Had the elderly monk not pointed him out, it's unlikely Dean would have recognized Castiel. The unruly bed head that had once framed his pale face is gone now, sheared away to a dark shadow which matches the prickly stubble on his jaw. Long hours spent labouring in the sun have bronzed his skin and deepened the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Sweat stains fabric where it stretches taut against his back as he expertly wields the hoe in his hands.
Human, Dean thinks. He looks so human.
He's smaller than Dean remembers too. The bones of his wrists and the sharp wings of his shoulder blades appear delicate, fragile – or, perhaps, it's just the way the voluminous brown robe engulfs him. Bare toes peer from beneath a ragged hem, and at his waist a rope belt is cinched impossibly tight.
Dean finds himself wondering if Castiel ever partakes of the vegetables he tends so lovingly.
"He's taken a vow of silence," the old man had informed Dean before waving him on to the garden. "He hasn't spoken in two years, not since he stumbled through our gates, seeking asylum."
Two years...
Is that all that it's been?
To Dean, it feels as if two lifetimes have passed since he last saw his friend. But it has, indeed, only been two years since angels rained down from Heaven. Two years of not knowing if Castiel fell too, where he fell, if he was dead or alive.
Two years of endless searching... endless worry...
But that's all in the past. The rumours that led him here were true. He has found his angel... again. And, this time, he won't let him go until he asks the questions that have been building in his heart since... since forever, it seems.
Do you love me? Do you know how much I love you?
He has no idea what Castiel's reply might be, he just knows he needs an answer.
Yes or no...
It's as simple as that. The path his life will follow from this day on will be determined by the weight of a single word.
But when Castiel turns at the sound of approaching footsteps, and his eyes widen in disbelief, in wonder, the words die on Dean's tongue. All he can do is stand and stare, lost to the blueness that has haunted his every dream.
He's not sure who makes the first move. Does he tumble into Castiel's arms, or does the angel fall into his?
It doesn't matter.
Their first kiss asks and answers every question they ever had.
They never did need words anyway.