Cas has been sleeping a lot lately.
Dean has been missing him while he sleeps.
Cas misses Dean too.

Cas hadn't slept in... well, it was a relatively novel sensation. Considering Angels didn't do it and his times spent as a human had all been brief in comparison.

He was quite acquainted with the concept; had watched many hours of humans, animals, trees doing it. Had flitted through dreams and studied the rhythms of rest over the millennia. When it had tickled his fancy. But he'd never really participated in the past time, not with such gusto at least, until now.
Now, he was definitely participating.

In fact, he wasn't sure how to stop participating. Nor quite how he'd started it in the first place.
Being asleep was a very strange feeling. He wasn't sure he wanted to keep it up. Especially not when Dean was so sad about him... not being awake?

Dean? Why did Cas know such a thing about the waking world if he was asleep? And he was most certainly sound asleep.
Hmm. Perhaps Dean wasn't part of the waking world?
Perhaps, in this same breath, Dean was also sleeping? A thing Cas had come to know the Winchester did not do with consistency.

Cas felt himself pulled toward that sad, dreaming mind. Not at all pleased with its waves of grief he could feel battering the cosmic cloth of reality.
One human should not possess the capacity for such intense loss. No single, non-psychic should be able to project those impossible feelings across time and space so instantaneously.

Then again... Cas could be right next to Dean. Considering he had no idea where he was, it wasn't terribly unlikely. Right?

Oh, yes. Cas sighed with relief as he felt a familiar dreamscape beginning to solidify around him.
Dean's.
He'd spent many an early night, mid night, or late night in this exact astral spot. Occasionally, even an entire night. When it turned out Dean was able to sleep it through.

Sometimes, his angelic presence alone had been enough to calm the hunter's... less than calm mind and let him snooze until the sun told him to wake up.
Other times, a nightmare might sneak in under his notice and change their idyllic meeting place to a charred battle ground. Angels and Demons tearing each other asunder even as they knew they were already dying. Bits of their souls lying strewn or far flung, leaving raw and terrifying figures in their places.

No human should have to witness such carnage. Which was the reason the nightmares, as Cas knew them to be, did not do his account of the sally justice.
Dean's memory of the rescue and recovery mission had been wiped from his mind, in large part, because human minds, aside from those of Prophets, were not meant to behold the true forms of Angels. And there had been lain to waste that day many a righteous soldier.

Alas. The human spirit is a beautiful, powerful thing which Enochian kind have been underestimating since its conception, and the images and reality of what had happened there in Hell had been far more... impressive perhaps, than even Cas had guessed.
Dean's subconscious, if not his waking mind as well -he'd have to ask the poor man someday- had held fast to its negatives and re-composited all that it could.
Attempting to answer persistent questions from a curious mind? Who could say? What Cas knew for sure: Though the entire mess was scaled down by magnitudes and the Angels' forms edited to something a human might behold without damage, this was indeed still a damaging place for Dean.

So, anytime Cas had found his visit interrupted by the just recognizable visages of Angels he'd been forced to say goodbye to years ago, he indulged his own whim. Taking the opportunity to relive one of his proudest -however difficult that was to admit- moments of Heavenly service.

If only Dean's dreams ever included that part of their history without his intervention.
But, no. Cas instead was under the impression that Mary Winchester must have angered a dream spirit at some point in her first pregnancy, because these 'nightmares', and countless others he'd witnessed firsthand, were merciless and plentiful.
They were designed to cause torment and pain and they always hit their marks.

In this dream version of Heaven's Intervention, Dean was not saved, all the Angels of the garrison perished, and worst of all, for Dean if for no one else... Castiel never grabbed a bright soul by the arm, looked him right in the cowering, shamed face, and told him without an ounce of uncertainty, "Now, I grip you tight, and raise you from perdition."

He hated seeing Dean in those dr- nightmares. The proud hunter he'd cultivated a profound bond with.
No soul deserved to bring Hell with them everywhere they traveled. To every motel in every state. To every bed in America and even to one in Scotland. Even to the place that the Winchesters had finally found to call home.
It was official too. He'd heard Dean call it that. More than once. 'Home'.

Though, perhaps the Men Of Letters had been aware of dream spirits and had woven wards against them into the bunker's foundations, because here, in his new home, Dean had had more calm nights than he'd ever had on the road.
Though, perhaps it had more to do with the fact that the Winchesters had a home. Had a family. A full family, once Cas had moved in with them.
Again, something he'd heard Dean say. Had felt the joy dripping off him from the other room as he'd said it.
He really was a sweet soul. Mary'd seen that too, and Cas was confident it had played into her decision not to move in with her sons and their angel.

Well, if he was honest with himself, he was really more Dean's angel. Or, was Dean more his? Hm.

No matter the semantics, Cas was certainly feeling the pull of their bond, and it was dragging him away from wherever it was he was slumbering. Wherever he was still slumbering. As his corporeal self remained motionless and exactly as it had been for some time now.

Fascinating. The duality of being two places at once. All the stranger perhaps, for one being unknown to him, and the other... intimate.

He found himself in Dean's dreamscape. Staring as a funeral pyre burned bright in a small clearing, mourners to one side, heads bowed and hands stuffed in pockets. No matter whether they'd rather be around another's back.
That wasn't the code of conduct at a hunter's funeral.

Cas tracked the blackened smoke and wondered, not for the first time, at just how lifelike things could seem in a dream.
When he looked back to the bereft he was surprised to see only one; the other already quite a ways off, making quick time on account of the inhuman length to their legs.
Oh. So that had been Sam. That left, "Dean." He'd whispered it to himself. Testing his solidity here.

Who's funeral was this? Dean carried with him every life and death he'd cared for as well as any additional he'd felt responsible for, so there were more than most might have to choose from.

Hm. Strange. The moon was arching across the sky at abnormal speeds. In fact, everything about the night moved quickly and it became nearly morning in the space of barely a minute.
And Dean was still standing where Sam had left him at his vigil. Even the fire had left him at some time. Yet there he stood. Squinting as the sun peeked its first over the edges of his glen.
With the new light, the tracks of tears were then discernible and helped explain the reason for the intensity of the pain Cas could feel spilling off one of the most sensitive souls it had been his pleasure to know.

Wait. Had been?

Cas started forward, startled from his thoughts when the lone hunter by the smoldering wood collapsed to his knees. A spike of pain met him halfway as he transported himself closer. Dean was only still starting on his mourning period.
Whoever this had been, their death had had a profound impact on Dean's psyche. Cas could only imagine how important this hunter had been in life to the brothers, and to Dean specifically.
He didn't think- hadn't thought that their father's passing had been quite-

No. This happened very close to the present day. Cas could see wrinkles and signs of years past on his friend's crumpled face.
Who had died recently? Not Jody. He'd spoken to her over the cellphone only... well, recently.

He looked to the ashy, burned mess hoping for answers, but found only an aching sadness he was sure was only half his own.
Who was being mourned?

"Cas."

"Yes, Dean?" At the sharp intake of frigid dawn air, Cas realized Dean hadn't been speaking to him. And when he turned to the man on his knees, he confirmed by the look of horror tempered by just a thread of hope transforming his face, that Dean had been completely unaware of his presence.
"Hello, Dean. Good morning."

A shuddering breath out, then in, and it was obvious Dean wasn't going to greet him in kind. So Cas knelt on one knee, bringing himself level with his friend, and asked, "Who's funeral is this?"
The ever widening eyes were answer enough.

Cas sighed and decided this was as good a time as any to indulge in another of his favorite dreamscape whims.
"I hope it is a good morning."

He placed two fingers on Dean's brow, as he had many times before, and just as he gave the pained consciousness before him the smallest angelic pulse, the hunter found his voice and spoke again his first word.

"Cas!"

Well. Here he was. Just sleeping again. Now that he thought about it: Sleeping was an extremely boring pastime. At least if you weren't capable of dreaming. And were conscious of the fact that you were sleeping.

Just a little while ago he'd been doing something... interesting, right?
Yes. Cas had been visiting someone with whom he was very close. Someone who was very sad.
...Who again?

Right. There was the pull. Unmistakeable for the frequency of its appearances over the years. Always able to draw a melancholy smile from him, as he was both happy to be reminded of Dean, and sad to know the stalwart hunter was missing him.

Woah. For a second there, Cas thought he'd been in the bunker. Standing in the middle of the Winchester's kitchen and staring at the -and he'd never embarrass Dean by saying it out loud- adorable sight at their center island: A sleepy giant sinking onto a paper pillow, wishing for a friend he knew wasn't coming

But Cas had come. Was definitely standing there in their kitchen again. Or, part of him was, anyway. Sam not seeing him when he came to check on his brother was proof enough that he'd somehow left his body behind. Sleeping.

Taking note of the way Dean was slumped, Cas remembered that humans did not enjoy the way their bodies felt after sleeping in such... novel configurations.
Unless they were children. Children didn't enjoy sleeping at all.
Unless in novel configurations.

Cas shrugged to his incorporeal self, admitting that he likely had some part of that wrong, and approached the island. Noticing, when he came close, a small drop of water sliding lazily down Dean's exposed cheek.
He hated being the cause of such...

He sighed, touching two ghostly fingers to the smoothing forehead half smooshed into the pristine, century old text, and transported the both of them to an unlit room.
The small miracle took more concentration than it might have had he his physical manifestation there with him, but Dean still appeared in his own bed and not on the floor or in the mattress. Cas was pretty sure he'd call that 'a win', so the angel smiled to himself and folded the covers he really shouldn't have been able to touch over his hunter, and just watched as a wave of contentment that wasn't all his washed over him.

Fully aware that watching the slow up and down of Dean's diaphragm was lulling him, Cas committed the picture of a rare peaceful slumber to his angelic steel trap of a memory and allowed himself to rejoin his body. Wherever that was.

"I miss him, Sammy."

There was an unsettling edge to the voice as the sentiment echoed around in his brain pan.
Cas rolled the sentence around a bit before deciding that: No. This was far out of character for his friend, the oldest brother of the family Winchester.

Out of character yet undeniably true. For Dean and for himself, and if missing a human wasn't out of character for an angel, then Castiel wasn't sleeping. Again.
While the brothers had their first real conversation in Lord knew how long.

Sometimes, life just wasn't fair. Although, for Cas, perhaps it was Death who wasn't fair. Considering he was probably extremely dead.
Hence the heart to heart taking place in a Men Of Letters bunker some universe away. Tears going unacknowledged down the face of someone he'd never meant to make ache so.

Okay. This was getting old. Sleep was officially Castiel's least favorite pastime, and beside that rather important point: if the last night had been anything to judge by, he was needed elsewhere.

When his mind supplied him a reminder of the adorable sight he'd caught in the kitchen, Cas felt a smile threaten the solemnity of a sleeping face.
When his thoughts turned to those of teardrops clinging to lashes whose owner would forever deny were long and dark, he felt a finger twitch.

It was decided. He was busting out of this joint.

With a great wresting, one eye, then the other opened, and he beheld a sight of absolute nothingness. An absence of... matter, light, substance, anything.
It was no matter. If he leaned on the bond he could feel pulling him like a homing beacon, he'd be home faster then he could figure out where he even was.
No sweat.
...Because angels didn't sweat. Never mind- who was in charge around here?

After a relatively short introduction to and confrontation with someone called the "Master Of This Naptime", or something to that persuasion, a fairly handsome rascal if Cas said so himself, though lacking in the good personality department, Cas found himself in a far more familiar place, drawing a lungful of clean, earth air. His first in quite a while.

He was standing in a clearing, signs of a bonfire to one side and... oh. This was where he'd been lain to rest by the Winchesters. By Sam and Dean.
It appeared very much like in the dream he'd interrupted, though minus the column of acrid smoke marring the view. And minus a funeral goer who'd stood by his side until the sun came up and he couldn't stand anymore.

Chuck- er, God Bless him, Cas thought as he walked across the charred remains of what could arguably count as his own grave.
For anyone to care so deeply for him, of all beings... was nigh on inconceivable. After all the ways in which he'd singlehandedly, nearly brought about end times- the death of everything humans and angels alike hold dear, you'd think the entire universe would have gotten the memo:
Cas the angel = persona non grata.

But when was listening to the universe ever high on the to-do list of a Winchester?
When he thought of it, Dean had nearly brought about Armageddon himself, and so had Sam. But they'd also prevented them. So, maybe they really did deserve an impregnable home to themselves. One filled with their closest and dearest only a hallway, or even a cellphone call, away.

Castiel spread his proverbial feelers out in a gentle wave, checking for the wellbeing of souls he knew, and for any undue demonic activity that might call for swift action. Finding all quiet on the demon front, he-
No. It couldn't be.

Cas said a quiet prayer as he realized his angelic reach into the world had come back lacking.
Mary Winchester was gone.
He'd have to give the brothers his condolences. Mary was a fine... Mary'd been wonderful.

Cas couldn't imagine what it must be like for them. Grieving the loss of two loved ones. Suddenly taken and, knowing their luck, violently so; it must have been absolutely heartbreaking.
Though, the look Dean's dream self had given him the night before, kneeling in the dream equivalent of this exact spot? Cas already knew how it felt. And it was. It absolutely was.

Cas needed to see him. So he felt out for where he already knew his family was, aware that confirming these sorts of things before 'poofing' off was always a good idea, and nodded when he felt both brothers safe and comfortable in the bunker. Not out on some sudden, urgent case in New Jersey or Montana or any other lawless frontier where they'd be likely to get themselves into horrible danger or worse-
Taking a deep breath, Cas reminded himself that, though their souls were not yet four decades on this earth, the Winchester boys were fully grown, capable hunters who could 'handle their own shit, thank you very much.'

It was just hard to remember sometimes.

Destination pinpointed, Cas took a step that transported him across state lines. Blurring mountains, rivers, dew sprinkled vistas, and miles of paved roads into little more than a smudged afterimage. Arriving at the doorstep of the Men Of Letters' American Chapter House before he needed to blink.
Pulling out a key he by all rights should not have still had, Cas unlocked the door. Wondering as he did, what exactly about that form of travel it was that Dean so hated.
Instantaneous transit? You'd think a busy hunter might benefit from such a thing.

As Cas locked the door behind himself, he thought back on his split second trip and felt the corners of his mouth curl upwards.
Dean was a sentimentalist. That was it. Always wanted to enjoy the scenery. Even when the fate of the world hung in the balance. After all, what was the point of it all if there wasn't always a little time to get behind the wheel and sniff the carbon monoxide rich exhaust? His brother in the seat next to him, cake hole firmly shut as the driver's music set the tone of their cross country excursion.

Maybe... Dean would let Cas shut his own cake hole for a drive sometime. If he promised not to laugh at the driver singing along when Taylor Swift came on 'accidentally' halfway through the pre-made road trip mix.
If they could find the free time.

Hm. Cas turned to take in the main room from the landing a good fifteen feet above.
The bunker was peaceful this time of day. He'd never appreciated that while he'd had a place here. On and off these past months. Years even.
He'd come to think of it as a bit of a transitory base from which to carry out his operations or missions and somewhat less a home he'd somehow been invited to be a part of.
Perhaps this time around he'd be wise enough to see it for what it really was.

Feeling a pulse of sadness from somewhere deep in the bunker, Cas transported himself within twenty feet of its source. Impressed that there existed any rooms in this labyrinthine complex he had yet to familiarize himself with, and that this particular one was where he'd find the saddest man in the tri-state area.
Surrounded by a veritable battery of hunting tools. All originating in the ages of antiquity, by the look of them.

"Dean, what are you doing in here?"

Heaving an amazingly, maddeningly uncharacteristic sigh, the otherwise undisturbed hunter ran a thumb against one cutting edge of a several century old double headed axe mounted at a great height for grabbing right off the wall. When Cas glanced around, he realized that whoever had 'decorated' this room had put everything where it was with a purpose and with ease of access top of the list of spacial concerns.
When it came to that most ancient of arguments, style versus function, this room lacked neither.

Listening to the sound of a well worn thumbprint testing the sharpness of a museum piece, Cas waited long enough that he began to think Dean hadn't heard him at all and might have just been sighing for no reason.
Sam had approached him one morning, some time ago, asking whether he might consider healing his brother's potentially failing sense of hearing. Pointing out the inherent dangers of having a partially deaf hunter who thought he still heard as sharp as any bird dog, out in the field.
Cas had nodded and told Sam that he would be happy to help with anything Dean consented to or, optimally, asked for help with himself.
Sam had shrugged to himself with a characteristic sigh, mumbling that he was probably reading too much into things, and clapped Cas on the shoulder as he left to change out of his sweat drenched jogging clothes.

Maybe Sam had been onto something after all, thought Cas as he opened his mouth to repeat his question. Instead, he relaxed his jaw, rather relieved, when the back he was staring at moved to the next bladed weapon and took in a breath. Ready to answer.

"Pondering the hypocrisy of mortality."

Cas felt an eyebrow quirk in surprise at the sentiment. "While perusing a cache of ancient weapons?"

The taller man across the room scoffed, moving a hand to touch the blade of a glaive, making a pleased nod when it was indeed sharp enough for his liking.
Had Dean taken over as curator of this installation? Yes. Cas seemed to recall him sequestering himself to the wet wheel room for a number of days about a year previous, but at the time, hadn't thought to ask why.
Now he knew the reasoning behind the eccentric activities: Dean had taken it upon himself to keep this portion of his legacy lineage alive. An admirable pursuit if any Cas had seen.

"Perfect time for it, you ask me. What else would a room full of cutting, smashing, ripping tools remind you of? Life?" Dean asked, surprising the angel he still hadn't looked at when he pulled a small feather duster from one pocket to run along the woven leather grip of the beautifully hewn spear sword.

"Yes." Cas said, taking his first step over the threshold into a collection he hadn't been aware existed. Hadn't known Dean had nursed back to life and cared for. "Life. Battle. Victory. Soldiers in arms."

"Yeah: Death. Battlefields. Defeats... Friends and families gone." Cas watched Dean move on to the next piece, feather duster at shoulder height now, and marveled as the usually stoic man didn't bother collecting himself before saying more.
"This place reminds me of you." Cas's eyes widened at the admission. "Always has. The guy who never gave up on me. Didn't let me go full demon." Was Dean making reference to his time spent in the service of Alastair as a torturer of souls in 'the pit'? "Hm. 'Gripped me tight'." Oh, Lord, he was. That was never a good place for Dean, not mentally and definitely not spiritually.
He needed to shift the subject matter.

Taking a few steps deeper into the well appointed room, even the carpeting was a fetching crimson, looking almost as if only a handful of shoes had ever touched its fibers, Cas refrained from checking the collection for Enochian pieces and made his attempt at a diversion.
"I hear that you've missed me since my passing."

"Tch. No shit, Sherlock. What else is new?" Dean didn't bother mumbling the probable insult as he admired just how dust free the latest weapon's ball and chain were.

"What do you mean?"

"You know. You take off on some 'mission from God', heavenly family emergency, die even, and I'm left here cleaning pigstickers until you show up again. Or not."

"And you miss me? On all of those occasions?" Cas asked, transfixed as Dean pulled what appeared to be a microfiber cleaning cloth from another pocket and began wiping delicately at the bowled, convex face of a bronze plated shield. Mounted at low shoulder height next to a Roman gladius whose main cutting length shone pink. Forever tarnished by the boiling blood of the souls of the damned, at The Battle Of The Repulsion Of Tartarus.
Said so on an included papyrus placard, which also warned against touching the sword with bare, human hands. Or listening to its whisperings after The Great Chariot pulled the Sun back to its resting place and the Moon reigned above all.

"We've been over this a dozen times: You leave, I miss you. You come back, I ask you to stay, you leave again, I-" Dean rubbed the cloth a little harder, perhaps unintentionally breaking through the aged patina right at the center of the bulbed shield. "Now you're dead, and I... have a problem with that."

"Dean, we've never discussed this before. Nevertheless, you are correct," Cas informed, taking two steps closer to the back he was getting anxious to see the front of. "I did know that you miss my presence when I'm called away. I did not realize though, to what extent." With one more step, he was barely a double arm's length from the curator on a crusade against corrosion. "Taking on those jobs was inconsiderate of me. Especially after my continued lodging was requested. I... apologize. For that."
Dean rubbed a bigger circle free of all signs of age, looking for the world as if he were attempting to ignore an annoying buzzing in his ear.

Maybe Cas deserved that. Too little too late?
Maybe Cas could do better than that.
"I... miss you too, Dean. I leave thinking you'll be fine- that I overestimate your reciprocation of my cravings for... intimacy. And that I don't deserve a place in your home to begin with."

"Bullshit. You deserve more than I have to offer. Baby, Sam, and this bunker are all I got to call mine in this world. Adding an angel to the list? Was too much to hope for."

"It is not too much, Dean." Cas insisted, barely holding himself back from reaching out and forcing the guy ruining centuries of bacterial buildup to look at him. "Besides: I've considered myself yours and... you mine for some time now. Years in-"

"Aw, hell," Dean bit off, crumpling the dirtied cloth in a fist before slapping it sharply onto the floor. "Gotta stop talking to myself. This can't be healthy," he said, carding dusty fingers through his shock of hair in a sign of restlessness.

"Dean, you're not talking to yourself. I've been resurrected." Said about as plainly as if he'd just said his favorite color was chartreuse. And he felt up to bald faced lying. Because nobody's favorite color was chartreuse. He'd know. He'd checked.

Refocusing, looking closely, Cass could see Dean's eyes reflected in the newly polished bronze of the shield. Looking straight at him. Could see them growing wider. Could see a war of emotions burgeoning right beneath the surface, threatening to bring the battle out into the open.

Right. He'd thought Dean sounded strange. The poor soul had thought he was talking to himself the entire time. Dean was right, that wasn't a good sign. Not for most beings anyway.

"Cas?"

"I'm here, Dean. I've been here-

"Cas? I mean-" The consummate hunter whipped around, off hand dropping the feather duster it may have been attempting to brandish as a weapon. "The real Cas? Not dream Cas, or a shapeshifter, or- Am I-"

"You're awake, Dean, and so am I. I'm only sorry it took so-"

In the microsecond that Cas had averted his eyes, a feeling akin to shame or perhaps failure prompting him to break eye contact, the fight or flight instincts of a soul who'd survived Purgatory made themselves known in the form of a heavy, partially polished bronze shield spinning straight for his head.
Cas dodged, surprised by both the explosive power and impeccable technique behind the desperate outlash, and couldn't help but watch as the disc sailed out the door and down a darkened hallway he could have sworn hadn't been there when he'd first arrived.

Almost before he recognized the ticking by of an errant second, Cas found himself jumping backwards from the swipe of a weapon he feared may hold more power over death than any bladed item was ever meant to. Its fine honed edge making an angry hiss as it arced not two inches from his unprotected belly.

"Dean! It's me!" He barely had time to get the words out before he was dodging yet another well aimed, though horribly misguided, arcing attempt at an enemy's life. Followed with a thrust the extension of which would have done any fencing instructor proud. And which he'd had to pull out just a hint of a miracle to avoid.
He'd still felt the heat rolling off the point just as it was pulled back to base.
"Dean-"

"Prove it." The voice so hard, the tone so unyielding, it felt a miracle Cas didn't simply wink out of existence then and there. But a quick glance at the eyes laser trained to his quick moving body reminded Cas of what unthinkable tragedies had recently befallen the bereft hunter, and of the fact that such tragedies were rarely reversed.
Dean needed that proof.

So Cas wiped all trace of misgivings from his own mind and transported his vessel to such proximity that he was inside even a panicked Winchester's guard, being sure to appear already with a good grip on the hilt of the gladius. Right between Dean's two vice like, shaking hands.
With ease, he broke the cursed sword from the shocked grasp, this time not breaking the eye contact he prayed came across as reassuring.

He watched as Dean looked to his own empty hands, which appeared to be blistering disturbingly where they'd gripped the hilt tightest, to the blade now in the angel's hand, and back up.
Speechless.

"You should not be touching this," Cas informed as he remounted the artifact so that it lined up perfectly with its ever so slightly scorched shadow on the wall.
Knowing Dean and Sam's Latin was every ounce as good as his, Cas felt a moment of incredulity when he glanced again at the papyrus warning and saw the clause noting that humans who do not perform the ritual sacrifice of no fewer than 2 fatted drops of blood from the intended wielder's arm or leg, one atop an Altaria Di Superi, and the other into a consecrated fire pit named for Di Inferni, and don The Helmet Of Bellona: Our Goddess Of War, Destruction, Conquest, And Bloodlust, would unerringly burst into flames.
And die.

Hm. Though absolutely petrified by the implications of what had just nearly happened, Cas found it in himself to produce a small chuckle.
Bellona? When was the last time he'd seen her leading an army off into righteous battle? Good on her for winning that title she'd been slathering over for so long. Had a nice ring to it too.
And thank the Lord Dean's soul was marred- er, enriched by his many brushings against the demonic Di Inferni. Otherwise... only one being would still be standing in that armory, and the American Men Of Letters would have but one legacy member left.

Cas turned to Dean without saying more. Simply surveying the face freckled in dawning acceptance and... welling tears.

"I thought-"

"I know, Dean. I felt your pain. At the funeral- and thank you for that, by the way," he said with a rather tepid, one armed gesticulation. "It was a lovely service."

"The dream, last night- that was you you?" At the nod, Dean's spine seemed to relax its rigid posture, allowing his large frame to fall into a more natural carriage. "Damn. No wonder it felt so real. Like it used to," he said. Human eyes searching Cas's. Hoping for answers.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I've wanted to, but my schedule of late precluded my visiting. Even in dreams," Cas lamented, hoping his sincerity came across undiluted.

"You mean, aside from the whole being dead part?" Cas huffed in amusement at the cavalier tone affected along with the sarcastic half grin.

"Yes. Aside from that... unpleasant business," he confirmed. Making his best attempt at mirroring the inimitable character across from him and no doubt falling far, far short.
He still earned a chortle.

"I really thought I was talking to myself there." Dean said, giving his head a little shake. "You seriously need to stop appearing in the middle of rooms like that. Normal folks'd call that 'rude'."

Cas's head canted before he launched his defense in the name of his intentions as well as his actions. "I 'appeared' outside the room, Dean. I thought you would have heard me walk in." He watched as vexation, then a slight blush overtook the planes of a familiar face. Noting the irregular skip of his own heart at the unfamiliar sight.

"Oh. Guess I was busy then."

"Contemplating the hypocrisy of mortality?"

"Damn it. I hoped that wasn't out loud," he said, both frustrated and further embarrassed. Evidenced by the deepening and spreading of his blush as it peeked out at Cas from under an open button-down collar.

Drawing on his legendary self control, Castiel tore his gaze from the uppermost of a barely visible, pinkening clavicle, and felt his heart skip once more as their eyes met.
"Dean, there is something I've wanted to ask, or perhaps say, for... long enough that," feeling a flutter from inside his chest, Cas paused just long enough to be sure he wasn't malfunctioning.

"Long enough that what?" Dean prompted when Cas didn't immediately continue.

"Dean, I..." Cas moved forward and had to squeeze a fist tight to keep from taking one of Dean's hands in his. "I've been human a couple of times, so I know how some things of this persuasion are expected to work, but," he moved a half step closer, eyes not leaving the hazel ones threatening to get him tongue tied, "I've never tried this with a hunter. I'm not sure how that would..."

"What are you talking about, Cas?"

"This," he said, telling Dean as concisely as he could. Which just so happened to be with his lips against another, surprisingly soft pair that didn't flinch away.
There was a flinch, Cas felt it in his teeth, but it was the perfect kind of flinch. The kind that brings you closer. Far closer.

Cas stepped back, to where he'd been just before, and after a beat of mutual shocked silence, Dean's hand came up, reached across their little spotlight in the universe, and nestled itself in the down at the nape of Castiel's neck, pulling ever so gently.
Cas didn't have to reach quite so far this time, as Dean met him half way.

The kiss lasted longer than any hug they'd shared, on the physical plain at least, and Cas found he couldn't keep his vessel's eyes open. But when he tried a little angelic recon, he found Dean's also shut. Little droplets clinging to lashes Cas would never embarrass Dean by complimenting. Not on the physical plane anyway.
Only in his dreams.

"What about that had you worried?" Dean asked as they broke away again, giving the back of Cas's neck a little squeeze.

"I was hoping you wouldn't flip me to the ground and grab one of those off the wall," Cas said, pointing at a pair of sai that gave off a very Edo period glean.

"Yeah, not really my style. 'Never hit anyone who's kissed me. Not even if they asked," Dean said, half of his mouth quirked in an intriguing smile.

"What about spanking?" Cas found himself asking before he'd had time to examine the thought for appropriateness.

"Well, only if someone asked real nice." Cas wasn't sure Dean was aware of the licentious expression morphing his face, but he found it just as entertaining as he did anything else the hunter didn't know his own face was doing.

"Like the pizza delivery man and the baby sitter on the-" Cas was cut off by a gentle hand against his mouth. He raised a brow in question.

"We don't talk about porn, remember?"

At his nod, the hand slipped away from Cas's face and the other fell from its comfy place behind his head.
"Although," the angel couldn't help adding , "I've read that many couples watch together, to share in the erotic experience and-"

"Nope. We," Dean said, pointing between the two of them, "don't talk about porn. Ground rules. Being set."

"Alright," Cas couldn't help the chuckle at his hunter's pouty face. Anyone with a mortal soul probably would have something different to say about the expression, but to Cas, Dean was just being Dean.
"Can we talk about..." He indulged the impulse and let himself take a hand. Softly and not without checking that it wasn't unwanted. "About this?"

"'Course. This is my kind of talking," Dean said, glancing down at the angel's hand around his.

Cas smiled and this time, instead of going straight in for a kiss, he spirited the both of them off to somewhere a little more private.

Anyone think the Winchesters are having a happy New Year?
I do.
Till chapter three,
~Anonymous