Spring

It was shaping up to be one of those quintessential spring days. Birds were twittering, the weather was mildly warm and a soft breeze danced around the field. Castiel could hear flowers turning towards the sunlight and slightly opening. The wonders of creation; they never ceased to amaze him.

He followed the flowers' example and turned his face toward the sun. The grass was damp with dew and it made a squishy sound as he approached Dean. Sam was putting their weapons back in the trunk of the car, while Dean stared at the rising sun. They had fought for the greater part of the night. Castiel felt kind of tired; something he still wasn't used to feeling. Every new human weakness he discovered made him wary.

Dean shielded his eyes, though the sun was nowhere near bright enough for the gesture to be necessary and glanced at Castiel. The upturned face of the angel made Dean smile; Castiel could see it. Although he didn't need to see it: he could feel Dean smile. Whether this was another one of those things humans were capable of was dubious. Not once had Castiel known that Sam was smiling when he couldn't see him, but with Dean he experienced the curious sensation all the time.

The Impala was parked on a small hill overlooking a field. It was just a meadow. It was just grass. Not a field of poppies or tulips or roses or anything like that. Still, it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever seen. After Dean, of course. That thought scared him and he turned around and walked away from the hunter. He paused at the edge of the field. The grass was shimmering in the sun with little drops of morning dew.

Slowly, he took off his trench coat and spread it out on the recently mowed grass. There was a nice contrast between the short grass covering the hill and the long, gently waving grass of the pasture. He sat down on his coat. This was life, wasn't it? All he needed to do was lie back and close his eyes. After the night they'd had, he would probably drift off to sleep instantly.

'Mind if I sit?' Dean asked and Castiel looked up at him. The hunter was framed by the light and his face was obscured. Languidly, Castiel shook his head and patted the coat to the right of him. Dean's knee bumped into his as he kneeled. Now the coat was rather useless, because his jeans were already wet with dew. Before sitting down, Dean smoothed out the coat. Dean's motions were slow and careful as Castiel looked at the dark patches developing around Dean's knees.

It reminded Castiel of a poem that Sam had shown him once in an effort to impress on Castiel the wonderful things that mankind could produce. Castiel hadn't needed to be convinced. He liked mankind. It was hard to argue who created better things, however. Men had poetry and literature and art and music. God had Dean. Not to mention that if God hadn't created men there wouldn't be any creations by men either, so the argument was quite pointless.

The poem was called He wishes for the cloths of heaven and Castiel suspected that Sam had chosen it because of its divine connotations. The part he liked best was about the dreams.

'I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.'

They had whispered above Sam's laptop, because Dean was asleep and Castiel had glanced at Dean. Castiel hadn't fully understood the poem, despite Sam's repeated insistence that it was metaphorical. Now he thought that he might grasp its meaning. Yet, even that night when he had looked at Dean he had felt something. It had been completely unfamiliar at the time, long before human emotions and feelings had started to constantly encroach upon his existence.

The emotion that had welled up in him had been hard to identify at the time. It had felt a bit like devotion, but it couldn't have been. Devotion was meant for his father. All the same, Castiel had known that he would not hesitate to spread his dreams under Dean's feet and, what was more, Dean would not trample them. The hunter would treat them like he treated Castiel's coat: with tenderness.

Knowing Dean, he wouldn't mind that it wasn't the cloths of heaven. Apart from the fact that it complicated their fights with demons, Dean didn't seem to mind terribly that he was slowly losing his angelic powers. Perhaps the fact that it would be merely Castiel's dreams would be to Dean's liking.

Nowadays, Castiel did dream. He slept and dreamed. It could be pleasant, but it could also be deeply unpleasant. Some dreams were of better days in heaven. Of having conviction and knowing the difference between right and wrong without having to think about it. The feeling of flying. Castiel had always enjoyed flying.

Other times the dreams were bad. Then they were nightmares. Castiel would die. That was so strange. To die. Suddenly, that had become a much more real possibility than it had ever been. Sometimes, he witnessed Sam's death and stood by while Dean fell apart. That was difficult to watch. Or Dean would die and something would rip through Castiel. Those were easily the worst: the dreams where Dean died. Castiel would struggle to wake up and fight the desire to call Dean to make sure he was alright, because if Dean was alright Castiel was alright too.

Those were not the metaphorical dreams that were meant, however. The dreams that were meant were hopes. The things you wished for and wanted out of life. Castiel briefly glanced at Dean. Dean was shading his eyes again with one hand, the left hand left on the coat.

Increasingly, Castiel found himself wondering about what would happen. What would the future look like? How long would it stay this way; fighting with Dean and Sam? What if the fighting stopped? What would they do? What would Castiel do? He was afraid that he had come to have a dream. It was an impossible dream; even more preposterous than dreaming of winning the lottery. That might actually happen, though Dean used to say that your chances greatly improved if you bought a lottery ticket.

Dean was human and he was an angel. That was not going to change. Angels watched. Angels were obedient. In the last few years those two had not been true. They had stopped watching and Castiel had disobeyed. Yet, if the fighting ceased someday, they would most likely return to their old ways. They would observe and definitely not participate.

Thus, to dream of life, of living, was futile. An utter waste of time; but he couldn't stop himself. He thought about it almost constantly. Whenever he thought about it, he also thought about things that had, until recently, seemed only tangentially related.

Dean's hands. Nice hands. Strong hands. Violent hands, but somehow also loving hands. Those hands holding Castiel's tie.

The car with Dean behind the wheel. Castiel riding shotgun. Sam, for some reason, not there.

That amused look in Dean's eyes that puzzled him. All Castiel had to do was stare at Dean a little too long and Dean would get that look in his eyes.

When Castiel thought about the future and really living; he thought about Dean. It was, he had realised, because he wanted to be with Dean. Because he loved Dean. Much more than he should. It wasn't right, how much he loved Dean. He had tried to stop, but discovered that he couldn't. He had tried to love him less, but he couldn't even manage that.

He had asked Sam about it. Subtly, he thought, without mentioning Dean. He had simply spoken about wanting something too much. Something that wasn't right. Sam had called it an addiction. There were symptoms and they matched what Castiel felt.

Caring for Dean had started out slow and harmless before turning into this all consuming love. He relied too much on Dean. Dean filled a valuable need. Being away from Dean was hard. Dean filled a void. His attachment to Dean had most definitely affected Castiel's work. Rebelling was not something he thought he would ever have done without Dean.

An addiction was a bad thing. Yet, he was better off with Dean than without Dean, Castiel felt. There had been a long time when he had stayed away from Dean, allowing Dean to have the normal life that he wanted. It had felt bleak and joyless. It was much better now.

'And where am I supposed to sit?' Sam asked, breaking into Castiel's thoughts. There was no room left on the coat for him. Furthermore, Castiel liked sitting there with Dean. Almost touching. Dean looked at Castiel and that amused look was in his eyes. It tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it didn't become a smile.

'Just make out already,' Sam muttered, disgruntled. Dean leaned in and kissed Castiel. Dean's lips brushed softly against his and then pressed a little firmer and then it was over. Dean leaned back with a satisfied look on his face and Castiel had to resist the urge to touch his own lips. Did that just happen? Judging by the open mouthed stare of Sam: yes, it did.

'There. Happy now?' Dean asked. Sam stared at them some more. Finally, he seemed to come to his senses and mumbled something vague about the car. He trotted off in that direction, still looking dazed. Castiel watched him retreat and then turned to Dean. The smile was no longer contained in the hunter's eyes; it had now reached his lips. Dean touched his hand, slowly running a nail from Castiel's wrist, over his palm, to the tip of his middle finger.

'We could to that properly, maybe later?' Dean whispered and, completely unnecessary in Castiel's opinion, added, 'If you want to.'

Castiel gave an eager nod. Dean stretched out on the grass and pulled Castiel with him. The dew immediately soaked through the back of Castiel's suit and he couldn't care less. His feelings defied description. To know that Dean had never wanted the cloths of heaven, but was happy with just the coat of a wayward angel was wonderful.

(***)

There they were. They were touching and not touching. Right there and far away. Letting go and holding on. Lying and flying. Wide awake and dreaming.

One of them thought that maybe it was alright to make plans. To want. To hope. To love.

The other one was thinking about that kiss and more kisses. About one little nod changing his world. About having known all along. About never feeling alone again.

Dean and Castiel: sometimes barely even friends, but always in love. There they were, on Castiel's coat. The hunter and the angel.

The end.

(***)

He wishes for the cloths of heaven is a poem by W.B. Yeats.