swallowed, nodding. “Bossy,” he muttered again, but his eyes stayed locked on Cas’s.
Cas smiled, then lowered his head. He took Dean slow. No rush, no frantic bobbing, just a long, wet slide down, lips stretching, tongue soft and clever underneath. Dean felt the way Cas eased his throat open, felt that moment of resistance and then the give, the tight, perfect heat surrounding him.
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean gritted out, knuckles going white in Cas’s hair. He forced his hips to stay down, to not thrust up into that impossible warmth.
Cas’s eyes flicked up, meeting his. There was something almost smug there, but it was buried under… Christ, under hunger. Under the open, naked want that never failed to knock Dean on his ass. He pulled back, slow, suction dragging along Dean’s length, then sank down again, hollowing his cheeks. Every movement was measured, deliberate, like he was drawing a map with his mouth and taking notes on every reaction—every twitch, every sharp inhale, every low curse Dean couldn’t bite back.
Dean felt like he was being unraveled from the inside out. The tension of the move, the long day, the weird buzz of being back in Kansas with his family so close—all of it melted under the steady, relentless pleasure.
Cas used his hands too, thumbs rubbing circles into the hollows of Dean’s hips, fingers squeezing his thighs in time with the slow rhythm of his mouth. Occasionally he’d pull off just enough to lick along the vein on the underside of Dean’s cock, or tease at the head with the flat of his tongue, eyes trained on Dean’s face like he was waiting for the exact moment Dean broke.
“You’re gonna kill me,” Dean rasped, breath coming shorter. “You know that?”
Cas pulled back just enough to say, “Not my intention,” before sliding down again until his nose brushed Dean’s trimmed hair.
Dean choked on a groan, toes curling. “Coulda fooled me.”
The thing was, Cas could do this quick if he wanted. He’d done it before, gotten Dean off in a handful of expert strokes when they were rushed or half-dressed or hiding in the tiny bathroom of their old apartment while a plumber rattled pipes in the kitchen. But tonight he went slow. Drew it out. Dean’s muscles trembled with the effort of not thrusting, not taking over. The constant drag of heat and pressure, the wet sounds of Cas’s mouth, the soft huffs of breath against his skin—it all built and built, a coil tightening low in his belly.
“Cas,” Dean warned, voice wrecked. “I’m—”
Cas didn’t pull back all the way this time. If anything, he took him deeper, one hand sliding up from Dean’s thigh to splay on his stomach, holding him down. Dean tipped over the edge with a harsh exhale, whole body going taut. The world narrowed to the feel of Cas’s mouth around him, the tight pull, the warmth as he spilled down Cas’s throat. He dimly registered Cas swallowing, the flutter of muscles, the faint hum of satisfaction.
He rode it out, hips rocking helplessly, fingers flexing in Cas’s hair. Eventually the sharpness eased, pleasure fading into a bone-deep warmth. Dean sagged back against the pillow, chest heaving.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling for a second just to get his bearings before forcing himself to look down.
Cas was still between his legs, hand gentle on Dean’s thigh, lips pink and slick. He looked… pleased. Content. His own cock was hard, hanging heavy between his legs, untouched.
“So?” Cas asked, voice hoarse. “Adequate?”
Dean barked out a laugh. “Yeah, Cas,” he said. “Barely passable. Might keep you around.”
Cas rolled his eyes and crawled up the bed, bracing himself with an arm on either side of Dean’s shoulders. When he leaned down to kiss him, Dean opened up for it immediately, tasting himself faintly on Cas’s tongue. It should’ve been weird, but it wasn’t. It was just… them.
“’m not done with you,” Dean murmured against his mouth.
“I’d be disappointed if you were,” Cas said.
Dean smiled, then rolled them, using his weight to flip Cas onto his back. Cas went willingly, a soft sound escaping him as his back hit the mattress, legs falling open in invitation.
Dean took a second to just look. He’d seen Cas naked more times than he could count, but it never really got old. The curve of his collarbones, the tiny birthmark just above his right nipple, the way his stomach tensed when he breathed in. His cock lay against his belly, flushed and leaking, and Dean’s mouth watered at the sight.
“You’re gorgeous,” Dean said, the words slipping out before he could decide if he was going to say them.
Cas’s cheeks colored, but he held Dean’s gaze. “I like the way you look at me,” he said simply.
Dean swallowed, leaned down to kiss the edge of his jaw. “Get used to it,” he muttered. He trailed his mouth down Cas’s throat, over the hollow at the base, nipping lightly at his collarbone just to hear Cas’s breath hitch. His hand slid down Cas’s side, over his hip, then further, fingers brushing against the crease of his thigh. “Did you…” Dean started, glancing up briefly.
Cas huffed a little laugh, breathless already. “I prepped in the shower earlier,” he admitted. “Figured you might want… less delay.”
Heat punched through Dean. “Fuck,” he said softly. “Look at you, always thinkin’ ahead.”
“You’re the one who taught me to always be prepared,” Cas reminded him, eyes dark.
“Yeah, but I was thinking like… mental prep,” Dean said, even as his fingers skimmed back, finding that slick heat. “Didn’t realize you were gonna be such an overachiever.”
Cas’s hips jerked when Dean’s fingertips pressed lightly against his hole. “Is that a complaint?” he asked.
“Hell no,” Dean said. His voice came out rougher than he intended.
Even with Cas already open from earlier, Dean still went slow. He slid one finger in, watching Cas’s face. The way his mouth parted, the faint line between his brows, the little exhale through his nose—all familiar tells.
“You good?” Dean asked, even though he knew the answer.
Cas nodded, swallowing. “Yeah,” he said. “Feels… good.”
Dean crooked his finger just enough to tease, then added a second, careful. The lube he applied, combined with Cas’s own eagerness, made it smooth, easy. Cas’s hand fisted in the sheets beside him, muscles tight and controlled. Dean watched him for a few strokes, watched the way his cock twitched every time Dean’s fingers brushed that spot inside. It would’ve been easy to just finger him until he came, watch him fall apart like that. Part of Dean wanted to—he loved that Cas could come from so little, from just the right touch.
But that wasn’t what either of them really wanted tonight.
Cas seemed to read his mind, because his hand came down and wrapped around Dean’s wrist, stopping the motion. “Dean,” he said, voice strained. “Please. I— I want you.”
Dean’s stomach flipped. He withdrew his fingers slowly, earning a small, needy sound from Cas that went straight to his own cock, already recovering.
“Yeah?” he asked, reaching up with his clean hand to brush sweaty hair back from Cas’s forehead. “Tell me.”
Cas’s eyes fluttered open. He looked wrecked already, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen. “I want you to fuck me,” he said clearly. “I want you inside me. I want…” He broke off, breath hitching as Dean’s slick fingers skimmed over his hip, a ghost touch now. “I want to come with you in me. From you. Just you.”
Dean’s whole body went hot and tight all over again. There was something about the way Cas said it—so precise, so earnest—that hit him harder than any dirty talk ever could.
“Yeah,” Dean said, voice low. “Yeah, I got you.”
He shifted, bracing one forearm on the mattress, using the other hand to stroke himself back to full hardness. Cas watched, chest rising and falling, then reached over blindly to open the drawer of the nightstand.
“I— we have condoms in here,” Cas panted. “If you—”
Dean caught his wrist gently, stopping him. “Hey,” he said. “We’re good, remember? Got all that shit checked last year. Nothing’s changed.”
Cas blinked, the haze of arousal parting enough to let understanding through. “Right,” he murmured. “Right. I just—”
“Old habit,” Dean said. “I get it. But I want to feel you.”
Cas’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Me too.”
Dean leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, until he felt Cas melt again, that last bit of tension fading. Then he lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressed against the slick, stretched ring of muscle.
“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he said, even though Cas never had, even though he always took Dean so well it scrambled his brain.
Cas’s fingers dug into his shoulders. “I won’t,” he said. “Just— just do it.”
Dean pushed in. It was always a shock, that first slide. Hot and tight and perfect, the world narrowing to the feeling of being surrounded inch by inch. Cas’s breath stuttered, a low sound caught somewhere in his chest, and Dean had to grit his teeth to keep from just shoving the rest of the way. He eased in slow, letting Cas’s body adjust, savouring every inch. The slick from earlier helped, his own precome easing the way, but it was still a stretch. Cas’s thighs trembled against his hips, muscles quivering.
“Jesus,” Dean breathed, when he was finally all the way in, balls snug up against Cas. “Cas.”
“Dean,” Cas echoed, voice wrecked. His hands slid down Dean’s back, nails scratching lightly. “You feel… God, you feel good.”
Dean let his forehead drop to Cas’s shoulder for a second, just breathing, letting himself acclimate to the sharp, electric pleasure. He could feel Cas’s heartbeat racing under his mouth, the stutter of it against his lips.
“You okay?” he asked, lifting his head enough to see Cas’s face.
Cas nodded, jaw clenched. “Move,” he said. “Please.”
Dean drew back, slow, almost all the way out, then pushed in again, setting a careful, steady rhythm. Not shallow, not punishing—just deep and thorough, each thrust measured to drag over that spot inside Cas that made his eyes roll back. Cas’s noises were quiet at first, little hitches of breath, soft “ah” sounds that puffed past his parted lips. Dean watched them build, watched the way they grew in volume, in desperation, the way Cas couldn’t quite hold back once Dean found the exact angle that made his whole body jolt.
“There?” Dean asked, grinding his hips just so.
Cas choked on a moan. “Y-yes,” he stammered, fingers clenching on Dean’s arms. “There, Dean, please, don’t—”
“Got you,” Dean said, and kept hitting it, over and over, the same unhurried pace but with more intent, more pressure.
He deliberately didn’t touch Cas’s cock. His hand hovered, tempted, but he held back, brushing the heel of his palm along Cas’s hip instead, keeping him anchored. Cas was hard as a rock between them, leaking against his own stomach, every thrust making it drag, adding friction.
Dean could feel himself getting close again, the deep pull of it coiling in his spine, but he held back as best he could. He wanted Cas to go first. Wanted to feel him clamp down around him.
“Dean,” Cas gasped, voice cracking. “Dean, I— I’m close, I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” Dean panted, burying himself deep and grinding down, rolling his hips to maximize the friction inside and out. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Just from this?”
Cas nodded frantically, eyes screwed shut. “Yes, yes, I— fuck—”
“Open your eyes,” Dean said.
It took a second, but Cas forced them open, blue blown almost black, wild and raw. Dean held his gaze, thrust into him deep and sure, and watched it hit. It was like a spark catching a gas leak. One second Cas was teetering; the next he was gone. His whole body went taut, back arching, mouth dropping open on a wordless shout. His cock jerked between them, untouched, and then he was coming, hot and thick across his own stomach and Dean’s, striping their chests.
Dean felt it—felt the clutch of muscles around his cock, the involuntary pulses gripping him tight. It shoved him right over the edge with him. He’d been close already, but the sight of Cas coming like that, just from being filled, wrecked him.
“Fuck,” Dean groaned, slamming in one more time and holding there as his orgasm crashed through him. His fingers dug into Cas’s hip hard enough to bruise, hips jerking as he spilled inside, the heat of it filling Cas in thick pulses.
Cas moaned at the feeling, the sound raw and satisfied and so damn pleased it made Dean’s chest ache. The world went fuzzy for a second. All Dean could feel was heat and weight and the throb of his own heartbeat in his ears. His muscles trembled with the effort of holding himself up enough not to crush Cas completely.
Eventually, his breathing evened out. The sharp edges of pleasure softened, leaving a warm, sated heaviness in their wake. He carefully lowered himself down, bracing most of his weight on his forearms, letting his chest rest against Cas’s.
Cas’s arms came up around him immediately, holding him close, fingers drawing vague shapes against his spine.
“Fuck,” Dean said again, eloquent as ever.
Cas huffed a laugh that came out more like a broken sigh. “Accurate,” he murmured.
They stayed like that for a while, tangled and sticky and still joined, the room quiet except for their breathing. The thin curtains let in just enough light that Dean could see the relaxed lines of Cas’s face, the content satisfaction there.
“Welcome home, huh?” Dean said eventually, voice muffled against Cas’s shoulder.
Cas turned his head and kissed Dean’s temple. “Best housewarming I’ve ever had,” he said.
Dean snorted. “Gonna be hard to top.”
“We can try,” Cas said, a hint of a grin in his voice.
Dean rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn’t in the sarcasm. He shifted, hissing a little as oversensitive skin protested, and slowly pulled out. Cas winced, but it was the good kind of wince, the kind that came with an exhausted shiver.
“Sorry,” Dean said, automatically.
“Don’t be,” Cas replied. “I like feeling you.”
Dean swallowed hard and had to look away for a second because, Jesus. Who gave Cas the right?
He eased off to the side and flopped onto his back, arm still draped over Cas’s stomach. The mess between them made a wet, sticky sound he couldn’t quite ignore.
“Okay,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “As much as I wanna just pass out right here, we’re gonna hate ourselves if we don’t clean up.”
Cas made a small noise of agreement. “I am… somewhat glued to the sheets,” he admitted.
Dean glanced down and snorted. There was come on Cas’s belly, on Dean’s, and a wet patch on the sheets where they’d been pressed together. “Yeah,” he said. “We did a number on ’em.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed with a groan. “C’mon,” he said, standing up and offering Cas a hand. “Shower?”
Cas took it, letting Dean pull him up. His legs wobbled slightly, and Dean put an arm around his waist automatically, steadying him. Cas shot him a look that was half amused, half fond.
“Don’t say it,” Cas said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean lied.
The bathroom was small but clean, the tile cold under their feet. They’d put up a shower curtain that afternoon, a plain one for now until Cas inevitably found something “aesthetically pleasing” to replace it with. Dean turned the water on and waited, hand under the spray, until it was warm enough.
They stepped in together, the curtain swaying around them. The water was a little weaker than the apartment’s but hot and steady, washing the sweat and stickiness from their skin.
It could’ve turned into round two, easy. Cas under the water, hair plastered to his head, muscles limned with droplets—that image alone was enough to stir heat in Dean’s gut again. But they were both wrung out, pleasantly used up, and the mood shifted softer instead.
Dean reached for the body wash and squeezed some into his palm. “Turn around,” he said.
Cas did, and Dean lathered up his hands, then ran them over Cas’s shoulders, down his back. Cas relaxed into the touch, head tipping forward under the spray. Dean took his time, massaging circles into tight muscles, thumbs working out knots along Cas’s spine.
“You’re going to ruin me,” Cas murmured, voice half-lost under the water.
“How’s that?” Dean asked, sliding his hands down over Cas’s sides, carefully avoiding his ass for now so he didn’t irritate already well-used skin.
“Good sex and back rubs?” Cas said. “I’ll be completely spoiled.”
Dean grinned. “You already are.”
Cas looked back over his shoulder, eyes warm. “Only with you,” he said.
Something in Dean’s chest did that soft, stupid squeeze again. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss between Cas’s shoulder blades, lips barely more than a brush.
They swapped after a bit, Cas soaping Dean up with the same thoroughness, fingers gentle around his sore hips, careful over old scars. Dean let himself be fussed over, eyes half-closed, listening to the steady fall of water and the creaks of the house around them. When they were both rinsed clean and starting to prune, Dean shut off the water and they stepped out, wrapping themselves in towels. The mirror was fogged, reflecting nothing but vague shapes.
Back in the bedroom, Dean yanked the damp, stained sheet off the mattress with a theatrical flourish. “Farewell, brave soldier,” he intoned. “You served with honor.”
Cas snorted from the dresser, where he was digging out a fresh set of sheets. “You’re an idiot,” he said, but he was smiling.
“Your idiot,” Dean pointed out, wadding the old sheet into a bundle and tossing it toward the laundry basket. It missed by a foot. “We gotta get an actual hamper.”
“And a laundry machine,” Cas added, handing him the fitted sheet. “Add it to the list.”
They made the bed together with the comfortable ease of people who’d done this a hundred times before in too many small apartments. Dean wrestled the fitted sheet onto the corners while Cas smoothed the top one down, hospital corners and all. They fluffed pillows, shook out the blanket, and then stood back for a second, looking at the finished product.
“Not bad,” Dean said. “Very adult of us. Clean sheets and everything.”
“In a house we own,” Cas said, climbing in and patting the space beside him. “I’m still adjusting to that idea.”
Dean slid in next to him, pulling the blanket up. The mattress dipped under his weight, the familiar give of it making his body sigh in recognition. He turned on his side automatically, facing Cas.
Cas mirrored him, tucking one arm under his head, the other resting lightly on Dean’s chest. The lamp cast a warm pool of light over them, edges of the room fading into shadow.
“So,” Dean said, voice quiet in the newness of the space. “House stuff.”
“House stuff,” Cas echoed, amused.
“We should make a list,” Dean said. “Trash can. Curtains that don’t look like we stole ’em from a motel. Grill. Fence for… I dunno. Future purposes.”
Cas’s brows rose. “Future purposes?”
“Gotta be prepared,” Dean said. “Kid-proofing, dog-proofing. Zombie apocalypse. Whatever.”
Cas hummed. “We do need a trash can,” he conceded. “And more shelves. I’d like a real bookcase in the living room.”
Dean nodded. “Yeah. Put your nerd corner in there. Maybe a chair by the window, so you can sit there lookin’ all serious while you read whatever weird nonfiction you’re into that week.”
Cas smiled. “And you?”
Dean shrugged, hand drifting up to toy with the edge of Cas’s hairline. “Definitely a grill,” he said. “Fire pit out back. Maybe one of those little raised bed garden things so you can grow your sad little tomatoes again.”
Cas gasped in mock offense. “They were not sad.”
“They were tiny,” Dean said. “I’ve seen cherry tomatoes bigger.”
“They were grown on a sixth-floor fire escape,” Cas argued. “They were doing their best.”
Dean laughed, quiet and genuine. “We’ll give ’em more room this time,” he promised. “They can live out their full tomato potential.”
Cas relaxed, his fingers drawing idle patterns over Dean’s chest. “I like the idea of a garden,” he said. “Maybe some herbs. Flowers. Something for the bees.”
“Look at you, saving the bees,” Dean teased. “Very heroic.”
“It’s important,” Cas said, but there was a smile playing at his lips.
They fell into a comfortable silence for a minute, each staring at the other’s face, the small curve of mouth, the line of nose, the way eyelashes cast faint shadows on cheeks. The house creaked around them, settling into the cold. Somewhere outside, far off, a car drove by.
“Wedding stuff,” Cas said eventually.
Dean groaned lightly. “We just finished unloading,” he protested. “Gimme at least one night before we start planning color schemes.”
Cas’s eyes softened. “Eileen will have opinions,” he said. “It’s better if we have some of our own before she steamrolls us.”
“That’s true,” Dean admitted. “Okay. We said barn, right?”
“Barn,” Cas confirmed. “Lights. Simple decorations. Nothing too… rustic,” he added, making a face.
“Yeah, no mason jars with distressed twine,” Dean said. “Sam would never let me live it down.”
Cas snorted. “What about food?”
“Gotta have good food,” Dean said immediately. “None of that fancy tiny-plate bullshit. People actually wanna eat.”
“Agreed,” Cas said. “We’ll find a caterer who does real portions.”
“And pie,” Dean added. “Instead of just cake. Or both. Cake and pie. A pie table.”
Cas blinked, then smiled slow. “Of course there will be pie,” he said. “I wouldn’t dare deprive you.”
“See, this is why I’m marrying you,” Dean said.
“Because I’ll ensure adequate pie?”
“Among other things,” Dean said.
They batted ideas back and forth—music (“No chicken dance,” Dean said firmly; “Agreed,” Cas said immediately), suits (“You’re wearing a tie,” Cas told him; “I’ll consider it,” Dean lied), who’d stand where and what role Sam and Eileen would have.
“Sam as best man,” Dean said. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Cas echoed. “Eileen can officiate, maybe. Or help with vows.”
“And DJ.” Dean’s mouth curved into a grin. “We gotta give him a job. Ring bearer or something. He’d love it.”
Cas huffed a little laugh. “He’d take it very seriously,” he said. “He’d probably want to roar down the aisle.”
“Hell yeah,” Dean said, getting more animated. “Tiny suit, dinosaur tie. Little ring pillow shaped like an egg.”
Cas buried his face briefly against Dean’s chest, shoulders shaking. “You are going to break him,” he said, voice muffled.
“I’m gonna make him the coolest kid there,” Dean corrected.
Cas tipped his head back to look at him again, eyes bright with amusement. “You realize if you suggest that to him, he’ll get impossibly excited and refuse to entertain any alternative,” he said. “If Sam and Eileen had other ideas, they’ll be lost forever.”
“Yeah, that tracks,” Dean said, picturing his nephew’s face lighting up at the idea. It made him grin wider. “Maybe I’ll keep it in my pocket till we talk to them. Don’t wanna cause a full-scale dino riot.”
“Please don’t bring it up to him yet,” Cas said. “I’d like to see Sam’s face when you pitch it, though.”
“Oh, I’m definitely pitching it,” Dean said. “Dog too.”
Cas blinked. “Dog?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, like it was obvious. “We should get a dog. Big one. Kinda dumb, very loyal. We can make him the other ring bearer. Junior and the dog, matching bow ties. The crowd would lose their minds.”
Cas laughed outright at that, head going back against the pillow. It was one of those real laughs that started in his chest and shook all the way through him.
“You’re out of control,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You love it,” Dean said, soaking in the sound.
Cas reached up and cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there. “I do,” he said, simple and sure.
The laughter softened into quiet smiles. Dean leaned in and kissed him, slow and careful, just a press of lips that said everything they didn’t have the words for yet. When they parted, the weight of the day finally seemed to catch up to both of them. The move, the unpacking, the dinner, the sex—all of it layered into a heavy, pleasant exhaustion.
Cas burrowed closer, tucking his head under Dean’s chin. Dean wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in, their legs tangling automatically.
“This is good,” Cas murmured, voice already edging toward sleep. “I like this.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, fingers tracing lazy patterns on Cas’s back. “Me too.”
They lay there, talking in half-finished sentences about paint colors and furniture and weekend trips with DJ to the park down the road, their words getting slower, softer, spaced further apart as their bodies relaxed completely.
Eventually the conversation dissolved into comfortable silence. Cas’s breathing evened out, warm against Dean’s chest. Dean’s eyes drifted shut, the quiet of the house no longer strange but soothing.
For the first time in a long time, with Cas in his arms and their future taking shape around them, Dean let himself sink into sleep without that nagging edge of restlessness at the back of his mind.
The last thing he thought before sleep took him was simple and solid and true:
Yeah. This is home.
—The End—