Castiel, standing in the dark hallway beside the movie theater, watches Dean watching him and wonders if he was too subtle.

It's been seventeen seconds since he'd made his attempt at flirtation, and despite the way Dean's tongue had darted out over his lip when Castiel spoke, despite the pulse that is now visible and thrumming fast in his throat, Dean hasn't moved. Hasn't even said anything.

Castiel might be fairly new to this, but he had been certain that his smile was adequately seductive.

Now he's not so sure, because time is ticking down and Dean is just standing there.

They've been skirting the issue these last few days, acknowledging the presence of their feelings for each other without addressing them directly, and Castiel is tired of it. He regrets their last meeting, regrets the hesitance that stopped him from taking one more step. He regrets each phone conversation they've had since then, each message that could have been colored with love but wasn't for fear; pointless, enervating fear.

And he knows that his fear was pointless, knows because he knows that Dean feels this way too, and he has known since the morning Dean prayed to him from a park in Lebanon, since the fractured, desperate prayers that continued that entire day, building, building to a crescendo that came to an abrupt and jarring halt the moment Dean had found him in Red Cloud.

When he leaves here—in two minutes, forty-two seconds, maybe three if he really pushes it—it could be the last time he ever sees him. It's always a possibility, really, but with the awful, clenching ache of the tablet against his rib cage and the angels so close on his trail, he knows that the odds of capture, of death, are considerably higher than usual.

Even if he manages to keep ahead of the angels for long enough to finally rid himself of the burden of God's word, he knows that it could be weeks, or months, or years before he is free to fly to Dean's side. The chance of accidentally landing in the same town, even the same state as Dean a third time is incredibly low.

It's this knowledge that makes him try again.

"I hoped we'd have time to talk properly," he says carefully, edging a half-step forward into Dean's space, "about this. About us."

To Castiel's amazement, Dean looks surprised, as if despite every hint, every barely veiled confession, he still doesn't quite believe that Castiel feels as he does.

"Me too," Dean says after a pause, and he's quiet, so much quieter than usual, barely audible over the sound of music playing loud over the cinema speakers.

As he takes in Dean's eyes with their soft-creased corners, his full lips, so close, Castiel wonders at how something so simple as Dean looking at him can set his entire body humming like a struck bell. It's strange, he thinks, that in a little over nine million years of existence, he can't remember ever being so nervous as he is right now. He takes an unsteady breath.

"But neither of us are very good at talking," he says, looking at Dean meaningfully, and Dean's eyes narrow in confusion. He inches closer still, sees Dean's throat bob, his tongue darting out over his lips.

"So, if you're amenable," he goes on, voice dipping low as he raises a hand to rest in the center of Dean's chest, "I think we should just—"

Before he can finish, Dean finally, finally, gets it. He drops the bag he'd been carrying and brings his hand to settle over Castiel's, fingers curling together as he leans in to close the few inches between them.

His lips are firm but slow-moving, and Castiel all but forgets the tablet buzzing beneath his skin because this is electicity.

Dean's hands find their way to his face, holding him, tilting his head to better claim his mouth, and warm, calloused thumbs move against Castiel's cheeks, smoothing down. His heart, the heart he shouldn't even have, pounds hard because everything he has needed, wanted, craved; everything is here, everything is now.

Soon, too soon, the tablet burns within him painfully, and he pulls away, regretting it immediately, but Dean just drags him back in, pleading silently with hands and lips. Castiel can't help but give in.

With a sound he wasn't aware he was capable of making, he grips Dean's shirt and pushes him back against the wall, parting his lips to the wet press of Dean's tongue, and the taste of something sweet, of powdered sugar and pastry, slips into his mouth as fingers move back to thread through his hair. While his own hands roam, feeling warm skin through worn cotton, everything fades away until there's nothing in the world but Dean and touch and breath and breathlessness and want and please and more, and he wonders at how he can still feel such longing when Dean is right here, pressed against him and perfect.

But the tablet is insistent, and with a regret far greater than he could have anticipated he moves to press his lips softly against the corner of Dean's mouth, an apology before he speaks.

"I have to leave," he says quietly against his cheek, Dean's fingers still moving in his hair, stroking slow down to his nape, and he feels Dean nod even as his arms pull him closer, cheek to cheek, stubble scratching.

Dean sighs, squeezing him tightly for a moment before reluctantly letting go, and Castiel wants so much to stay that it's like a physical ache. But he can't. He knows he can't.

"I'll call you," he says roughly, stepping back.

Dean's amused grin at that is entirely unexpected, but Castiel has no time to ask for an explanation before the tablet flares with new intensity, and he reaches out, smoothing a hand over Dean's cheek one last time, committing the warmth of him to memory before he flies.

The last thing he feels before he spreads his wings is Dean turning his face to press his lips firmly against his palm. He soars.

There's a few minutes after Castiel disappears when Dean's lips still tingle with the feel of him, the taste of him, and he walks back toward the parking lot in a daze.

I kissed Cas, he keeps thinking giddily.

He's not entirely sure when his brain turned completely into mush, but he'd be willing to bet that it was at some point between being shoved against the wall and feeling a whimper roll through Castiel's chest almost as much as he heard it.

Cas kissed me, he thinks, and grins down at his shoes.

When he gets back to the car, Sam is asleep, his face pressed against the window. He wakes with a jolt when Dean yanks the door, and he blinks, startled until he seems to remember where he is.

He takes one look at Dean's face, and frowns.

"You look weird," he says.

"Says the guy with a ladies hairdo."

Sam shoots a pissy look at him, and Dean laughs as he turns the key, the engine roaring to life. A half-second later the radio clicks on, and REO Speedwagon starts playing right on cue. Dean's mouth lifts up at one side, and he turns up the volume before leaning one hand against Sam's headrest and looking over his shoulder as he backs out of the parking space. Sam stares between him and the speakers.

"Seriously? I Can't Fight This Feeling?"

"What? It's a classic," Dean says defensively, and Sam's eyes narrow with suspicion.

"Why're you so chipper?"

As he shifts into drive, Dean glances over at him. He can't hide his grin. He kind of doesn't want to. With a shrug, he flicks on the indicator to turn out onto the main road.

"I saw Cas," he says simply.

Sam's eyes widen, and he looks back toward the parking lot as if he's expecting him to be standing there waving.

"What? Where?"

Dean digs a ticket stub out of his jacket pocket, and Sam takes it, smoothing out the creases.

"The twelve-thirty showing of Iron Man 3?" he looks over at Dean with a raised brow, "he just happened to be here?"

"Yep."

"Wow. What are the odds?" Sam says in disbelief, shaking his head, "how was he?"

"One in two hundred thousand," Dean tells him, still smiling like an idiot, "give or take. And he's good. He's really... he's really good."

Sam gives him an odd look until something seems to click.

"Wait," he says, a smirk spreading across his face, "did something actually happen? Did you finally talk about—"

"Nah."

Even though it's only half a lie, he's pretty sure Sam doesn't buy it. Still, he stops asking questions, and that leaves Dean free to think about how right it felt to have Castiel in his arms. He thinks about telling him so in a prayer, briefly wondering if it really counts as a chick flick moment if he doesn't actually say it out loud, before deciding he doesn't even care either way. Castiel sure as hell isn't going to judge him for being sappy, so why should he?

I've wanted to do that forever, Cas, he prays, then, with an adrenaline-fueled bout of honesty adds; it felt like coming home. I miss you already.

He barely holds in his nervous laughter once the prayer is out there, and barely thirty seconds later he feels his cell phone buzz in his pocket. Despite wanting desperately to read it right now this second, he decides to save it for later. Something to look forward to, he thinks.

Just as the song is finishing, crossfading out to the over-excited voice of a radio DJ, Sam pulls him out of his daydreams.

"Uh, Dean?"

"Hmm?" he replies vaguely, slowing to a stop at a red light and glancing over at his brother.

"Where's the pie?"

"It's right-"

He's halfway through gesturing toward the empty back seat before he realizes, empty back seat. After that it takes a few seconds until he works out where the pie is, and with a furious blush creeping up his neck, he quickly checks the rearview and swings the car around in a wide U-turn, headed back toward the mall.

"I think I dropped it in the cinema," he mutters, and Sam smirks at him from the passenger seat.

"You think?"

Dean shrugs; in his periphery, he sees Sam trying not to laugh.

"But nothing happened, right?" he says, and Dean's face grows infinitely redder.

Sam bursts out laughing, and Dean shoots him an embarrassed glare.

"Keep laughing, Sammy, and I'll tell you in graphic detail what Cas' tongue feels like."

Sam shuts up pretty quick, after that. Dean just wishes his blush were as cooperative.