#uhhhh oh yeah lmk if you want me to add you to the tag list. like in the rb/notes

[hauntedpearl]

but, dear, cling close to me

2k, Gen, Fluff

The first time they have a fight, it is over something silly. Dean storms out on him, his heavy footsteps echoing in the empty house. Castiel stares after him, his heart in his throat, and doesn't ask him to stop. To stay. He doesn't think Dean will come back, either.

It startles him, then, when he hears the roar of the Impala just as the sun sets the horizon on fire. The creak of the driver's door opening, the slam of it falling shut. Footsteps coming up the porch stairs. He hastens into the living room just in time to see Dean lock the door behind him. Castiel watches him, panting, as he toes his boots off, drops his keys in the yellow bowl with the crooked rim that Cas made them.

His face is hard, still. Jaw set, eyes flinty. He doesn't meet Castiel's gaze, makes for the kitchen on steady feet, shoulders curving away as he passes him.

But he's here. He's here.

"You came back," Cas says. His voice is filled with surprise.

Dean turns to him, then. Almost rears back. His eyes dim and his jaw slackens. He looks — hurt.

"And where else would I go, huh?"

Dean's arms lift in a mockery of a shrug. He would sound caustic, if not for the faint tremble in his voice that Castiel notes. He doesn't know what to do with it.

The Bunker, he wants to reply. Home. But that wouldn't be true. The Bunker isn't home for either of them. Hasn't been for a while, now. It is just windowless walls of metal and concrete, underground. It is what it was once meant to be and nothing more.

Shelter, not home.

No, for better or for worse, this is home now. This kitchen with the cracked windowpane that needs fixing, still. The living room, cluttered, with its faded couch and thrifted pillows, Cas' pottery and Dean's books. The garden out back, whose soil is staining Cas' fingertips.

"I don't know," Cas says, and he knows it's the wrong thing to say just as he does. He wants to take it back, but he can't.

He doesn't know how to talk to Dean. Not anymore.

Maybe he never did.

Dean heaves a breath, eyes trained on Castiel, and Cas thinks he feels so impossibly far away.

There is too much crowding the air between them. Too many things unsaid, too many wants unsatisfied. Too many prayers unanswered. Castiel wants to reach Dean through all this, split the fog with his hands. But he doesn't know how.

There is something unnamed brightening Dean's eyes as they flit over Cas' face, the breadth of his chest. His damp, bare feet.

Then, he huffs. Turns away. Says nothing.

The silence echoes. The world darkens. The sky turns the shade of a bruise.

Castiel heads upstairs to wash the scent of the earth off his fingertips.

~

That night, Cas lies in bed on his side, back to the door. He listens for a croak. A chirp. A buzz. Something.

But the night is too cold. Too quiet.

He counts his breaths as they pass his lips, watches the seconds hand of the old-fashioned clock on his bedside table as it moves.

He isn't as startled as he thought he would be when the door to his room opens. When Dean pads in, and the mattress dips as he settles at the foot of the bed. He can almost feel the scratch of Dean's fingernails on the sheets.

Dean says nothing, just sits there. Watches him sleep. Breathes in this space that he doesn't often breach. Castiel keeps his eyes closed and breathes with him.

It is easier, with Dean here.

His thoughts are syrupy with sleep, and not for the first time, he wonders if he should leave. Go back to the bunker until he finds a place he can carve for himself in this world. (It would be easier, this time, in some ways. Harder in others.) He wonders if Dean keeps him here, chains himself to Castiel, out of a misplaced sense of obligation. Of pity.

Castiel doesn't want Dean's pity.

He just wants Dean.

Even if it is as he is now — angry and cold and quiet.

But he doesn't know what Dean wants. Dean doesn't tell him. And selfishly, Castiel waits, not willing to push him farther away.

Castiel waits, the weight of hope heavy in his chest.

~

He wakes to the soft caress of sunlight.

He blinks his eyes open. The sky in his window is lightening, the purples and pinks dissolving into nothing.

It is early — for him, at any rate — but there is a smile fighting his yawn, curving his lips upwards. He pushes himself up on an elbow, rolls his neck.

Finds that he is surprisingly well-rested.

He turns over and sees the top of Dean's head peaking over his mattress, the tips of his hair turning rose-gold in the sunlight.

Cas leans towards him and sees that he's slumped on the floor, leaning against the bed. The morning light falls over his face in strips, paints half of it golden. His freckles stand out in the light, a galaxy of them scattered across his skin. His eyelashes feather over the curve of his cheek.

He is beautiful here, asleep and uncaring. So very beautiful.

And Castiel loves him. He loves him so much that he aches with it.

He swallows, throat dry. Ignores the rapid thudding of his heart. Stretches his fingers towards Dean, watching as they hover over the lines carved into his temples, the corners of his eyes.

He is so tempted to touch them, to learn their shape.

Instead, he sets his palm on the ball on Dean's shoulder. His curled pinkie sits under the edge of the collar of his t-shirt.

"Dean?" he says, softening his sandpaper voice. Shakes him a little.

Dean flinches, then groans at the twinge in his back, and Castiel winces in sympathy.

The bones in their bodies are tired. Cas has learned that much, if nothing else.

Dean blinks himself awake, rubs the grit out of his eyes with his fingers. Smacks his lips together. And all the while, Castiel leaves his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean says, even now. Even when he's angry, and there are bags under his eyes, and tension in the skin of his temples. Even when he fidgets where he sits on the floor, not looking at Cas.

"Good morning, Dean," is his reply, like always. He squeezes Dean's shoulder before letting go. Sits up. Curls his fists in his lap. He feels soft, in the morning, like this. Soft, and small, and so very sad.

What are you doing here? he wants to ask. Why did you sleep on my floor?

Instead, he watches, quiet, as Dean stretches and groans. Then lifts himself onto the bed. Settles into the same dip in the mattress as the night before.

They sit across from each other, not quite looking at each other, and Cas feels his skin crawl. His eyes are starting to sting. He tilts his face up to the ceiling and blinks to keep them dry.

"Fuck," Dean swears, and Cas closes his eyes. "Fuck, this is stupid. I'm so fucking stupid."

Castiel's only warning is the rustle of the sheets before Dean's body slams into his, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a vice like grip. It is only instinct that keeps them upright, Cas' broad frame managing to brace them somehow. His arms wind themselves around Dean's waist.

"I'm sorry," Dean says into his shoulder, tightening his grip. Their hearts race against one another under their thin, cotton shirts. "I'm sorry I was being an ass. I'm sorry I left. And—"

Here, he gulps, and the air around them tenses like it's waiting for more. But then, Dean just sighs. Buries his face in Castiel's shoulder.

"Just — Okay. Yeah. I— Yeah."

He's nodding against Cas' shoulder. And somehow, that — that's enough. That Dean is holding him. That he says Okay like he's bracing himself and like he's said what he wants to, all at once.

Cas holds him back. Thinks he's starting to see past the fog, in the clear light of this morning. Thinks he's beginning to understand.

It settles something in his chest, this revelation. Loosens the pressure around it.

"I hate fighting with you," he mumbles as he closes his eyes and presses his face into the crook of Dean's neck. Breathes.

He is allowed this, for now.

"Me, too, Cas," Dean says, a palm coming up to cradle the back of Cas' head. "Me, too."

~

They eat their breakfast on the deck out back, sitting on the stairs next to each other, their knees knocking together, plates in their laps — French toast and scrambled eggs, Cas' share of it drenched in honey.

The morning feels quieter. Calmer. Nicer.

Or, maybe, it's just Castiel. He doesn't know. Doesn't think he particularly cares, either.

He is beginning to learn their language, his and Dean's, dissonances and all. And it's setting the hope in his chest alight. He is almost buoyant with it.

Then, Dean sets his half-finished breakfast aside. Dangles his elbows from his knees, presses the palms of his hands together, bows his head. Supplicant, almost. Like he's praying.

Cas watches him, his pulse jack-rabbitting. Sets his own plate aside and turns, when he notes the slight tension in Dean's shoulders. He wants to quell the rising tide in his chest but he can't. He can't.

"What is it?" he makes himself ask when Dean is silent for too long. He's surprised his voice is as steady as it is.

"I...," Dean swallows. He tilts his gaze up to Cas'. His eyes are summer-green and gold and Castiel can't look away.

"I won't leave you. Ever. I'm always going to come back, Cas," he says, and it is a promise. It is a promise and it sets the fire in Cas' chest roaring. "Even if I'm pissed off as hell, even if I say stupid shit that pisses you off enough to kick me out....I—I'll still come back here. As long as you'll let me, I'll stay. I'm not going anywhere."

Castiel swallows. Searches Dean's face for something. Something, something.

Something.

When he asks, "Why?" his voice buzzes, thick and sweet.

Dean looks at him with an exasperated fondness that is familiar. He shakes his head, gaze lifting to the sky a moment before it lands back on Cas. Almost as if to say, Why do you think?

But, Castiel waits him out. He wants Dean to tell him. He wants to know, wants to be sure.

The smile slips off Dean's face, but it is replaced by an expression that is softer. More tentative. Almost shy.

Castiel feels a little like he's flying, a little like he's falling.

"Because," Dean gulps, licks his lips. "Because this? Us," — a palm moving in between their bodies, folding the whole world into the space there—, "This is it. This is home."

Oh, Cas thinks. Oh, Oh, Oh.

Then — "Alright," a gasp, a blink. Fireworks in his chest, his throat. "You can stay."

"Yeah?" Dean says, and he's grinning, eyes bright and joyful, and Castiel wants to say, Idiot. Goddamn Idiot! "Good."

Emboldened, Castiel leans forward. Rests his forehead against Dean's collarbone. Dean stills, for a moment, but then he lets him. He lets him.

When Cas slides his palm into Dean's and slots their fingers together, Dean holds fast, curling his hand into Cas' touch.

Castiel brings his free hand up to Dean's neck, holds him close. Breathes him in.

"I love you," he says, because he can't hold it in. Because his chest feels so full. Because he wants to say it again. To let Dean know. "I always will."

Dean sighs, then. Shifts so he can hold Cas better. Closer.

There's a dry press of lips to the warm skin of Castiel's temple.

"I know, sweetheart," Dean says, and there, in those words, in the softness of them where they touch Cas' skin, is everything. "I know."

#destiel fic #fanfic #deancas ficlet #doe's writing #spn fic #okay see if this is stupid don't at me #i spent like too much time on this but atleast it was fun? #i'm sorry i write the same thing in fifty different ways i just think it's neat when they do love confessions for the first time #uhhhh oh yeah lmk if you want me to add you to the tag list. like in the rb/notes #OKAY BYE