He'll never admit to it, but when Cas goes to sleep, he can't help but run his fingers through the young angel's hair, and think about their lives together. And when he's awake, sometimes he can't help but look at him and wonder how he got this lucky. He knows how they met, he has the whole experience memorized, from the first murmured hello until now, but it's still hard to think about how they ended up here. It was as if the time before him didn't exist, and he sometimes doesn't remember anything before he looked into his eyes for the first time. So he knows it's sappy, but he just can't keep himself from getting lost in his eyes, and cataloging every shade of blue and aqua, so bright and always filled to the brim with love.
But Dean never says anything. He wants to, he really does, but there are voices in his head. They tell him he's not worthy of such devotion, and to walk out before it gets serious. They're small, but a constant reminder that he has much to learn. So he finds it easier than to kiss him, or give him a smile reserved for only his eyes than to say.
And it's not that they're not serious. Six months is a long time, but it goes by so fast, and fall turns into winter, along with more excuses to snuggle up by the fireplace, and not say anything for a while. And spring follows soon after, with new beginnings and new emotions blossoming with the flowers. And as the circle of the seasons spin and evolve, so does their relationship. Dean eventually finds some words, albeit not the ones in his heart, but Castiel knows he's trying. So when Dean says things like, "I miss winter," he knows he means that he misses the nights spent tangled up in each other for warmth, and over-sweetened hot chocolate while watching the snow drift peacefully down. So he smiles and pulls him in for a kiss. It's all chapped lips and no tongue, but it's chaste and sweet, and they fall asleep to the sound of the air conditioner whirring a static lullaby.
When Cas finally says the three words he's always dreamed of him saying, imagined how it looked on his lips, he can do nothing but stare in disbelief until his emotions got the best of him and he pulls him in for a heated kiss. And he shouldn't be surprised, because even if the words haven't been spoken until then, they're shown by actions, and emotions expressed simply by touch. He doesn't have to say it back, even though he wants to. But he shows it through soft lips and coaxing motions and sweaty hands tangled in the dark, with heated breaths and murmured pleas and no, he doesn't have to say anything at all.
Castiel is patient with him, knows his flaws and embraces them, and doesn't ask for anything in return, but sometimes Dean looks in the mirror at night and practices whispering those same three words back to him, breathing them into the empty room and fogging up the mirror with promises.
And when he does finally find the words his heart begs to say, it's another six months later, with more promises whispered at night, more secrets shared, and more words exchanged, and it's said down on one knee with a small black velvet case with their future in hand. And it's returned with a simple word, whispered again and again into the cozy air surrounding them, following the young couple home, chanted like a mantra, until sleep finds them both sated and content.
