#Dean knows this and is just ribbing him and has a thing for Mulder

[annmariethrush]

Thinking about the line “Do it doggy style so we can both watch x files” from the sex song The Bad Touch and DeanCas cause ofc

Dean proposing that they have sex while they’re on the couch watching X Files and Cas agrees but goes to turn the tv off and Dean’s like, nah just fuck me from behind and we can keep watching. Cas giving Dean the ‘humans baffle me’ look. Dean retorting with “Look, I know it doesn’t make sense to you cause you have literally all the time in the world but I’ve only got another 40 years in me at best. Not enough time to get all the serial tv shows and carnal pleasure in that I have on my agenda. Besides, I might get dementia and not be able to understand X files if I wait and I know for a fact that my joints are not getting any younger. Now line up lover boy, Scully’s about to see something science can’t explain.”

[ghostbustermelanieking]

xf fic: a blanket, the lights, and the sky

two college students, truth or dare, and a light in the sky.

(combined requests for an msr college au and msr truth or dare)

Scully’s flopped over his desk chair, writing furiously. She's managed to steal both his sweatshirt and his glasses, and there's a splotch of red on her cheek from where she's been resting it on her hand. They'd agreed, somewhat, to study in his dorm room because it was quieter (his roommate transferred in the second month of the school year), but Mulder's gotten little to no amount of work done. He has an article on a recent UFO sighting, highlighting up and down with neon green. “Hey, Scully,” he says.

She chews on her pen. “I have three pages left, Mulder.”

“Could you hand me the file on UFO sightings?”

She sighs heavily, reaches down and yanks open his drawer and pulls out his overflowing files (which are really just grimy manila folders kept from bursting open with rubber bands; he has an organization problem).

Balancing the folder on his pillow, Mulder flips through the crumpled sheets of lined paper until he finds what he’s looking for. Yep, just like he thought. “Hey, Scully, can you take a look at this?”

“Mulder,” she hisses, shoving the glasses up her nose. “Three pages!”

“This'll just take a minute.”

She sighs again, nods reluctantly.

There's no other chair, so he sits beside her, their thighs pressed together. Scully scoots so they can sit somewhat comfortably, shoving her textbooks aside with annoyance so he can set his paraphernalia down. “Look,” he says, tapping his scrawl. “Here, last year, there were recorded lights in the sky, seen in the month of January, every night in this field. Same place. I talked to some people who saw them last year, and they have the same description in this recent article.”

Scully raises an eyebrow, sliding her finger down the newer, highlighted article. She leans closer to read it better, and her hair brushes his cheek. “Lights, huh.”

“Do you think it could be a repeated occurrence?” he asks, leaning closer, too. “Annual abductions?”

“Whatever this is, it might be an annual occurrence,” she says. “Maybe. Although I'm not sure I'd call it an abduction. It might just be some idiots with a flashlight.”

“A planned flashlight phenomena? Seems more unlikely than my abduction theory.” Their knees bump together as Mulder reaches across her into his drawer, pulling out his grubby file on UFO sightings. Scully makes a face, swatting his arm. “I don't know how you find anything in here,” she says, slightly disgusted. “It's such a mess.”

He scribbles down some new notes, clips them to the article, and stuffs them in the file. “It's still January,” he says, lifting his head to look at her hopefully.

She's already shaking her head. “Mulder, it's almost midnight,” she says firmly, standing with her books and going to sit on the other bed. It’s a bare rubber mattress, punctuated only by a solitary sheet draped over it like the corpse of a cartoon ghost.

“It's Friday!” he argues. “Live a little! Aren't these supposed to be our partying years?”

“First of all, I'd hardly classify going out into a dark field, looking for improbable UFOs, as ‘partying’. And second of all, I've had late classes all this week, and I'm exhausted.” She fixes him with a glare from behind the glasses lens.

He feels slightly guilty. “You're right,” he says. “Maybe you should get some rest.” She makes an approving sound, already wrapped in her books. “So we can go looking for the lights tomorrow.”

She throws up a balled-up piece of notebook paper at his head.

“Come on, Scully, what else are you going to do on a Saturday night? And don't say study.” He’d call her a square again, but the last time he did that, she punched him. (In the ribs.)

She shrugs aggressively, shoulders looking smaller in the sweatshirt. “I don't know… maybe spending it in a way that won't make me have to spend my Sunday cleaning muck off my shoes. For once.”

He pouts a little at her, spinning the desk chair around. “And you'd leave me alone to go look for UFOs in the cold?”

Scully flips a page silently.

“What if I got abducted, Scully? You’d never forgive yourself.”

She writes something down, ignoring him studiously.

He sighs, defeated, and goes back to the new things Frohike had sent over in a thick, Sharpie-smeared envelope, telling himself that he's done this by himself a thousand times before he ever met her, and he can do it alone again. They work quietly for another half hour before she speaks. “Will you ask the Gunmen if we can borrow their car? I'm tired of the cold. And we're stocking up on food beforehand, because I always get hungry on these things.”

He tries to hide his delight, saying, “Sure,” casually as he shoves aside his stacks of paper. Scully's sliding her books into her bag and pulling on her boots. He can hear the wind blowing hard outside. “You can stay here, if you want,” he offers. Off her raised eyebrow, he adds, “It's late, and you live halfway across campus, and the dean never comes down this way… There's some extra sheets and blankets in the closet, I could take the empty bed and you could have mine.”

She smiles a little behind her hair, half-amused. “I'll be okay. But thanks for the offer.” Pulling her shoes on, she comes over to him at the desk and sticks his glasses on his nose, her fingertips brushing his cheek briefly. “Night, Mulder,” she says softly before leaving the room, letting the door bang shut behind her.

He doesn't realize until later that she's stolen his sweater. Whether or not it was on purpose, he doesn't know.

________________

They’d first met at the beginning of last school year, when they’d been partnered up for an assignment in their Intro to Folklore class. Scully (Dana, then) had been agreeable enough at first, but it hadn’t taken them long to start arguing over everything. (He’d gotten to a point where he’d suspected that she was disagreeing with him just to argue with him. He’d called her Scully because she hated it.)

Things had come to a head one day when they got into an argument so loud that the librarian had kicked them out of the library. Face flushed red with embarrassment, she’d stood with her shoulders hunched up and her arms wrapped around herself on the stone steps, and demanded why he believed in all these things.

“Because my sister was abducted by aliens,” he’d replied, straight forward. “And I’ve been looking for her for years.”

He’d expected her to say something about how there was no way that was possible in her usual snarky know-it-all voice, so he walked off before she could. She didn’t, though. She showed up at his dorm room an hour later, face still flushed to a point where he could count all of her freckles, but with a different kind of embarrassment. “Fox,” she started.

“Mulder,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Mulder,” she corrected. “I’m… sorry for what I said. I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“Everyone does. It’s fine.”

She shook her head, determined. Her eyes stole over his shoulder. “Is that your sister?” she asked, and for a minute he genuinely thought he was being cruel - ooh, made you look! - until he remembered the picture on the corkboard over his desk and followed her finger to it.

“Yeah, that’s her,” he said.

Scully nodded, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “Listen, Mulder,” she said awkwardly. “I don’t want our… disagreements to interfere with our work.”

“Let me guess… something about getting a good grade?”

She looked annoyed. “Something like that. But also because I’ve… enjoyed working with you.” She seemed halfway embarrassed to say it.

He had enjoyed working with her, too, but was even more embarrassed to say it back. So instead he motioned her into the room. “Have a seat,” he said. “My roommate won't be back til later, and I think we're still not allowed in the library.”

She smiled a little and came in, sitting in his desk chair and leaving Mulder to take his roommate’s. She made a face every time he called her Scully, but there came a point where she didn't seem to mind.

They'd mostly been study partners, at first, until the semester and their shared class had ended. He'd half-expected her to stop hanging out with him, but she'd shown up at his dorm room on the second day of the second semester and asked if he wanted her to look at those ghost sightings he'd shown her before break. So they'd remained friends (he calls them partners and she rolls her eyes, but he can tell she is pleased), and had begun spending more and more time together. She was sympathetic to his search for his sister, even had offered to help him, which was more than most of his high-school friends had done. (He'd cried in front of her, one time, half drunk on the tail end of a bottle of wine, crashed on the couch in her student lounge, and she'd wrapped her arms around him, just holding him in the dim hours of morning. She understands why he searches the way he does.)

(She'd fallen asleep in his bed once, slumped against him and his pillow while they'd reviewed for a test. He'd looked down at her and then had to look away. His chest ached. He wasn't supposed to fall in love with her.)

________________

A pre-med student and a psychology major can't afford a car (Scully doesn't have time for a job, and Mulder's too absorbed in his search and school to focus on it), so the two of them walk to the Gunmen’s ratty apartment in the early evening. Scully shivers in the wind as they go, knit hat pulled down over her bright hair, and Mulder avoids the urge to put his arm around her. He offers her his coat instead, and she rolls her eyes and refuses while her teeth chatter like chiclets.

The Gunmen (two college dropouts and a student who had originally just been their roommate until after a brief fling with a nameless woman and an insane weekend that the other two undoubtedly blow out of proportion as an epic, dangerous adventure where a massive conspiracy was discovered) are Mulder's sole contacts, a trio of hackers who publish an underground magazine and provide him with sources. He'd introduced Scully to them a couple of months ago, and although she'd spent most of the encounter making her I Don't Believe This face, she'd admitted she'd liked the guys after they'd left. He himself is a frequent visitor, as they're the only friends he has outside of Scully.

Frohike only buzzes them up after a detailed questionnaire (“Something about making sure I'm not a clone,” he'd said to Scully on their first visit, and she'd looked astonished). He's expecting them to be crowded around laptops and piles of papers as usual, but when they clamber through the front door, the three of them are sitting in the living room, and Langly is in the midst of shouting something at Frohike. “Mulder!” Frohike says good-naturedly when he sees them. “Dr. Scully,” he adds in an attempt to be sauve. (He'd nicknamed her that when she'd introduced herself as pre-med, clearly infatuated with her.)

“Hi, Frohike,” Scully says. “We came by to borrow the car.”

“You're more than welcome to it, if you join us in our game,” Frohike replies smoothly.

“Do I even want to know what that means,” she says in a deadpan.

“Truth or dare, actually,” Langly says. “You should play, daring these two to do stuff is getting boring.”

“Yes, because I love playing games that were popular at my middle school lunch table.” Scully crosses her arms.

He has a sudden, fleeting temptation to make her stay and play this stupid game. “Come on, Scully, let's play,” he says, pulling at her elbow.

She stares at him incredulously. “Mulder, you can't be serious.”

“Hey, remember what I said about living a little? Time to pay your dues, Scully.” He tugs her with him to sit on the couch.

“But… I thought you wanted to go look for the lights!” she protests, her voice rising a couple of octaves.

“Ehh, it won't even be dark enough for a couple hours.” He grins at her, and she sighs wearily and collapses on the couch beside him. Byers exchanges a sympathetic look with her. (He's in the middle of a giant bag of Cheetos, which Mulder assumes is some sort of dare because of the way he continues to gloomily eat them until the bag is empty.)

The game goes on for almost an hour, and Scully seems to loosen up a little as the game goes on, taking pleasure in making the guys look like idiots when it's her turn to ask someone. She methodically picks truth every time, though, and the Gunmen seem to get increasingly irritated at it. Finally, Langly hits her with the defining statement of the evening: “It's time for a dare, Scully, you've been dodging them all evening.”

The irritated look is back, and she huffs, leaning back into the cushions. “Fine,” she grumbles. “But I don't want to eat anything weird. I'm certain that most of you are gonna end up with food poisoning by tomorrow.”

“Well, that takes all the fun out of it,” says Mulder.

Langly gets something of an evil look on his face. “Kiss Mulder.”

Frohike makes a sound somewhere between a choke and a cough. Mulder wants to crawl under the couch and die, just a little. Scully looks a little embarrassed. “What?” she says distantly, tugging on her (his) sweater sleeves.

“Kiss Mulder,” Langly says innocently. “For at least 5 seconds.”

Mulder chokes on his drink.

“This is ridiculous!” Frohike protests, his voice cracking. “Didn't… didn't we make a no-kissing-rule at the beginning of the game?”

“She said no eating anything weird, I don't know what else that even leaves!”

“A ton of things!” Frohike insists, grasping desperately for excuses. “Prank calls… Byers, wanna help me out here?”

All four of them look at Byers, who raises his orange-smeared hands in the air innocently. “I… I plead the Fifth.”

“Fine,” Scully snaps, making all the heads in the room snap towards her. “Fine, whatever.”

Mulder finds his voice, suddenly, as she turns towards him on the orange couch. “Scully,” he says softly. “You don't have to…”

She seizes his face in both of her hands and kisses him suddenly. Hard, her mouth hotly searing his. She probably only meant her it to be brief, but he cups the back of her neck, her hair soft under his fingers.

He pulls away suddenly, turning to face the Gunmen. “That's five,” he says. Scully is breathing unevenly.

“More like fifteen,” Langly mutters under his breath. Byers elbows him.

“You guys ready to hand over the car keys?” Mulder says loudly. Frohike nods numbly, standing to go get them. Mulder follows. Behind him, Scully is thanking Langly and Byers for the car, a slight bite in her voice. He isn't sure if it's because she didn't want to kiss him like that, or she didn't want to kiss him at all.

“I don't think you have anything to worry about, Melvin,” he says in a low voice.

Frohike shakes his head gravely. “I think I have everything to worry about, Mulder,” he says, passing him the car keys. “Have you seen the way she looks at you?” Mulder swallows, squeezing the keys so that the serrated edge bites into his hand.

“Are you okay, Mulder?” Scully asks when they're out in the car. He's not looking at her so he doesn't know if she's looking at him, but she sounds sincere. He knows she's got that hat back on, is powerfully adorable, wants to kiss her again.

“I'm fine,” he says, starting the car.

________________

They've been in the car for a couple of hours, listening to a baseball game. Scully makes a joke about that day in the fall when he'd taught her how to hit a baseball, and Mulder laughs, but less enthusiastically than he normally would. He can't stop thinking about the kiss. He has no idea how she feels about it, she hasn't said.

He watches the sky, the stars. She dozes, burrowed under a blanket that she'd insisted on bringing even though the heat is all the way up.

“Mulder,” she says suddenly (softly, sleepily). “About what happened tonight…”

“We don't have to talk about it,” he says, too quickly. “I'm sorry I made you play, I didn't know they'd embarrass you like that… I'm so sorry. But we don't have to talk about it.”

“Mulder,” she says again, and she sounds more awake now, shifting in her seat to sit up. His fingers tap absently on the wheel. Her voice is warm: “What if I want to talk about it?”

He turns to look at her, astonished, but she's suddenly not looking at him; her eyes are fixed straight ahead, wide. “Mulder, look,” she says, hushed.

He turns, and gapes at the lights dancing on the horizon. They're there, the best proof he's had since Samantha's abduction, and they're coming closer.

“Shit,” he says, fumbling for the door handle. “Sorry, Scully, I have to…”

“Mulder, wait, what if it's dangerous…”

The door swings open and he almost falls out of it. Scrambling to his feet, he turns towards the lights eagerly. They are coming closer. “Scully, you've gotta see this!” he shouts, and then reconsiders. He can live with getting abducted, looking for his sister, but her...

“Mulder!” The car door slams shut behind him. He starts to call her name back. The light comes up in his face, blinding him. For a second, he thinks he's lost her, like his sister, and he was an idiot to bring her out here because now he's lost her forever, but then her small, cold hand sneaks into his and holds on tight. His ears are ringing.

And then it's over, gone, and Scully is standing behind him, shivering and the wind whipping her hat-frizzed hair around his face, and she says, “What the hell was that, Mulder?”

And he turns to face her, to tell her it was aliens, a UFO, Aurora borealis, the moon coming down to take a better look at them, because the possibilities are endless now. But instead he kisses her. And she kisses him back.

[casfallsinlove]

when the light came through (r, 2.5k)

[ao3] for grace ❤️

They leave the bunker just as dawn begins to ease over the horizon, until the sky above the Kansas plains is smudged with pale rose-gold. A soft mist hangs low, catching on the bare, bristly grass poking through the thin smattering of snow. Castiel has seen many sunrises in his time, but he thinks this is the most beautiful. Perhaps because of where he's going, or who he's going there with.

The Impala purrs as they breeze along the highway, a quick burst of the rumble strip when Dean takes his eyes off the empty road for a second too long, and the radio murmuring quietly. Some talk show or shipping forecast or something--they just wanted the background noise, really.

Castiel feels at peace. With Lucifer locked up and the Angels back in Heaven, there's little to be at war with these days. Occasionally a haunting pings up on their radar, or Sam will call them with news of a suspected vamp nest or rampant werewolf that he and Eileen are too busy to handle, but things are mostly quiet. Settled. Comfortable.

Of course Dean and Castiel don't know how to deal with comfortable very well. So here they are, driving with no endgame in sight, just them and the car and the wide open road. Twin duffel bags sit on the backseat; Castiel’s has clothes spilling out of it where the zipper broke, the corner of a book getting bent out of shape. A plant is wedged against the door, fastened securely with the seat belt; a philodendron, one that Castiel bought for 75 cents from a stall at the side of the road because it was brown and dying. Dean had told him to throw it on the compost heap at the time but then the plant started growing again, its leaves getting greener and smoother as it stood proud in its little yellow pot.

“You're like the Doctor Doolittle of flowers,” Dean said one day, when he caught Castiel gently stroking the leaves.

Castiel replied, “I think it’s found some trace energy left in me, some small part of what I used to be. It's feeding from me.”

“Gross.” Dean had pulled a face, but his fingers were affectionate, playful at the back of Castiel’s neck.

He couldn't leave the plant behind.

Now, Dean’s humming something tuneless as he drives, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the wheel. He glances over, once, twice. The Colorado state line looms in the distance.

“You're sure about this, huh?” he asks, anxiety barely hidden just below the surface of him. It ripples there, faint blotches of purple-blue and gray bleeding into Dean’s usual bright gold and green. Castiel takes Dean’s hand, runs the pad of his thumb over the small mountain ridge of knuckles. The gray starts to fade.

“I'm sure,” he says.

Dean looks at him again. The corner of his mouth quirks.

“Okay then.” He squeezes Castiel’s fingers and puts his foot down on the accelerator a little heavier.

The Impala roars. The road whips past, endless and full of potential.

     “No fucking way.”

Castiel scowls. “Yes way.”

Dean scrutinizes him across the sticky tabletop, like he wants to call bullshit. His burger, poised in midair, is slowly dripping sauce down his wrist.

“You're telling me aliens are real.”

“Yes.” Castiel slurps his Coke from a bright green twisty straw. It fizzes, makes his nose burn. “I've met them.”

“Yeah, okay, Mulder,” Dean shakes his head, his burger back on its trajectory to his mouth. He takes a huge bite and adds with his mouth full, “Little green men in silver suits? Impossible.”

They've been having this argument since they crossed the border into Nevada and saw a sign at the side of the road telling them to watch out for low-flying UFOs. Now they're in an alien-themed diner and Dean's stubbornness is back in full-force.

“Dean, you've met vampires and angels and God Himself, and yet you refuse to admit that there's life out there other than what's on this earth? There is more to the universe than humans can possibly imagine or ever hope to see. There are planets out there which hold life, intelligent life, surviving just as humanity survives. I'm several millennia old, I've met more than one species of extraterrestrial.” He shrugs. “But if you think you're right, go ahead and think you're right.”

Dean flicks a ketchup-dipped fry at him. “You're such an asshole.”

It's nice, being with Dean like this. Not having to worry about one of their lives being under threat or the next big bad coming to destroy the world. They can just be. And what they are is wonderful. Dean is wonderful, glittering gold, like something precious, something to be treasured.

The paper placemat underneath Castiel’s plate has a press-out alien mask in it. When Dean goes to the bathroom Castiel pops it out and holds it up against his face. He steals one of Dean’s fries, putting it in his mouth so it sticks out like a cigar.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester,” he says in a funny voice when Dean sits back down.

Dean blinks at him then bursts out laughing, throwing his balled-up napkin at his head.

“Oh my god. You're so fuckin’ lucky I love you,” he grins.

Well. Okay then. Dean loves him.

Lucky indeed.

“I love you, too,” Castiel says, still in the stupid alien voice, and at this point they're making complete spectacles of themselves, being far too loud and boisterous for the quiet diner, their feet knocking under the table, but Dean is glowing, beaming, an entire spectrum of colors almost too vibrant to look at. Castiel wouldn't want to dull that for anything.

   They roll into Vegas not long after dusk has fallen. It's warmer here, the desert air dry and dusty and getting caught behind Castiel’s teeth. Lights flicker and splinter in his peripheral vision; amber and red, green and blue and harsh pinks. People are out on the streets, laughing and drinking and flagging down taxis. Night doesn't really seem to make a difference here. Castiel pulls at his shirt, restless, his knees pleading for a break from the car. Dean is yawning, jaw cracked wide.

They head west to avoid the snarl of traffic downtown and end up in Sun City. Dean says it's just so they can find a motel that actually has a vacancy, but he seems relieved to be away from the hustle and bustle. Everything is softer out here, quieter. The set of Dean’s shoulders is more at ease.

The El Camino is a shabby little motel wedged between a Fuel-and-Go and a Denny’s, making the parking lot smell like gasoline and greasy food. Castiel wrinkles his nose as he leaves Dean to get the bags and heads into the lobby, waving away a cloud of cigarette smoke from a man with a beer gut pressing quarters into the vending machine beside the door. Inside, Castiel asks for a king and a wifi pass so he can watch Netflix on Dean’s laptop. The woman behind the counter smiles habitually at him, purple plastic nails clacking on the formica as she slides his key over.

A waft of stale, cold air hits them when they shoulder into the room. Dean sighs and switches the heater on and after a few seconds of clunking protest it huffs to life with a whine and a rattle. Castiel stands by the door and watches Dean for a minute; the tired curve of his spine, the way he toes his boots off and stumbles a bit. He takes his neatly folded pajamas out of the duffel and puts them on the end of the bed then looks at Castiel. An easy grin spreads over his face when he realizes he’s being watched.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Castiel shrugs. A smile sneaks into his lips though and Dean laughs. As he passes to get to the bathroom he brushes the back of his hand over Castiel’s stomach, his fingertips catching lightly on a belt loop, a soft and intimate gesture that leaves Castiel feeling warm all over.

While Dean’s showering he gets changed and climbs into bed. The blankets are scratchy on his arms but he's cold enough that he doesn't care. Dean's laptop sits on his stomach, its cable trailing across the brown, threadbare carpet to the outlet, the plastic casing of which is cracked in one corner and yellowed with age.

Navigating to their shared Netflix profile is easier now than it used to be--practically second nature. They're slowly working their way through several series together; most recently, Parks and Recreation. He pulls up the next episode and then clicks over to his emails while he waits for Dean.

Nothing from Sam, but there is a brief reply from Mary in response to a query Castiel had about the Baku, a monster of dream manipulation that she had mentioned once encountering. Castiel would like to plug all gaps in his knowledge to assist Dean as best as possible now that he's human, or as good as.

He’s typing a reply of thanks and best wishes when Dean appears beside him, freshly showered and in his pajamas, his skin slightly flushed and damp still, his hair towel-dried ruffled.

“What are we watching?” he asks, bouncing down on the bed and jostling Castiel. Rolling his eyes, Castiel presses send and switches tabs back to Netflix.

“Nothing yet, I was waiting for you.”

Dean narrows his eyes at the laptop. “Wait, was that Mom? What were you talking about?”

It's so easy to tease Dean that Castiel can't resist doing so, just a little. “That's for me to know.”

“Ugh, that's not worrying at all,” Dean says, but he actually sounds rather fond. Of Mary’s attempt at conquering modern forms of communication, maybe, or possibly the fact that two of the people he loves most get on so well. That last thought makes Castiel heart swell in his chest.

They burrow in together to watch Parks and Recreation, Dean’s head on Castiel’s chest. His laughter echoes in the space behind Castiel’s ribs, a fierce, lovely thing.

 It’s the early hours of the morning when Castiel stirs. He’s not sure what disturbed him; the blare of a big rig’s horn, or the tipsy giggles of some women outside on the breezeway, or maybe just an instinctive awareness that being awake would be a good thing right now.

He rolls over and into Dean, who grunts and mumbles, “You ‘kay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and kisses him.

Dean’s slow, sleepy, but gradually comes to live under Castiel’s touch. The kisses get deeper and more urgent, laced with a faint hint of peppermint toothpaste. Dean shivers when Castiel places his palm on his chest, warm through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and rolls onto his back, bringing Castiel with him. Soft ultramarine light from the buzzing neon sign outside creeps around the gap in the curtains, highlighting the lines and ridges of Dean’s profile, illuminating a path for Castiel’s lips to follow.

Hands grip his waist tightly, cling there for a moment then slip underneath Castiel’s shirt and skim up and down his sides. Dean’s hands are steady and sure, capable of great destruction but also incredible gentleness. It’s the latter with which he touches Castiel, his fingertips alone making heat pool in Castiel’s gut.

A quiet moan escapes Dean when their cocks brush through their pants so Castiel rocks lazily into a rhythm that leaves them breathless and shaking. Dean’s thighs are trembling either side of Castiel’s waist so he runs his hand down Dean’s arm and threads their fingers together, squeezing, pressing them into the lumpy mattress.

He doesn’t let them go, even as the headboard starts smacking the wall, and their kisses become little more than their mouths sloppily meeting in between gasps, and when Dean comes it’s with a choked mantra of “Cas, Cas, Cas” followed by every muscle in his body contracting, before he goes boneless with a long, contented sigh.

Castiel can feel the wetness, even through two thin layers, and it’s more than enough to tip him over the edge into headless, blissful oblivion. Starbursts explode behind his eyes as he groans into the damp skin at Dean’s shoulder, a hand curled around the back of Castiel’s neck and scratching at the sweaty hair there sending aftershocks of tingling pleasure up his spine.

“I love you,” he tells Dean, like it’s a fundamental truth of the universe, the thing that keeps the stars in the sky and the ocean tides anchored to the moon.

Dean lets out a sob, fractured, bone-tired, and holds Castiel close.

  The end of the line turns out to be San Diego.

Sand tickles Castiel’s bare feet, warm on his soles and gritty between his toes. As an angel he saw oceans being created, beaches unfurling from crystalline waters, plants blossoming and creatures evolving, but in retrospect everything pales in comparison to this: walking down a beach in South California, hand-in-hand with Dean Winchester while the sun sets ahead of them.

The sky is awash with pastels, the sand golden and the water a deep green-blue. Few people are around and those that are don’t pay Dean and Castiel any attention. Which is just as well, as Dean has decided to talk about the time he and Sam hunted a banshee in Florida at the top of his voice, eyes alight and free hand gesturing wildly as he tells Castiel about Sam falling into a swamp and screaming about alligators.

A shiver trickles its way down Castiel’s body; it’s cool out, a cold wind blowing in off the water and whipping at their hair. He presses closer to Dean’s side.

He squeezes Dean’s hand, smiles because Dean’s grin is infectious, pauses to kiss him, sugar-sweet from the ice cream they ate while huddled in hoodies back on the pier. Dean’s arm comes around Castiel’s back, trapping him there. He hums happily into the kiss, then breaks it to rest his forehead against Castiel’s.

“I never thought I’d get to have this,” he whispers, a secret just for them. “I gave up hoping. Every time I reached for it, it just seemed to get further away.”

“I know,” Castiel says, because he does, because it seemed impossible to him too.

“But now--God, me and you, Cas. I feel so…” Dean shakes his head, apparently unable to complete that sentence.

Castiel kisses the bolt of Dean’s jaw. “Yes,” he agrees, because the words won’t come to him either.

The sun continues to fade. Twilight inches in around the edges, painting the water a glossy bruise-black. Castiel doesn’t pay it heed. Dean exudes warmth, happiness, unwavering affection; the sun at the center of Castiel’s universe.

Who knows where they’ll go next. The entire country is spread out before them, theirs for the taking. As long as they’re together, Castiel doesn’t care.