Cas feels Dean’s smile against his neck. lips warm and determined, teeth nipping and teasing, their breaths visible in the new chill. Cold eyelashes flick at his jawline, mixing with the tiny flakes of snow that are already melting in his hair as Deans hand slips inside his jacket. He pushes Cas further back, Chevy almost painfully cold through his jeans and under his palm, but Its the first snow. 

Dean said they had to celebrate. 

The snow ball fight had been enjoyable, but Cas much prefers what the battle dissolved into.

Cas has his nose in another book.

There are two stacks of them beside the door that the ex-angel has been making his way through since the last library run. The taller, slightly leaning tower, have all been read cover to cover, upside down, inside out and sometimes twice.

Dean leans in the doorway from the kitchen, shoulder pressing against the frame, watching Cas slowly turn a page. It’s the first time Cas’ moved all morning. He hadn’t even looked up when Dean asked if he wanted some coffee, or when he dropped the sugar jar on his foot. 

He’s pretty sure his cursing woke up his brother (whose room is on the other side of the house) but nope; Cas seems perfectly content in his place on the ugly couch in the morning light.

With the mug Sam bought him held snuggly in his hands; Dean pads over.

The air is thick with the scent of slightly burnt coffee, and the wood floor is gritty with scattered sugar, and the world outside is heating up towards what has been promised to be a fucking disgustingly hot day, but for now Dean is content.

Cas turns another page slowly, book held a little too close to his face, as Dean looms over him. In one quick, practiced move, Dean flops down onto the couch; squirming against Cas’ chest- pushing his legs into the gap between the cushions and the couches back, until he has successfully taken over every inch of room the battered couch has to offer.

With not a drop of coffee wasted, Dean rests the mug on his chest, leaving a circle of heat on his belly through his shirt, skin hot but not enough to be a problem.

He can hear Cas’ heart, beating a steady da-thump da-thump that almost covers the gurgle of his stomach.

Dean looks up with a grin, spotting a line of stubble that Cas has missed as the man huffs out a breath.

The sound might be a laugh or might be a sigh of announce, but is probably because of something that happened in his book.

Cas finally lowers the novel, shifting himself slightly to accommodate Deans weight. He looks down.  

“Did you want something?” he asks, one of his almost smiles on his face and Dean smile widens in response. 

“Nope” he answers, taking a sip of coffee, feeling it bitter and wonderful on his tongue. With sleep still thick in his head, the caffeine starts coaxing his eyes open. 

But he knows it will take another two cups before he can face the day. 

Cas reaches around Deans shoulders, and plucks the mug from his grip. He nurses it for a few moments, blowing gently before taking a deep slug. Two sips later, he returns it to Deans awaiting hand. 

Cas goes back to his book. Dean dozes lightly. 

It’s a perfectly normal morning at the farmstead. 

The song is so incredibly bad.

It’s fucking drivel.

It’s horrible and poppy and assaulting his ears and it’s on repeat.

It’s Sam’s fault. He had to go and leave his phone in that stupid little speaker set beside the sink to charge. And then Dean’s leaning-tower-of-washed-dishes went and collapsed; and one dish went and fell onto another dish and BAM! Presto! Something’s been pressed and music is playing and Dean has no idea how to stop it.

Oh god it’s played twelve fucking times. It’s driving him insane, its some kind of new torture and- oh chorus!

Dean’s hips betray him, his feet start tapping and Dean hates himself but can’t help but time each scrub of the pan with that stupid catchy beat and this is ALL SAM’S FAULT.

…And possibly Sarah too, because Dean knows Sam has better taste then this bullshit and she’s the one who’s been sending all these stupid songs and kinda-sometimes-funny videos and—

“Starrrrr shiiippppssss are meeaannnttt tooo Fllyyyyyyyyyyy—”

A stifled chuckle behind him has Dean’s voice dying in his throat beside his shriveling pride.

“Not a fucking word, Sammy” Dean growls. 

They get patchy reception at best at the farmstead so Sam is surprised when his phone buzzes in his back pocket as he soaks up the last few rays of sunlight on the veranda.

‘One email’. The little push note blinks at him.

One email from Sarah.

He almost drops the phone as he fumbles his way to the message- scrolling and reading and grinning until his cheeks hurt. She remembers him- she’s glad to hear from him- she’s been watching things get sketchy on the news and was thinking about him and then it all stopped. You saved the world right? she types, and he can remember her teasing tone and…

He writes back, thumbs always too big on the tiny keyboard on screen- autocorrect the only thing keeping him legible.

She has her own gallery now, her father passed last year, she’s living in New York.

She has a boyfriend.

His smile deflates, just a few notches dimmer but he cant help but feel proud and fond as she explains how her business is taking off, how she’s found and sponsored four emerging artists. He emails her again, their back and forths become reliable, every morning he checks his email, every evening he sends her one back.

The little ‘bing’ he’s set for his email notification goes off often enough for Dean to start complaining.

Sam turns up the volume of his ringer just to be sure.

Sometimes she sends him songs she’s heard on the radio and can’t get out of her head, other times it’s a link to some stupid video that has Dean laughing for a good half our and Castiel grumpy and confused. Sam tells her about the farmstead and how nice it is to put down roots. Sarah is the first person to know when he enrolls in the community college.

Sam Singer is studying again. They joke about his new alias. Sam argues that the alliteration is worth it for the look on Bobby’s face when they told him what they’d wanted to do. Sarah asks who Bobby is, about Dean, about Sam’s new life, and Sam fills up pages explaining what happened at the end, how a ‘Pagan God’ pushed Luficer back into his cage in Stull Cemetery. He’d hesitated as he typed out ‘Arc angel’. The curser blinking at him, asking if he really wanted to tarnish her idea of heaven with the truth, and he ended up tapping out ‘trickster’ instead.

He complains to her about Dean, about DeanandCas, little half-truths mixed with brotherly griping. No mention of angels, just hunters and jerks who use up all the hot water and leave the milk on the counter but can occasionally be okay when they side with you about watching Doctor Who. Sarah is surprised but happy for his big brother, and Sam can’t help but feel pleased. A small spot of warmth grows in his chest as he passes her congratulations along to Dean who flushes and mumbles but smiles as he punches Sam’s arm. 

He’s proud of the little bolded emails piling up in his inbox, each one saved carefully into an unnamed folder.

They Skype sometimes, but not as often as Sam would like. Dean may be fixing the place up, but the phone line still a mess, hissing and crackling and dropping out mid-call. Sam’s often left staring at a still of her face, eyes scrunched, nose wrinkled, a pixelated screenshot captured mid-laugh.

Most nights Sam sits up late, lights out, doors locked, salt lines checked, squinting against the electric glow of his laptop’s screen, waiting for just one more reply before he calls it a night.

One becomes two.

Two becomes four.

Cas may sit with him for a while, editing whichever ancient manuscript Bobby’s lent him that week as Sam clicks ‘retrieve mail’ again and again. The ex-angel huffs and mutters as he desecrates the old vellum with a blue Bic pen, fixing mistakes and penning out alternate rituals. But eventually he will wish Sam a good night, send his regards to Sarah and disappear upstairs.

The date has usually clicked over when Sam finally signs off, and even with his hazardous sleeping pattern, he’s glad he sent that first email.

He can’t imagine his day without that little ‘bing’.

Dean felt weird.

Cas was quiet and trusting as ever, no questions asked, even as Dean covered his eyes with his hands. Leading him down the stairs that no longer creaked, Dean steered Cas around the house and down into the yard.

The wind was brisk, the sun low in the sky, staining the world the colour of that pansy-ass tea Sammy liked to drink.

It was a weekday, they were having frozen lasagna for dinner that was thawing in the sink, and Dean was being a chick and could feel his balls retreating into his body with each step.

They stopped. Cas stood there patiently, breathing slowly, eyelashes tickling at Dean’s calloused palms as he tried to convince himself that this was a good idea. Dammit. This was as close to a date as Cas would ever get, and Dean hoped he understood it was because he was too emotionally constipated, not because he didn’t love him.

God, the stupid umbrella was crooked and the ugly picnic blanket was a little bit stained from the chupacabra corpse they had wrapped it in that one time, but the beer was cold and Sam was at the library and well outtamocking range. This was happening.

Dean uncovered Cas’s eyes.

Cas didn’t move. He just stood there, hair flicking about his head in the cooling breeze, standing so close Dean could feel his body heat though the front of his shirt.

Dean puffed up his chest. He’d faced charging hellhounds for fuck’s sake! He’d even phoned up Missouri and invited her over to their housewarming! He could handle Cas not liking this… It was sappy as hell…and a little…

The breath escaped his throat in a sigh.

Cas deserved more, this was stupid, Dean’s insides were eating themselves with shame as he looked at the pathetic little setup and Cas still hadn’t spoken and this was weird and-

“Dean.”

Cas turned to him slowly, eyes huge, face half shadowed in the evening light.

“You did all of this for me?” His voice was even, but as Dean watched, a smile inched onto his face until he stood there beaming, brighter than the setting sun and fuck his masculinity, Cas was beautiful.

He couldn’t say it, though.

Dean took Cas’s hand and led him to the blanket, handing him a beer as Zeppelin drifted from the little portable radio that usually lived in his garage. They sat there in silence as the garden became colder and colder, the tape ending with a click and a drone of static but neither of them moved to turn it over. They sipped at their beers, shifting closer until their fingers touched and tangled on the blanket, until Cas slumped against him, his breath heavy on Dean’s neck, his body warm against Dean’s shoulder and side. With a slow smile, Dean wrapped his arm around Cas’s back, pulling him that inch closer.

“Thank you,” Cas said quietly, and Dean’s stomach finally settled.

He kissed Cas’s cheek, and didn’t even tell him not to mention it to Sammy.

“Thank you for looking after my boy”

….

Sometimes Dean wonders what Mary would think of Cas, but he’s pretty sure he knows. 

There might be an ‘I told you so’ in there. 

… God he wishes she was there to say it. 

Cas still wears the coat sometimes.
It’s old now, a little bit ratty, but it’s still warm as ever and Cas seems to like shrugging it on when the wind’s picking up or rain’s pattering against the glass.

It’s always a little odd seeing him in it these days; Dean’s so used to threadbare band shirts and soft jeans, but the jacket will always be a familiar sight. It lives on its peg beside the door and memories of angels and apocalypses live in its pockets.

He wears it differently. Cas is looser in it, his shoulders slacker, face more expressive, and as much as he’s wearing the old coat there’s no way he’s the old Cas.

Sam tucked a shopping list into Cas’s pocket after making him promise to bring some actual vegetables home, and telling him not to listen to Dean’s whining. With a muttered word about Bobby being a bad role model and something about grumpy limping hermits, Sam shut the door.

Dean couldn’t really argue about the hermit thing.

Admittedly he’d only ventured out of the house to visit Bobby and get the bits he needed to fix up the house, but it was a small town, and Dean has a love hate relationship with that fact.

He loves that they have a bit of room, a yard and a stretch of road that’s barely ever used. That he can always find a park for his baby and that the local hardware is willing to order everything he needs in.

But it’s a small town.

Everyone knew the exact second they signed the lease for the place. The Singer family’s move into the old farmstead on the edge of town was common knowledge before they’d even unpacked the first box. Hell- before they’d even handed the pen back to the real estate agent.

Dean pushed the cart down the thin aisles, trying to stop himself from hunching his shoulders, most of his weight supported by the trolley. His leg was a dull ache brought on by the wet weather. It was nothing really, he could forget about it if people weren’t looking.

They were always looking, eyes tracking him and Sam and Cas wherever they went, and the one time he’d ventured out for coffee with his cane they hadn’t even bothered trying to hide their gossiping.

The ‘surly one’ he’d heard people call him.
‘A solider?’
‘Back from Afghanistan. Yep, Lewis told me.’
Dean hunched his shoulders under their stares, feeling exposed, so used to being anonymous, being invisible, transient, the scrutiny made his skin itch.

But he could deal with all that. No, it was the odd looks that people offered Cas, the sad eyes and ‘knowing’ smiles, the whispered title of ‘special’ that had Dean dreading these trips to town.

Cas took two packets of falafel mix of all things down from the shelf, face scrunching up as he held them to his face, far too close, eyes almost crossed as he read the ingredients.

Dean waited, knowing there was no way to hurry Feathers up, and finally Cas placed one box carefully into the trolley and they continued on.

Cas did everything carefully, especially in public. Dean had watched him crush a tin of beans into a mess of red liquid and crumpled metal as he tried to catch it when it fell from a shelf.

He could break whatever he wanted at home as long as it wasn’t the Impala or Sammy, but people tended to notice shit like that in the middle of a store somewhere in New Hampshire. Luckily they’d finished that hunt up quickly and vamoosed before anyone asked questions.

A few months down the line, and Cas had learnt his lesson.

They couldn’t really hightail it from here anymore anyway. Didn’t really want to.

They stopped again, Dean looked up and rolled his eyes.
“Dude what do you need flour for?” he grumbled, staring down some old biddy who wasn’t even attempting subtlety as she listened in.
“Jodie’s book has a recipe for an apple and rhubarb pie and I wish to attempt it.” Cas explained, squinting at the fine print on one packet.

Dean’s eyes snapped back to Cas who dubbed one packet superior and placed it in the trolley.
“Would you like to help me choose the apples?” He asked, and Dean actually felt himself fall a little bit more in love.

Sam can’t help but grin as he watches his brother fight with the piece of tin he’s been trying to get in place for the past ten minuets. The roof is so hot he can see mirages wafting off it in waving lines, and Dean’s spitting out curses each time he burns his hands.

“That’s totally crooked, man,” Sam calls as his brother sits back on his haunches. Dean glares down at him, face beet red from a mixture of sun and his growing frustration.

“You think you can do better?!” Dean growls and Sam shrugs, taking a quick swig from the beer sweating in his hand.

He watches his brother’s eyes track the moment, sweat staining his shirt and trickling down his hairline.

“It’s still crooked,” Sam says, pointing with his spare hand and Dean flips him the bird.

Sam loves this. Not Dean burning to a crisp (though it is kinda amusing) but the fact that they’re fixing up a house, their house, that Sam just finished unpacking the very last box of things with no intention of repacking them. He loves that he can hang up his shirts, that he’s learning which steps are creaky, that he’s starting to figure out the trick to the sticky deadbolt on the front door. He loves that Cas has become a fantasy addict of all things; disappearing into the old copy of The Hobbit Sam stole from a high school in Pennsylvania his senior year.

“This is a fascinating exploration of the human condition,” Cas had explained over breakfast that morning, and Dean had choked on a mouthful of bacon as he laughed.

“Its about elves and orcs and talking trees, man!”

But Cas hadn’t heard a word, already lost in the next chapter as he nibbled at Dean’s discarded crusts.

He hadn’t put the book down yet, Sam had watched him follow Dean from room to room as his brother oiled creaking hinges and squared up the doorjamb in the bathroom. Silently mouthing words to himself, he hadn’t even looked up as he passed each requested tool to Dean.

The inside of the house was finally done. Just a few creaks, one to two leaks and a few coats of paint away from being worthy of a spread in some décor magazine, Sam thought proudly. Not that he was biased or anything.

The wind was humid and thick, and Sam was glad Dean was such a stubborn bastard because, really,getting onto that roof in this heat to help him looked like more trouble then it was worth, leaky kitchen be damned.

“Don’t make me come down there!” Dean growled as behind Sam, Cas started muttering something that sounded suspiciously like Elvish. Dean’s eyes flickered up, face turning pained. 

“Oh god, you’ve turned him into a geek!” Dean groaned.

Deans the first to admit that a few things go over his head. Mostly emotional pansy stuff, the occasional boring book reference, but as blind as folks seem to think he is, Dean sees things. 

Or at least the important stuff.

The plate is warm in his hands,  squeaky clean and fresh from the sink, and as soon as he dries it, Cas passes him another. Like Baby’s engine, they are perfectly synced.

Castiel’s fingers are pruning from the hot water, the suds a lemon-scented mess of white foam, dishes and knives hidden under the mountain Dean had watched him make by mistake as Cas had squeezed the detergent bottle too hard, half of it emptying in one violent stream of green liquid over Cas’s hands and the counter. The guy has bad days, four broken plates and a crushed faucet kinda bad, but he’s been getting better at controlling his angel-juiced strength. 

Today Cas is distracted, his movements unnaturally slow, not in a careful ‘I’m trying not to shatter any cups today’ way, but in a ‘watching the pull of tendons on the back of my hand as I move’ kind of way: detached, clinical… worrisome.

The sun is setting, the heat of the day slowly seeping away, but the air’s still kind of muggy in the kitchen. Sweat’s dripping along the small of Dean’s back, the steam and hot water not making it much better. 

Cas hands him another plate, skin waterlogged and plump, the swollen whirls of fingerprints the remnant of someone else’s identity.

He had talked about Jimmy once, just after they had moved in. Lying on a mattress on the floor in their empty bedroom, bodies sore from a day of making the place hospitable, or at least cleaner then one of their old squats, Cas had talked about regrets and broken promises. He talked, too, about how he sometimes found his hands automatically knotting the laces of his shoes, following familiar patterns while he watched in fascination. How his body knew things he’d never learned.

Cas had said he was getting better with his stolen hands, just letting them do what they wanted to after 34 years’ experience in everyday life. Sometimes Dean wishes he could have gotten the chance to get to know Jimmy better, could have gotten the chance to talk to him… to thank him.

Cas pauses, dishes clinking against the bottom of the sink as he slowly raises his hand, watching the the water clinging to the fine hairs on the back of it, oblivious to the suds slipping down his arm, soaking his rolled up shirtsleeve. Dean nudges him with his hip and Cas blinks, three quick little movements as if to clear his head before he turns, a small, almost-smile on his face. Dean offers him a quick grin and between one breath and the next his Cas is back, face reserved but lively when you know where to look, the ghost of Jimmy leaving his eyes.

Cas nudges him back, movement clumsy and endearing, and they return to the mess they’d been putting off all day.

They continue in comfortable silence until a dish smashes, the almighty CLACK of ceramic almost covering the tiny ‘shit’ Cas spits out, and Dean knows the world is still turning as it should.

Sam had joked that Dean was trying to protect Cas from the world with as many layers of steel as he could. Dean had muttered something unintelligible under his breath, ears pink, but Cas couldn’t help but notice that he’d never disagreed.

Overprotective statement or not, Cas was very fond of his 1956 Chevy Apache Fleetside Pickup; if for no other reason than that it was his.

It was a beast of a car, Dean had explained with pride. The type Cas didn’t have to worry about denting if he closed a door too hard. It was robust and stubborn, a remnant from an era where things were built to work hard and last. Cas never had to be delicate or subtle, or worry about leaving dents in the steering wheel or crushing the stick shift under his grip. In the vintage Chevy, Castiel did not have to worry about his abnormal strength.

Cas remembered Dean fighting his way around every turn whilst he ‘showed him the ropes’.  Hand over hand around the wheel, muscles flexing as he coaxed the truck into a wide circle in the empty paddock.

His voice had been light despite his firm grip on the car as he explained rules and tricks. Comfortable in the familiar role of teacher; stories of a young Sam piling up on the dashboard as Dean had filled every pause in Castiel’s lessons with memories of Sam’s, painting vivid pictures in lude language of back roads and bunny hopping wrecks as Sam discovered the clutch.

The Chevy was as perfect as his lessons had been. It was slow to stop, slow to move, but its motor growled and chugged merrily once it was on its way, and Dean’s gift granted him not only the freedom of movement, of independence, but also a respite.