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a-qualitystudentharmony · 3 years ago

Text

Dean

6:54 pm

hey, were you able to check into the motel room i booked for you? we're on our way now. we’re coming to take you home

6:54 pm

I’M coming to take you home

Cas

6:59 pm

I’m at the motel right now.

7:01 pm

I don't understand. Is Sam with you or not?

Dean

7:03 pm

he’s here. that was just my crappy way of trying to say that i want you back home again with me

7:04 pm

me, specifically. i know i've sucked at telling you just how much i appreciate you, and i want to fix that

Cas

7:04 pm

That means a lot to me, Dean.

7:05 pm

Please don't text and drive. We’ll talk later.

Dean

7:05 pm

it’s cool, sam is driving

Cas

7:06 pm

Are you okay?

Dean

7:08 pm

better than i've been in a long time. why?

Cas

7:10 pm

Sam is driving. Do I really have to explain?

Dean

7:13 pm

i wanted to talk to you

Cas

7:15 pm

Is there anything specific you need to discuss? Should I call you?

Dean

7:22 pm

nah, i'd embarrass myself in front of sam. i just need to convince myself that you’re really back

7:24 pm

had too many dreams where you were back again only to wake up and find that you were still gone. and lucifer tricked me into thinking he was you

7:25 pm

you ARE you, right?

Cas

7:27 pm

I’m me, Dean.

Dean

7:30 pm

it's just hard to believe the spell actually worked. i thought there was no hope after Jack said he couldn't bring you back

7:32 pm

tell me something only you would know? i need to know i'm not getting tricked again. i don't think i could take it

7:33 pm

tell me what you said to me before the empty took you

Cas

7:35 pm

You're certain you want me to?

Dean

7:38 pm

i'm sure, cas

Cas

7:40 pm

I love you.

Dean

7:44 pm

like a friend?

Cas

7:46 pm

That, too. But I already had your friendship. Telling you I loved you like a friend wouldn’t have made the Empty come for me.

Dean

7:55 pm

then how do you love me, cas?

Cas

7:58 pm

Dean, you must know already. Please understand that I don’t want to cross your boundaries. I would rather remain your friend than have you push me away.

Dean

7:58 pm

i wouldn’t. i won’t

8:00 pm

i know i have in the past, but i’ve never regretted anything more in my life. please, i want to hear it if that’s okay

Cas

8:09 pm

Very well. I love you more than I have ever loved anything else in all of Creation. I have forsaken Heaven for you and died for you. I’m in love with you, Dean, and my love for you will continue for all of eternity, long after Earth and everything on it has perished.

8:17 pm

Dean?

8:21 pm

I have crossed a boundary. My apologies.

Dean

8:23 pm

shit. sorry. i thought i was prepared after last time

8:24 pm

no boundaries crossed, but you did make me bawl my eyes out again

8:24 pm

sam's all worried now

Cas

8:25 pm

I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t know my words would do that.

8:25 pm

What do you mean by 'again'?

Dean

8:27 pm

what do you think happens when your best friend tells you he loves you and then dies in front of you?

8:27 pm

not just a best friend, actually

Cas

8:29 pm

I know, Dean, and I am honored you consider me family.

Dean

8:30 pm

not quite. not only

8:31 pm

i should have told you, cas. you were never JUST family

8:32 pm

hang on, i'm realizing i need to tell sam something that’s kind of overdue by now. i guess he deserves to hear it after all these years. i’ll tell you after i’ve told him

Cas

8:33 pm

Very well. I’ll wait.

Dean

8:54 pm

okay well sam almost drove us into a ditch when i told him. and then he had to pull over because he turned into a giant blubbery mess

8:55 pm

if he ever says i did too, don’t listen to him

Cas

8:56 pm

Dean, if you are trying to build suspense, you have managed it.

Dean

9:00 pm

do you really not have any clue at all what i’m about to say to you?

Cas

9:02 pm

I would be lying if I said I haven’t spent the last 30 minutes imagining possibilities. But I would rather not assume. I don’t want to be wrong.

Dean

9:04 pm

okay. well, here goes

9:06 pm

i’m bi

9:06 pm

bisexual

9:10 pm

cas?

Cas

9:11 pm

I'm happy you trust me enough to tell me. Thank you.

9:12 pm

I’m just trying to process.

9:13 pm

Is there a specific reason you have chosen to say this now?

Dean

9:16 pm

actually, yeah. there’s something else i need to say to you, but i thought we could have that talk when i get there. i want to do it face to face

9:17 pm

maybe i'm getting ahead of myself here, but i’ve booked a single room for sam

9:22 pm

cas? processing again?

Cas

9:22 pm

Yes.

9:23 pm

My room does have a king-sized bed.

Dean

9:24 pm

i know

9:25 pm

i don't want to make you uncomfortable. i'll share sam’s room if you want

Cas

9:26 pm

Please don't.

9:26 pm

How soon can you be here?

Dean

9:27 pm

two more hours, if i switch places with granny behind the wheel here.

Cas

9:29 pm

I may be billions of years old, but right at this moment two hours feels like an eternity.

9:29 pm

I’ll be waiting for you, Dean.

Dean

9:30 pm

scratch that, i’ll make it in less than two hours

Cas

9:31 pm

Please don't compromise your safety.

Dean

9:32 pm

don't worry. i’ve got something worth staying alive for

Cas

9:32 pm

Dean. I love you.

Dean

9:33 pm

i know. be there as soon as i can. XOXO

Cas

9:36 pm

I had to google that. An emoji would have been more efficient. 💕

9:38 pm

I assume you’re driving. See you soon.

10:25 pm

Time has never passed so slowly before. I know that for a fact, since I have existed since the beginning of it.

10:42 pm

There’s a Dr. Sexy rerun on right now.

10:49 pm

The thing you need to tell me better not be that you have a crush on Dr. Sexy.

11:04 pm

You'll be here soon, unless something has happened.

11:06 pm

I hope nothing has happened.

Dean

11:09 pm

Dean told me to tell you to stop being ridiculous. But he’s smiling like a fool, so I think he’s secretly charmed by your rambling. -Sam

11:10 pm

He didn’t tell me to say that last part. He did tell me to say we’ll be there in ten. -Sam

Cas

11:11 pm

I will hold him to it.

11:20 pm

You’re not here yet.

Dean

11:20 pm

oh yeah? open the door

Cas

03:07 am

Your phone is on silent, so I know this text won’t wake you. I just want you to know this: I was wrong about my moment of true happiness. Lying here in bed with you, knowing that you love me back – this is the happiest I have ever been.

Dean

08:12 am

sappy angel

08:13 am

how about if i asked you to marry me? where'd that place you on the happiness scale?

Cas

08:13 am

Dean. Are you serious? Is this a proposal?

08:14

You better not be proposing to me via a text message from a motel bathroom.

Dean

08:15 am

relax, i wouldn't propose without going down on one of my creaky old-man knees. hang on, i'm coming out as soon as i've brushed my teeth

Cas

08:15 am

Dean, what are you saying?

08:17

You are the most frustrating man on Earth.

Dean

08:17 am

and yet somehow you love me

Dean

09:31 am

sammy, time to to start writing a best man speech

Sam

09:34 am

I know. My room is next to yours.

09:36 am

Out of the many sex noises I've heard from you over the years, "I can't wait to marry you" is the most wholesome.

09:37

Not that I need to hear it ever again.

Dean

09:40 am

bitch

Sam

09:40 am

Jerk.

09:41 am

Seriously, though. I'm happy for you both. And I'd be honored to be your best man.

Dean

09:42 am

thanks. love you, but don't let it get to your head. you're not the first person i've said that to today

Sam

09:44 am

Yeah, yeah. Love you too. Tell Cas congrats for me. When do you guys want to head back? Check-out is at 11.

09:57 am

Seriously? Again?? These walls are paper-thin, dude.

10:03

I'm never getting a room next to you guys again.

1K notes · View notes

a-qualitystudentharmony · 3 years ago

Note

Absurd concept: The spouses of royalty are chosen by game show/reality show.

After the week’s guest judges announce their scores, after the call-in votes have been tallied, after the week’s loser is announced and the camera crew dutifully collects their reactions, Dean sleepwalks through the lavishly decorated mansion to his temporary bedroom.

He closes the door securely behind him.

He sits down on the bed.

As quietly as possible, he loses his entire goddamn mind.

It’s not yet noon.

He continues to lose his entire goddamn mind until nine o’clock that night, right after the Friday episode finishes airing, which is the moment everyone remaining in the mansion scrambles for their phones.

Sam picks up immediately. “You’re in the final four.”

“I’m in the final four,” Dean confirms. Repeats. Then, in the privacy of his assigned bedroom, he says, “Help.”

With an incredulous laugh, Sam answers, “Dude, I don’t think you need it!��

“I might actually have to marry the guy!” Dean hisses. “I didn’t think I’d have to marry the guy! They haven’t even let us meet him yet, I can’t marry a complete stranger.”

Still seconds away from laughter, Sam says, “Too bad you signed that contract then! Man. Man.”

“I wasn’t supposed to get this far!”

“Dean. Breathe. All you have to do is fuck up the date portion and you’re out. This is... I mean, it’s amazing, but the prince is still the one with the veto power okay?”

“You want me to make an ass out of myself on national TV.”

“What? No. You tell him you came to represent your background and you don’t think you can hack it as prince consort. You did what you came to do.”

Dean tries more of that breathing stuff.

“Right?“ Sam prompts.

“Yeah,“ Dean has to admit, even according to his own high standards. “Somehow lasted longer than the prison reform guy, and I’m the one with a record.”

“People even seem to like you for it. More relatable. Plus, it being a juvenile record doesn’t hurt. I think you’re starting to become this ‘scared straight’ poster boy.”

“I wasn’t scared-”

“I know, I know,” Sam says over him. “I’m telling you what I’ve been hearing, that’s all. Kid gets arrested for stealing, gets put into a boys’ home, grows up to co-run the boys’ home and cut down on rescindivism.”

“You left out the part about ‘kid gets his own father arrested.’“

“‘Other son grows up to be lawyer to prosecute own father for neglect,’“ Sam adds, tacitly leaving off the “and child abuse” they’ve spent too long arguing over. “Point is, Dean, you came in to yell at anyone who would listen that we need more help for homeless kids, justice reform, the whole list.”

“The home’s been getting a lot of donations,” Dean mutters, head bowed, not too embarrassed to say it, but close.

“Sonny’s kept the press from interviewing the kids,“ Sam says. “I’ve seen him on the news a couple times over reporters trying to get the scoop on you from them.“

Dean groans. “They’re gonna get hassled over me so much when I come back. Fuck. This is not the kind of attention they need.”

“They’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Just blow the date portion and you’ll go down to local celebrity in a year and using it to pull in donations. You get to plan the date, right? They gave you a budget and all?”

“I’m gonna...” Dean stares at the beautifully draped curtains framing the crystal clear windowpanes, overlooking the backyard pool and sprawling garden. No one out there tonight, not when everyone has just the weekend to plan. “Where do you even invite a prince to go?”

“See, you’re already failing. It’ll go great.“

“Bitch.“

“Jerk.”

Dean breathes a bit more. “Fuck it. I’m gonna do a normal person date. Probably can’t take him to a bar without it being weird and fancy. I’ll make burgers, we’ll do a movie on the couch, and he’ll be so disappointed with my pleb ways, he’ll never look back.”

“If he has to watch you eat, he’ll leave before the movie.”

“Sam.“

“I’m helping!”

The show airs every weeknight, and while some of the contestants have gotten solo portions before, this is the first week everyone gets a solo night. Of the many, many entrants, only twelve even made it to the mansion. Dean’s pretty face and sob story somehow got him in. Those, and how getting arrested as a teenager had apparently filled him with that big requirement for the nation-wide contest: a deep and abiding passion for the good works of their country.

Anytime someone phrases it like that, Dean desperately controls his expression.

It had started with a dozen people from across the country. It had gathered singles from across the nobility and the upper class, dipped its toes into middle class, and then slummed it with Dean. Here a lawyer, there a doctor. There went the architect, there goes the civil servant.

Getting through the quiz rounds had been a Slumdog Millionaire-esque stroke of luck. Roadtripping across the country with their dad had taught Dean everything about maps, and, apparently, an absurd amount of geography. Dragging multiple kids through multiple school years drilled in the staples of national history. And no one else present for those quizzes had any personal experience in the nitty gritty details of life.

When they were all tested on how “in touch” with the common people voting for them they were, Dean had somehow been the only person to ask crucial follow-up questions. What are the average prices of different groceries? “Store brand, name brand, or organic?” should be the obvious response, not just the reaction that gets a consistent laugh from the studio audience of those nights. When the topic turned to education or crime, Dean ponied up the same kind of statistics he’s been waving in front of kid’s faces for the better part of a decade now.

Then there’d been the more socially focused rounds. Dean had coasted through the event planning competition as part of a team before sweet talking all their guests. When they’d all been partnered up with a foreign dignitary to cut their teeth on that kind of schmoozing, Dean had been given the absolute easiest partner: a nerd with scifi figurines on her desk.

The last couple of rounds had been a two-part challenge that failed to live up to its name. Come up with a community project with low costs and high impact? Dean had ticked over from an At Risk Youth and into adulthood on a farm. All he had to put together is what he knows works: community gardening. Give a thirteen year old boy a hoe, let him snicker it out, and then have him beat the ground until his anger runs out. Involve neighbors, get the kids interacting with real people, get more people invested in the kids. So, yeah: a couple of tweaks to that, and Dean’s proposal had been a piece of cake. Implementing it this past week went pretty smoothly too.

And now he’s here.

Final four.

All set and ready to date a prince.

Jesus fuck, who let this happen.

On Saturday, they draw straws. Given that each show airs on a weeknight and needs a day of frantic editing, someone has to have their date Sunday night, in time for Monday.

Through an overly elaborate ceremony (recorded as a promo for this week’s shows), Dean draws Friday night (which actually means Thursday). The host wishes them all luck, the two remaining nobles split away from each other, and the investment banker starts asking the host a bunch of questions Dean doesn’t need the answers to.

With the most time to prepare, Dean... doesn’t. He swims in the pool. He enjoys the seriously awesome food. He browses through the movie catalogue available to them. He takes advantage of a completely absurd bathroom and continues to plot out how he’s going to steal his bathrobe.

Each morning, the final four have to socialize with each other over breakfast in front of the cameras. It’s the same kind of debrief they’ve been doing for, shit, two entire months at this point. The only difference this time is that this time, one of them has first hand experience with Prince Castiel.

A lot of strategizing clearly goes into how much everyone reveals on their morning. Praise the prince’s good looks in front of the camera? Check. List all of the wonderful activities they did together so no one can copy them? Check. Mention a single one of the prince’s likes or hobbies? No check. Anti-check. Cross that question off the entire list. No one spills any beans there, absolutely nothing that could be helpful to anyone going next.

Thursday drags its way from morning and into afternoon with multiple consultants asking Dean if he’s sure about what he has planned. For his part, Dean confirms and confirms until he’s a hairs breadth from losing his temper.

Yes, he’s sure. No, he doesn’t need anything else beyond that grocery list. Yes, he’s wearing this. No, he doesn’t need a last minute shopping trip. Yes, he is absolutely wearing this, because these are his own clothes. Now go away: he needs time to cook.

Given the seemingly limitless options and budget they have at their disposal, Dean’s the only one who opted to invite the prince to the mansion. Maybe the others were too leery of a rival butting in, or even just spying the prince early. Maybe they’d had some show they’d desperately wanted to see and chose to cash in with this. Hell, Dean had had half a mind to do that, until facing facts and admitting that this could lead to an actually interesting date.

Instead, he sucks it up. He’s had more fine dining and gourmet food in two months than he’s had the entire rest of his life. He’s met celebrities and even given a shit about a couple of them. But now it’s getting too real, and that means it’s time to go.

Having a camera crew in tow somehow fails to be the most surreal part of answering the door. The bell sets off an impressive melody through the foyer. Already stationed in place, Dean lets the noise die before taking the final few steps and hauling open the door for the prince he has technically agreed to marry (results of the competition pending).

With his own cameraman behind him, Prince Castiel nods politely at him across the threshold, and Dean is immediately in over his head.

They’d said he was handsome. Gossip rags call him anything from pretty to breathtaking. Countless photos depict how, beneath those suits, there hides a body well-toned from the luxury of the best personal trainers.

All that’s true.

But mostly, this guy just looks tired.

It’s in those deep baby blues, already partially glazed over. It’s in how the man reflexively straightens his posture that extra inch. This far into a televised life, Dean can easily spot makeup, even expertly applied, and there are bags under those eyes.

“Hey,” Dean says, instead of whatever the hell he’d planned to say. Unless that’s what he’d planned to say. He has no idea. He tightens his grip on the side of the door, the better to hold it open wide. The better to hold onto something. “Thanks for coming over, Your Highness.” Holy shit, that’s weird to say. Is he supposed to call Prince Castiel that? Somebody briefed him on this and now he has no idea.

Narrowing those striking eyes and tilting his head, the future king looks Dean over from flannel to worn jeans to work boots. With a faint quirk to his lips, he extends his hand. “Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean takes it. Shakes it. Gives as good of a hold as he teaches the boys to, looks him square in the eyes, and shows him that Dean’s not remotely as piss-pants scared as he feels. “Dean.”

“Castiel.” With one last squeeze, Castiel lets go.

Dean clears his throat. “Right. Come on in.” He takes a step back, and Castiel enters.

In his overcoat and tailored suit, Castiel doesn’t move like anyone Dean knows. It’s too polished to be a prowl, too intent to be casual. His motions carry purpose and weight, though the meaning remains illusive. He holds himself apart.

“Take your coat?”

“Thank you.”

Dean hangs the overcoat in the foyer closet, and his hands are absolutely not shaking. “I hope you came hungry. This place has an awesome kitchen.”

The smooth, nigh-emotionless facade wavers with a blink. “You cooked?”

“Yup.” He ducks his head. “Well, still cooking. Just finishing up, though, didn’t want anything to get cold.” Dean gestures the way, although the camera backing through the appropriate doorway is a bit of a hint already.

Dean leads him through the empty dining room, the long table devoid of place settings, and into the kitchen. “What’s your style? Rare, medium, dry brick?”

“I-” Another waver of persona, another moment of confusion. No sense of humor, or too tired to use it? “Medium rare, typically.”

“Awesome, coming right up.”

The kitchen island sports a pair of place settings, one corner framed by a pair of stools. Already set out are the condiments, the jar of pickle slices, washed lettuce, tomato slices, the works. Plus, a bowl of fresh fries.

“I used the air fryer on those,” Dean says, pointing them out while moving to the sleek stove. “Sounds ridiculous, but I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to try one of those bad boys out.”

Visibly quizzical, Castiel claims one of the stools while the cameras do their thing, circling around them on the shoulders of operators they’re meant to ignore. “You’re making burgers,” Castiel says, somehow making this a question.

“Yeah, nothing fancy.” Except for the quality of ingredients. Taking the beef out of the packaging, Dean had died inside, but mostly in a good way. He flashes a smile over his shoulder. “Hope that’s okay. I’m normally cooking for a pack of kids. Refined palates are very much not a thing.”

He’s pulled out the big guns for seasoning tonight: there’s no way he’ll be able to afford to ever again. As he gets the meat sizzling in the pan, he pops a pair of absurdly artisan buns into the oven with a lick of butter across each. On muscle memory, he opens the fridge and catches himself mid-reach. “Beer while you wait? They brought in a bunch of different kinds.”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Pale ales, it is.

Six minutes of small talk pass in a haze, but that haze gets a lot slower when the prince gets up and comes over to take a look. “That smells very good,” he says, as stiff and composed as a cardboard cutout not quite propped up all the way.

“Heck yeah,” Dean agrees on autopilot. “Do you want to do up yours, or are you okay with me taking the wheel?”

Castiel looks at him with absolute incomprehension.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” Dean decides. Somewhere between Dean getting the buns out and laying the lettuce on, Castiel realizes what he’d meant, but by then, Dean’s almost done. He moves both plates back to the kitchen island, laughing awkwardly as they shuffle around each other, laughing in relief when he doesn’t toss both burgers into Castiel’s suit.

Proving that he’s not a complete alien, Castiel does know what to do when it comes to condiments and loading his own tomato and pickle slices. “I haven’t had a burger in... I’m not sure how long,” Castiel confesses, not without hunger, his deep voice rumbling in lieu of his stomach.

Dean swallows hard. “Not a fan?“ he half-jokes.

Castiel levels a Look at him.

Dean laughs. From nerves.

“Synthetic meat substitutes are an important advancement,” Castiel says, as if by rote.

Dean shakes his head disparagingly. “Man, you swap out my ground beef for ground turkey, and I notice. My brother’s crazy about, what is it, tofu-point-oh, but I can’t hack it.”

“Sustainability doesn’t always account for personal preference,” Castiel answers, which Dean translates to “Yeah, it sucks.”

“You said it. Well. Bon appétit?”

“Mm.”

With that, they heft their burgers, angle their approaches, and bite in.

Castiel makes a porn noise.

Juices come out.

Bits of bun crumb and lettuce fall onto his plate as he leans forward over it, chasing the bulging burger into his own hands.

Castiel sets the burger down, chews vigorously, and uses his napkin while Dean stares like a rube.

“That,” Castiel says, “is very good.”

Dean grins. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” Castiel confirms, going back in.

They don’t talk so much after that. A couple times, Castiel has to turn a hand for a quick lick at his own wrist, rescuing his sleeve from the juices. Dean stares a little too hard until one of the cameras passes into his line of sight to do the same. Then he pulls his shit together.

“So,“ Dean says faux-conversationally, “what do you actually do?”

Castiel takes his time chewing and swallowing. “I flag issues in Parliament for my father’s review.“

“Like a big flag, or one of those little toothpick ones?”

Again, there’s that moment of lag behind those eyes. No less compelling for it, but a little worrying. “That does depend on the size of the issue. My team and I read as many of the proposed laws as possible once the Houses have argued them into shape. We try to close loopholes.”

“Huh.”

“There’s also public relations,” Castiel adds, somehow sounding more interested in thwarting legalese.

“Like this,“ Dean says, breaking one of the rules to gesture at the cameras.

“Like this,“ Castiel agrees.

“Are you cool with it?” Dean asks, because why the fuck not. If he’s gonna pack his bags, he might as well load them with answers on his way out.

Still, he doesn’t go so far as bringing up how Castiel’s disowned older brother and former crown prince didn’t manage to hack being paired up via TV show and popular vote. The former prince having an affair with his secretary and popping out an heir is, after all, a strange silver lining that opens up Castiel’s union to less procreative options. And the royal family does seem to love tiny Jack as much as they now loathe the prince-formerly-known-as-a-prince.

“I spend much of my life in front of cameras,” Castiel says.

Dean shakes his head, then holds up a finger as he chews. After a swallow, he says, “Having everybody vote on who you’ll marry. You’re okay with it?”

“Arranged marriages are a longstanding part of our history. The populace having control instead of my parents serves as a check on the monarchy.”

“That’s the party line, yeah, but that’s not what I asked.” It occurs to Dean that Castiel probably isn’t allowed to say, but screw it. “You. You the person. You’re okay with it?”

Slowly, Castiel nods. “I do have some amount of input, Dean.”

The chills spiraling out from his spine to curl up in his toes have nothing to do with the heat from the long-cold stove, but Dean can pretend. “I know the veto rules. You can save someone from being voted out... twice? Yeah.”

Castiel reaches for his beer only to hold it, not drink. “When the entrants are narrowed down to five hundred, an allotment of those go to my family members or friends. Then there are a hundred. As a group, we half that number. Then I pick twelve from that fifty.”

Dean’s eyes widen as his stomach drops. He leans his arm on the kitchen island to keep his balance on the stool. “You...”

“Picked you. Yes.” Castiel glances down and clears his throat. “And the rest of the house.”

“You already swiped right on all of us.”

“You could call it that.“

“Oh,” Dean says, and it comes out way too small. “I, um. Didn’t know that.”

Castiel nods. “They’ll edit this out for the show. It might be in a Behind the Scenes feature, though.“

“That is crazy surreal, you know that, right?”

This time when Castiel looks at him with those deep blue eyes and that tiny quirk to his lips, it’s the expression of a man who knows life is insane and has chosen to go ahead anyway.

“Yes,” Castiel says simply.

They finish eating in relative silence. Castiel seems content enough to help himself to homemade fries and ponder why ketchup is legally a vegetable if tomatoes are technically fruit.

“I was thinking,” Dean says by way of transition, “you’ve kind of had a packed week, right? Art show, concert, play, right?”

Still intent on chasing down the ketchup with the last of the fries, Castiel nods. “It’s been very nice having a night in.”

“Well. Uh. Good.” Dean clears his throat. “’Cause we’ve got some comfy couches and a couple of those seriously awesome recliners. And movies.”

Castiel smiles at him, and all of those little chills that have taken root in Dean abruptly blossom and melt. It’s bad. Real bad. But a kind of train wreck bad, because Dean can’t look away from his own oncoming Demise Via Handsome. “What did you have in mind?” Castiel asks.

What Dean had in mind is not being mocked on national TV for any of his completely awesome, completely normal movie preferences. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you don’t get out to the movies a lot, right?”

“I do occasionally attend a premier,” Castiel admits, “but not as often as I’d like.”

“Cool,” Dean says, because what else can he say to that. “Yeah, whatever you missed in theaters, let’s do it. Another beer?” Because Dean’s gonna need another beer.

Another round of beers, and another awkward transition through the mansion. Castiel’s stiffness has lessened slightly, but only slightly. The veneer of polish holding his exhaustion at bay cracks a bit further.

Confusing the camera crew, they set up shop in two adjacent recliners instead of braving the couch or even the loveseat. There’s a long pause for everyone to adjust the lighting for both movie-viewing and show-filming.

“What about you?” Castiel asks.

Dean looks down at the controls on his chair. He looks at his beer in the cup holder. He looks back to Castiel, who wields the remote but doesn’t scroll through the options on the screen. “What about me, what?”

“How are you adjusting to all of this?”

“Is it weird that the cameras are starting to feel normal?”

“I’m the wrong person to ask.”

“Touche.” Dean leans back, reclining the chair with him and putting on that nice heated seat function. “Honestly?”

Similarly reclined, Castiel nods, the side of his face against the headrest.

“This is way more fun than I thought it would be,” Dean admits. “Figured I’d be stressed out of my mind, but...“ He shrugs. It’s that old, amazing freedom of giving up. The abrupt lifting of expectations. “This is the first vacation I’ve had in... Shit, I don’t even know.”

“Vacation,“ Castiel echoes. “In the past fortnight, you designed and implemented a community garden.”

“And I was responsible for none of the kids there,” Dean says with maybe a bit too much glee. “Man, that felt good.” Then, remembering the cameras, he quickly adds, “Not that I don’t miss the boys. It’s just nice to not have to take care of everyone in earshot sometimes.“

Castiel keeps looking at him. Long and steady, the kind of slow gaze that makes words stumble out to meet it.

Dean resists as best he can, but he still keeps going, just a little. “I got this brother, Sam. Not a foster brother, the brother I came with. When he went off to college, he kept joking about how it was a good thing I had five kids to look after instead of just him.”

“Was it?”

“Was it what?“

“Good,“ Castiel says. “For you.”

Dean takes a moment to think about it, which is long enough to know he’d need way longer than a moment. He looks to the immense TV instead. “Looks like they got the lighting figured out. See anything good?”

Castiel doesn’t press the issue, and yet Dean can feel those eyes on him even as Castiel resumes scrolling. “I remember this receiving multiple awards last year, but I never watched it.”

Dean recognizes the title enough to know that it’s artsy and boring as shit. “Awesome, go for it.”

Ten minutes pass in aching silence. The TV doesn’t count. Neither does the camera crew.

Neither should Dean turning on the vibrate function of his chair, but Castiel immediately looks at him.

Dean turns the back massage off.

Still looking at Dean, Castiel shifts his hand on the armrest, and the same whirring, vibrating noise comes from his recliner.

Dean turns his own back on.

Castiel smiles at him.

Dean starts rambling. About other movies. About the local theater, before it closed. About herding the kids down to the library for a public screening on an overhead projector, and crossing his fingers it was a superhero movie instead of something they’d whine about being too babyish.

Finally, he rambles his way quiet, but by that point, he’s entirely lost track of the movie. He does his best to focus anyway.

The boredom sets back in, but Castiel doesn’t break the silence.

Dean glances over, then glances over again.

Shit.

The headrest now playing the part of a pillow, Castiel inhales and exhales with the steady rhythm of the deeply asleep. Despite already having been yammering on to an unconscious prince, Dean holds his breath.

He looks at the camera crews.

The camera crews, and the cameras, stare back.

This isn’t how Dean had meant to blow the date, but boring the guy to sleep definitely counts.

Holding back a sigh, Dean returns his recliner to its neutral position and gives up on the movie. He’d made dessert--mostly for himself--and now is definitely time to heat that up. Still, standing there, surrounded by watchers he’s not supposed to notice, he decides to maybe not completely tank his public image by abandoning his royal date.

He takes off his flannel instead, baring his forearms and band t-shirt. With the practice of many years of shepherding little brothers to bed, Dean lays the flannel over Castiel. The prince still has his suit jacket on, though unbuttoned. At some point, he must have relaxed enough to loosen his tie, but Dean can’t be sure of when.

Regardless, he tucks Castiel in before signaling the crew to leave him be. Dean turns off the TV, keeps the lighting dim, and slips back to the kitchen. With only one of the cameras following him in professional silence, Dean puts the pie he’d baked this afternoon back into the oven to heat up. He puts his music on low, gives the camera a good shot of him sighing in dismay, and proceeds to do the dishes.

Officially, they’re not meant to talk to the camera crew outside of those stupid confessionals everyone has to do, but 1. there’s only so much footage they can get out of Dean and B. he is armed with pie, boredom, and bribery.

Plus this way, they have to use the limited shots Dean already gave them, rather than Dean risking mistake after mistake, take after take. He may be pretty, but he ain’t dumb.

It’s over two hours later before there’s any sounds of movement off in the direction of the home theater. Still, the camera crew springs back into action, turning the equipment back on and scurrying to hide the extra plates out of sight.

Dean’s flannel draped over one arm, Prince Castiel comes shuffling into the kitchen with a glower plain on his face.

“You should have woken me up,“ Castiel grumbles in a tone Dean knows all too well, royalty or not.

“Cas, buddy? You needed that.“ Dean taps the kitchen island twice. “I already put on some coffee, you want some?”

Castiel sits heavily, his sigh weighty enough to bend him forward. Despite the makeup, he rubs at his eyes. “I’m meant to have kept you company, not...“ He trails off and sighs once more.

Dean looks him over.

Looks at the cameras trained on them.

In a clear and steady voice, Dean says, “Fuck.”

Everyone stares at him.

“Fuck, shit, balls, tits, pussy,“ Dean continues, getting between Cas and the cameras. “None of this is usable, shit, goddamn, fuck, and none of it motherfucking will be, titty fucking balls, so go ahead and clear out.“

Through time, persistence, and cussing, all things are possible, even calmly harassing a pair of camera crews into retreating. There’s not much Dean can do from keeping one crew from looping around to the other kitchen entrance, so Dean settles on a compromise: they’ll stay in the doorway and he’ll stop swearing.

When he comes back to Cas, it’s to find him cradling a mug of coffee and looking at the caffeine source with immense fondness.

“Saved you a slice, if you want it,“ Dean says, pulling out the remaining pie from the fridge. He realizes the picture he makes. “I didn’t eat the whole thing. The crew... Yeah.”

“I can see the plates,“ Cas says, nodding. Looking up at Dean, there’s a clear pall of guilt over him. “I apologize. That was very rude of me. You went through a great deal of effort.”

Dean waves it off, pouring himself more coffee as well in the face of Cas’ poorly concealed yawns. “Big meal, dark room, comfy seat. It happens. No big deal.”

“I’ll make it up to you next week,” Cas promises.

Very carefully, Dean swallows his coffee rather than spit it out. “Next week. You mean, the Day Trip week.” Followed by the Overnight week, two days for each of the remaining two contestants. Followed by marriage.

“I’ll make sure you’re scheduled first,” Cas continues. “You’ll have my full attention.”

Something a lot like terror without the pain rushes through Dean’s veins. Hot? Freezing? He can’t tell. It makes him take a step back, smack his ass against the counter, and let out a noise that immediately necessitates destroying all documentation of said noise. Dean does not giggle like a drunken bubble falling down the stairs. That is not something he does.

Cas seems to be under the unfortunate misconception that Dean does, however, and he smiles softly over the lip of his mug in such a way to prove it.

“Shut up,“ Dean mutters to his coffee. While Cas drinks, Dean rallies. “Besides, I haven’t been voted through to next week yet.”

“You’ll make it through,“ Cas tells him firmly. “I haven’t used any of my veto power yet.“

“Shut up and eat your pie.” Dean thrusts the warmed slice over. “You- shit, fork.“

After two incorrect drawers, Dean finds the forks right where they’ve always been. “Uh, here.”

Standing up, reaching out, Cas wraps his fingers around Dean’s hand rather than the utensil.

“Thank you, Dean,“ he says, and smiles.

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