Cas and Dean have a day off. Nice things happen, but there's a warning for homophobic language and attitudes for this chapter.

Chapter 11

Golden orange light penetrated Dean's eyelids. The bright morning was calling to him - breakfast to cook, jobs to get stuck into, a whole day to be Dean Winchester, property-owner, man who knew his way around power tools… and ex-hunter?

The idea made his mind fritz with too many thoughts and emotions, but distraction was provided in the form of an uneven, soft-but-firm presence, warm against his back. And then he realised that it wasn't hard wooden boards beneath him, but a cradling, yielding surface, moulded perfectly to his form.

A heavy, floppy weight landed on his waist and a hand dangled down opposite his chest, twitching slightly until it drew in, curling completely around him, patting and smoothing the thin fabric of his shirt and coming to rest, softly but firmly, over his sternum. Hot breath ruffled the short hairs at the nape of his neck. There was a lazy, satisfied, actually kind of smug grunt.

Okay, Dean thought. Where do I go with this?

Where did he want to go? Actually nowhere. He was fine right here, the sun warm on his face - because curtains were way down Dean's line of priorities - their two sleeping bags zipped up together, a soft, slightly crinkly bed beneath him, and Cas - Cas smushed up behind him, so close that his breath was dampening Dean's neck, his body warm and wrapping right around, comforting and anchoring and safe.

A whole raft, a whole truckload of feelings swelled up in Dean's chest - some good, some bad, some downright who-the-hell-knew?

The bad ones had been built-in to the structure of his mind long ago - driven in and hammered home with hard words, sneers and sometimes blows.

The hunting community had changed since then, but when John Winchester had started out it had been a man's world and he had fit right in. There'd been little room for softness and comfort in that world and none for anything except rough, buddy relationships, centring on strong drink, stories of the hunt and thinly or not-at-all veiled derision for anyone who lived a different way. And for sex, women were The Only Option. Growing up, Dean had heard quite a few unpleasant stories of certain lifestyles being considered grounds for a beating - which, from hunters, was likely to be a serious one.

He'd reached his teens and the dark looks and muttered comments had begun from Dad's drinking buddies, starting off innocently enough - does he take after his Mom? - and then progressing to suggestions that his Dad needed to watch that pretty boy of yours or he'll get into the wrong kind of trouble. The drinking sessions had tailed off from that point.

But Dean had caught Dad looking at him a certain way. And the haircuts from Dad's clippers had gotten shorter, the training harsher and trips to Goodwill had involved Dad vetoing anything that wasn't plainly-cut and either muted or dark in colour.

There'd been that cowboy shirt one time that Dean still regretted. It was black, which was a tick in its favour, but the white piping took it out of the safe zone, and the decorative yellow roses had blown the John Winchester code of manly dressing completely out of the water. The look Dean had got had been savage. Dad had ripped it out of his hands, flung it on the floor and dragged him out of the store, Sammy trailing behind them whining that he'd wanted to look at the books.

Dad had pushed him around the corner into an alley and slammed him up against the wall.

"What the hell is wrong with you, kid? What are you thinking, picking out shit like that? You wanna go around dressed like some kind of… faggot?"

Dean had flinched, both from the word and the raised fist. But the fist hadn't fallen - not in public. And he'd been more careful from then on, making his image fit what his Dad wanted, even when he felt parts of himself were being crushed - crumbling away under the weight of the hunter's life and his Dad's expectations.

But now… Now he was a long way from that scared kid and a long way from the young man he'd become, still trying to fit Dad's code but increasingly straining against the invisible boundaries, increasingly aware that Dad's way was not his way.

There hadn't been time, though - death and hell and apocalypse and blood and violence - what time or space had there been to find out who he was, other than 'Daddy's blunt little instrument'? And he did fall back on those ways, when under pressure. He did default to anger and violence and Dad's way, when the shit hit the fan.

But Cas said he didn't get angry as much now. And Cas knew him better than anyone.

"Dean." Cas's voice was slow and sleepy.

His lips brushed Dean's neck as he spoke. And then brushed it again. Was that a good morning kiss? And how exactly did Dean feel about that? The morning sun kissed his face and Cas had kissed his neck.

Good things do happen, Dean.

Not in my experience.

That's what he'd replied, all those years ago. But now? Maybe it was time for good things, finally, to happen to Dean Winchester. And didn't Castiel, ex-Angel of the Lord deserve good things too? Dean had already decided he did. And that it was Dean's business to see that those things happened.

So, how far was he prepared to go? How far could he go toward letting some of those buried feelings see the light of day? Toward admitting just a little more of who he, Dean Winchester, really was? Did he even know?

Maybe it was time to find out.

Slowly, he turned over, within the circle of Cas's arm, until he was facing his friend - so close their noses nearly touched and he could see right into those blue, blue eyes. Actually it was almost too close to get a good focus on Cas's face - maybe a visit to an optometrist might be a good idea.

"Hey, Cas," he said. His voice was rough from sleep and whiskey and talking about stuff that didn't normally get talked about.

Cas's lips were so close - dry and cracked in a couple of places from all that time outdoors. They'd feel soft enough, though, if Dean pressed his own lips against them. If he dared.

…nothing would do for me but to have you back in my sight immediately.

You are my light that shines in the darkness.

And before that, before Cas had been lost to the Empty…

I love you.

How many times did Dean need Cas to say it? In how many different words did he have to tell Dean how he felt before it got through? And how many times could Dean pretend to himself that he and Cas were just best friends and that he didn't want anything more?

His Dad's voice was still there, in his head, after all this time. But it was distant and fading more by the minute, just like when Dean drove Baby into a radio dead spot.

So he leant forward, bridged the gulf, closed the tiny gap, and pressed his lips to Cas's. They were warm and soft, with the surface roughness of those dry patches, which Dean would personally moisturise, today, if Cas didn't.

It was the lightest, briefest, most significant kiss he had ever shared.

A smile dawned on Cas's face. And he kissed Dean back, gently, fleetingly, with no urgency or weight of meaning. But it was a promise, a beginning - a kiss for a new morning of a new life.

Dean smiled and Cas smiled back and, for now, it was enough.

"Are we still having a day off?" Cas asked.

"Looks like."

"I like days off so far."

"Me too."

Dean couldn't stop his smile getting wider, like his cheeks just wanted to stretch his mouth right out and there was nothing he could do about it. Cas's smile got wider too - all teeth and gums and happiness.

They grinned at each other for a while.

It felt like Christmas, even though Dean hadn't had that many happy, excited Christmases. But it felt like Christmas should - like it should be for little kids when there was magic in the air, even apart from the presents and good things to eat.

Speaking of which…

"Are you hungry?"

"I'm very hungry, Dean. I think I could eat a very large animal. Except that large animals, such as elephants and whales, possess a high level of intelligence, bordering on sentience in fact, and so consuming one would be highly unethical."

"You coulda just said yes." Impulsively, Dean darted forward and kissed him again, a hard press of lips this time. "Come on. Up and at 'em."

Dean unzipped the sleeping bags and erupted off the mattress with an energetic bound, which he immediately regretted.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" He collapsed back onto the bed, clutching his sore foot, the bruises on his head and back blooming with fresh pain. "Fuck."

"Dean. Are you alright?" Sleeping bags rustled and plastic-wrapped mattress crinkled as Cas slid down to sit beside him.

"Yeah. Shit. I can recommend not moving too fast, though."

"I intend to imitate the giant land tortoises of the Galapagos Islands today," said Cas seriously. "They move incredibly slowly and are very long-lived."

"Cool," said Dean, manipulating each of his toes in turn and wincing. "Hey, what is it with the animal references?"

Cas tipped his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. "I don't know," he said. "It just seems like a day for doing and saying things differently." He paused and added, with careful consideration: "lightheartedly."

"I can get behind that." Dean squeezed his foot between both hands.

"Do you think it's broken?"

"Nah. Just bruised."

"You should rest it anyway."

"I will. We'll both rest. After breakfast."

Cas slid off the edge of the mattress into a crouch and then slowly unfolded himself, wobbling a bit as he straightened up, and rolling his shoulders, first the left and then the right. He stretched his neck to one side, then the other.

"What's the verdict?"

"I… I think I was right," said Cas.

"About…?"

"The Galapagos tortoises. Today is a day to imitate their approach to life."

Dean scowled. "I don't suppose they eat pancakes for breakfast, do they?"

Cas reached down, both arms ready to help Dean to his feet. "I'm sure they would, if pancakes were offered."

Dean grinned, took Cas's hands and wasn't sure that he imagined the creaking in his bones as he came carefully upright. "Awesome," he said.

Cas smiled.

And Dean thought that if he could make Cas smile every day, that would really be something.

"Mmm. Ffflurgh." Dean swallowed his gulpingly large mouthful. "Oh yeah! That hit the spot! What tortoise could resist, hey? Cas?" He nudged the ex-angel in the ribs. "Cas?"

"They are very good pancakes, Dean."

"You're damn right. Pity we ran out of bacon. But there aren't that many things you can't fix with a shit-load of syrup - yeah? That's right, isn't it, Cas?"

Cas ran his finger up from his chin to his lip, catching a trail of syrup. He put his finger in his mouth and drew it out with a pop. Dean could have done that, if he'd been a bit quicker on the draw. But whose mouth would he have put his finger in - his or Cas's?

"I can think of a number of situations we have been in where syrup would not have helped."

"Huh. Well." Dean waggled his eyebrows. "Maybe not - but it would have made things a lot more interesting."

"It would have made things a lot more sticky. And I think you may have had too much syrup, Dean. I believe you are experiencing what is known as a 'sugar rush.'"

"Ah, good old air quotes. I love your air quotes, Cas. Don't ever change, yeah?"

"I have no intention of changing, Dean."

"Good. That's good." He reached an arm around Cas's shoulders and gave him a good squeeze, which he deserved, but then dragged his sticky hand back over Cas's shirt to get some of the syrup off, which he didn't deserve. Oh well. Maybe Cas was right about that sugar rush.

The sun was bright on the pine trees and the edge of the not-so-wild wilderness. It didn't shine in through the kitchen windows in the morning, though.

"Bright out again," said Dean.

"But cold," said Cas.

"It'll warm up later."

"It's already warm in bed."

"Are you propositioning me, Cas?" Dean said it lightly, teasingly, as was his habit. People could see him as an all-male, straight-down-the-line, manly man that way. He was just joking, right? And maybe he was still joking. Did he really want to take things further with Cas? A part of him said, 'hell, yeah.' But the layers and years of suppression and conflict said things like 'not yet' and 'give it time.' Who the hell knew what was the right thing to do?

"Actually, I was thinking about your plan - to watch something on the laptop and rest."

"Oh. Yeah, okay. Sounds great." Dean frowned.

"We don't have to."

"No, I want to. I'm just thinking." He was a long way from setting up a room like the Dean cave back at the Bunker. And he'd do some things differently to that place, anyway. There'd be a bigger couch for one thing - space to really spread out. And more… softness. Maybe a lighter colour on the walls and more soft furnishings. Huh. Dean Winchester thinking about soft furnishings. He and Cas would be picking out curtains next. Which, actually, was something they needed to do. But anyway, back to the matter in hand. "I'm just thinking how to set things up for a lazy day without a proper bed or headboard or pillows."

"Towels," said Cas.

Dean snapped his fingers. "Yeah. You're right. We've got plenty of those. If we pile them up against the wall, maybe stuff some of our bags underneath for a bit of support… that'd do the job."

"And take snacks. And drinks."

"Yeah. Awesome."

Cas wanted to have a Western movie marathon.

"Are you sure? You're not just saying that because you think that's what I want?"

"Would you make a different choice, Dean?"

"Well, no. I can get behind a Western marathon. I could pick out some really good ones for you. There are plenty of classics you haven't seen."

"Then let's do that."

Cas reclined against the mountain of towels and assorted bags and stuff they'd piled up. It'd probably collapse and they'd have to restack, but for now it was pretty comfortable. Dean's bruised back was well-padded and Cas looked to be pain-free.

They started with Shane, which Cas declared beautiful but sad as, at the end, the kid called up into the mountains after the wounded hero.

"You think he died then?"

"It seems likely."

"I always imagine he found someone to help and was okay," said Dean. "We watched it once, me and Sammy, in a motel in… can't remember where. Sammy cried so hard at the end that I had to spend half the night making up a story of how Shane met a fur-trapper named Bob who looked after him and he was just fine."

Cas smiled. "I believe they call that a 'fix-it fic'."

Air quotes again. Awesome. "I didn't write it down and put it on one of those sites."

"Nevertheless. Fix-it fic," Cas repeated, without the air quotes this time. He smiled, satisfied with himself.

They watched The Naked Spur next. Cas was riveted by Jimmy Stewart's tortured bounty hunter but Dean was mainly riveted by Cas - the tension in the lines of his face as the plot developed, the compassion and wisdom and sometimes disapproval in his eyes. He'd watched humanity for millenia - seen them develop from nothing. And now he watched this story, microscopically trivial compared to all that Cas had seen as an Angel of the Lord, but reflecting the perpetual conflicts and resolutions that were played out again and again as humans made their own choices, of their own free will.

At some point during the movie, Cas had reached out and taken Dean's hand and he'd held it in his lap, sometimes just holding it in one or both of his own hands, sometimes cradling it in one hand and stroking it with the other. And it was a good thing Dean had seen the movie plenty of times before or he wouldn't have had a hope of following the story.

This thing he had with Cas now - this extra layer of closeness - where was it leading? Where was Cas expecting it to go? And how soon? What would happen if they shared their sleeping bags again tonight? Was Cas expecting more? Could Dean give him more yet?

"Dean?"

"Yeah, sorry, what?"

"I asked if you were hungry? Are you alright?"

Dean was definitely hungry, despite the pork rinds and cheetos he'd eaten during the movies, which had left him craving a drink, preferably beer.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Cas still held his hand. He was massaging it - digging his thumb into the palm and thumb joint. It felt good. What else might feel good?

"Are you, Dean? Fine? I know what you look like when there are things going on in your head and you don't know how to let them out - or if you should."

"You know me too well." Dean rubbed the back of his neck nervously - another of his tells.

"I don't think that's possible," said Cas. "What's the matter, Dean?"

Dean glanced at their joined hands.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Cas let his hand go. "Is this not okay? Do you want me to stop?"

"No. It was fine. I liked it. You can carry on."

"There's something wrong, though, isn't there?"

"Yeah. No. I just…" He rubbed the back of his neck again and stared down at his black, fleecy sweats which were a bit warm when he was this close to Cas, if he was honest. He could take them off… Instead he took a deep breath and shuffled around so that he faced the ex-angel. "Cas, I just don't know how to do this. I don't know what's happening between us. I don't know what you expect. I don't know what I expect." Cas's eyes were large but veiled as if he was bracing himself for disappointment. "It's okay - I want to, I really want to, you know, be with you. I'm just not sure how far, how fast - I'm not sure what I'm ready for."

Cas's high, tight shoulders sagged, but his face relaxed into one of his beautiful soft smiles and his arms came out and he drew Dean into a warm soft hug. "This is good, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Hugs are good."

"And how about this?"

He drew back, his hands on Dean's shoulders and kissed him lightly, close-mouthed - just a chaste little press of his lips to Dean's.

"Yeah," mumbled Dean. Why did he have to blush like an idiot? He licked his lips. When he could look up, Cas's eyes were as blue as they'd ever been. "Yeah, I… I like doing that."

"And at night, you liked being close?"

Dean's cheeks felt like he could fry an egg on them, but he nodded. "You did too. You didn't have any problems sleeping did you? No flashbacks or nightmares."

"Yes, I liked it too."

"But, don't you want, you know - more?"

"Do you?"

Dean hesitated. "Yeah. I do. But, maybe not…yet?"

"Then I'm more than happy to wait, Dean."

"You said you were impatient."

"I can wait for this."

"Right." Dean poked at the towel stack which was tumbling down. It would need sorting out before they resumed. He'd better get those bedframes ordered quick. And he'd still order two, even if the other ended up being a guest room. Was this his and Cas's room now?

"Dean?" Cas placed a hand gently on his cheek and drew his head around so that they were face-to-face. "Are you alright?" he asked again.

"I am. It's just… a lot, you know? And, uh, isn't It all a bit… middle school? Holding hands, kissing, cuddling. Is it really enough for you?"

"Yes, Dean, it's enough. It's enough that we're here, together, doing things we've never done before - together - finding out what we want, who we are, feeling out a way into a future that might look very different from anything we could have imagined a few years ago, or even last year." He took Dean's hands in both of his again. "This is something I thought I'd never, ever have, Dean - a normal life. And even when I did imagine what it would be like, over and over again, in all the years I watched humanity develop, I never would have imagined I could have this with someone like you." He looked down at their joined hands and squeezed Dean's and pulled them close to his chest. "Don't you remember, Dean? Don't you remember what I said? I love you. I meant it, Dean. I meant it."

Cas's eyes were swimming, like they'd been that horrific day when he'd been pulled away from everything, pulled away from Dean and devoured by the Empty.

Dean's eyes were swimming too. His mouth didn't want to work. It wobbled when he spoke. "I shoulda said. I shoulda told you then. I don't know why I didn't."

"It's alright Dean. I knew."

"I still should have said it." He took a deep breath and a gulping swallow and then said, as firmly as he could, "I love you, Cas."

Then Dean didn't know whether he fell into Cas's arms or Cas fell into his, but they were wrapped around each other, hands splayed across each other's backs, in each other's hair - clinging on tight as if one or both of them were about to get taken away again. Dean could feel his chest hitching with sobs, his throat painfully tight. He could feel tears running down his face and soaking the shoulder of Cas's shirt. And Cas's chest and shoulders jerked too and Dean could hear the tearing, lurching sobs that came from the depths of his lungs.

They cried together, for the time they had lost and the time they had now.

But then, after a while, Dean drew back, and so did Cas, wiping eyes and tear-blotched cheeks, both smiling sheepishly.

"That's got that out of the way, at least," said Dean.

"I think we needed it," said Cas. "I certainly needed it."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Lunch?"

Dean's stomach growled. "Lunch," he agreed. "Provided by that mess of a chicken we had last night. I covered the remains in water and it's been slow cooking into soup. Just needs straining."

Cas frowned.

"What? You don't like chicken soup?"

"I do like chicken soup very much. I was just wondering what the effect would be if we cooked some macaroni in it."

"I like your thinking," said Dean. "Hey, I worked a few weeks in an Italian place once - an Osteria in Chicago. Momma taught me to make 'pasta in brodo'. Let's do it."

Ah, I enjoyed writing that. So much comfort and softness and now they get to have soup. Yum.