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It was a Monday. The first Monday after Sam left for California, and Dean knew he wasn’t coming back.
John left that morning before the sun even began to rise without a word, leaving only the sound of his old truck's engine to rouse Dean from his sleep long enough to know he was gone.
And that was it. Dean was alone.
He had always wanted to die fighting, not with the barrel of a gun pressed to his temple in the middle of an empty motel room, so the answer was obvious. He needed to keep going.
Dean would claim he didn’t know much, but he did know one thing. He could hunt. Hell, he was even pretty damn good at it.
So, he did.
And after a year, on August 4th, 2003, Dean held his intestines inside of him with the palm of one hand as he loaded his final silver bullet into his gun. With one last, enraged roar from the bloodstained werewolf, Dean shot it through the heart. Dean dropped to the gun beside the furred body, peeling his hand away from his stomach, too exhausted to be alarmed by the sight of blood and other bodily fluids he was too delirious to name.
Dean would die that day. Alone. In the woods. Under an alias that would end him up in an unmarked grave. And neither John or Sam would know.
Maybe it was better that way. There was a certain dignity in dying alone. At the very least, it was quiet.
No screaming matches between his father and brother, no orders being thrown his way, and now that the blood loss was getting to his brain, there was no pain.
But, Dean did not get the chance to die. A light streamed down through the tree tops, white and blinding. Screaming erupted, not from Dean, but from somewhere above, speaking in a language unlike he had ever heard. With his last bit of strength, he covered his eyes, and the world went black.
Later, Dean would find out that he didn’t die that night. Instead, he woke up the next day with the sun bright above him and the jet black hair from the man collapsed on top of him tickling the inside of his nose. His stomach, which had been split open and became a marred, bloody mess, was smooth and unblemished. The only sign that told Dean he hadn’t been dreaming was the slashes through his shirt and the blood pooled beneath him and the man.
Coming to his senses, he shoved the man off him, who hit the ground with a dull thud before startling awake.
Dean was hit with the sight of the most beautiful being he had ever seen.
And he was an angel who fell from heaven.
After disobeying a direct order to not intervene with God’s Most Righteous, the angel’s wings burned and frayed to a shriveled up span of cartilage while the last bit of grace was used to keep Dean alive.
Dean never knew he was so vital, that someone up in the big, bright sky actually cared.
Dean was never one to pray or to believe in some freakish higher power, but now he had faith. He had faith in a fallen angel named Castiel.
With no real conversation, Castiel moved in with Dean.
For Dean, he needed a way to pay his unspoken debts to the angel. Dean took him shopping, buying him sensible shoes and sweaters that made him seem like he belonged, he learned his mannerisms that told Dean whether he was happy or sad, and he even gifted Castiel a little silver crucifix he couldn’t stop eyeing while Dean had been shopping for a new watch.
For Castiel, he needed a purpose. He had been a soldier for many years, never making a decision for himself in the constant turmoil of Heaven's army. But here, with Dean, Castiel had something to do. He couldn’t remember the exact thought process behind his decision to fall from grace for the righteous man, but it had felt like fate. Like Castiel was meant to do it. It was enamoring.
And so, in light of a lack of better options, the two began a rocky and horrifically codependent friendship. But, at the very least, Dean wasn’t alone anymore.
Living with Castiel was different than living with his family. Castiel didn’t argue or complain about where they ate or how long Dean took in the shower. He didn’t understand basic human actions like how to brush his teeth or when to drink water. It was like raising a child in a way, if said child would glare at you with the power of a thousand suns when you dared to tell him how to correctly tie his shoes.
Hunting was different, too. When it came to research, Castiel was smart as a whip. One hour in and Castiel would be listing off every single way you could kill whichever monster they were hunting that week. But the physical part was strenuous for Castiel, every punch and kick awkward and clumsy with his newfound lack of grace. And every offer to train the Angel ended with the trademark blue eyed glare.
One night, after a particularly intense hunt ganking a Wendigo, Castiel passed out the minute he sat down in the passenger seat of the impala.
When this first happened, many many hunts ago, Dean flipped out. After an unsuccessful attempt at rousing the unconscious man, he sped all the way to the nearest emergency room only to find out he had sent his over exhausted body into a deep sleep.
So, Dean now had experience.
Dean drove them back to the motel in silence, and even though practically nothing could wake Castiel up in this state, he didn’t want to risk Castiel’s precious rest with something as trivial as music.
When they pulled into the parking lot right outside their current room, Dean hesitated for a moment before waking the angel.
“Cas,” Dean shook the angel, “Cas, buddy, you gotta wake up. We’re here.”
Castiel blinked up at Dean, and not for the first time Dean was shocked by exactly how blue his eyes were.
“Sleep?” Castiel mumbled, looking more like that child Dean sometimes considered him to be.
“Not yet. We gotta get you inside first. The impala isn’t a good place to sleep.”
Castiel grumbled, huffing as he used Dean’s bicep to pull him to his feet. “Why are you special?”
“What was that, Cas?”
“Why are you special?” With a lucidity that didn’t feel right in the moment due to the angel’s exhaustion, he looked at Dean with a grave seriousness. “Why did I fall from Heaven for you?”
Dean swallowed hard, pretending those words didn’t tear right through him— like they didn’t matter, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. “I don’t know, Cas. Come on.”
Dean got him inside and into the bed closest to the door without falter, but his heart never stopped pounding.
Because wasn’t that just the burning question? Why would an angel of the lord care, when even his family couldn’t? Why did he expect Castiel to hold no resentment against him, even though he never asked for Castiel to fall? What made Dean think he was special?
Dean thought about it again that night. The gun. Barrel to his temple. The cowardly way that was a permanent fixture in the back of his mind.
But then Castiel would have fallen for nothing. And Dean couldn’t do that to the one person he had left.
Dean watched Castiel’s chest rise and fall as he slumbered on, and soon too fell asleep.
“Dean?”
Dean woke up in a hurry, pulling his gun from under his pillow and shoving it into the face of his intruder, panting heavily. Castiel froze in place and waited for Dean to come down from his adrenaline high. Dean hung his head on his hands, taking a deep breath.
“Whaddya want, Cas?”
“I- I believe-“ Castiel cleared his throat and started again. “I believe I said some things last night that I should not have.”
Dean sat up on the bed, sheets rustling beneath him. It was too early for this. “It’s alright, you don’t have to apologize or anything.”
“But I do. You are special, Dean. I’m sorry I led you to think otherwise. I was rather…incapacitated.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, Cas, well you sounded pretty sure of it.”
“Dean—“
“It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“I’m not sure if—“
Dean fixed Castiel’s impending argument with a withered look.
“Drop it.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the motel room until Castiel had the guts to break it.
“I dreamed of Heaven.”
Dean perked up.
“When I woke up I… I don’t know what I thought. But I missed it. It’s home. I don’t regret my disobedience, but I’ve still lost something important to me. And I won’t pretend I haven’t.”
Dean scratched at the back of his neck, not knowing how to deal with such potent grief. “It really is okay, Cas. I’m not going to pretend I get it, but… I know you mean it.”
Castiel took that as permission to sit next to him on the bed. He took Dean’s hand in his. “I do.”
Their relationship had changed after that morning. Soft touches lingered and passing glances turned heated.
Dean had known for a long time what he thought about men, although he never dared to say his taboo fantasy aloud.
But an angel? Even Dean would have to admit the idea was absurd. Even so, the tension grew by the day.
Like always, there was another hunt— one that brought them to an abandoned chapel house with boarded up doors and broken, stained glass windows. Within minutes, Dean lost sight of Castiel, taking care of the spirit of a corrupt priest by himself before searching for the man.
When he found Castiel, he had found his way inside the chapel, where he was on his knees before the altar, clutching his crucifix with a white-knuckled grip. His teeth were gritted, and the stained glass splayed a multitude of colors over his pale skin. He looked everything like the angel he used to be.
Dean stopped a few steps behind him, giving the angel space. “You’re praying.”
Castiel opened his eyes slowly, like he already knew Dean would be there. “Despite my circumstances, I still have faith.”
“To who? Last I checked, God went on a bender.”
Castiel never took his eyes off the altar, speaking lowly as if letting Dean in on a secret. “Did you know that all angels can hear prayers too? Not just the conscious ones either. Every want, every beg, every desire, we hear it all.”
“Where are you going with this, Cas?”
“I know where you put your faith, Dean.” Castiel looked at him then. “But you don’t know where I put mine.” He got up off his knees. “I believe in you, Dean. I wasn’t lying when I said you were special.”
Dean's breath caught. “Why are you doing this, Cas?”
“Because I can hear everything in your head right now, and I know my feelings are true.”
It was quiet in the chapel, the weight of Castiel’s confession and conviction sitting in between them.
Dean got closer, observing Castiel’s every expression as if waiting for him to change his mind. Ready to run back to his gun, to hunting, to the recklessness that he’d always expected to kill him, but he found nothing.
Dean grabbed Castiel’s hand, holding the limp extremity in his grasp and running his thumb over the soft skin until he could memorize the way it felt.
“So is this it? Are we being… like, a thing? Real?”
“Dean,” Castiel says, soft enough to be mistaken for a breath, “We can’t. I can’t.”
Dean felt that in his gut like a led weight. For such a confession, Castiel was still so afraid.
Dean ran his hands over Castiel’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around Castiel's neck until his calloused hands reached the clasp of the silver crucifix Castiel never took off. Dean went slowly, giving Castiel time to stop him, but he did nothing more than hold his breath as Dean reverently took off the chain and tucked it into his jean pocket.
“Now,” Dean started, eyes fixed on where the crucifix would lay against Castiel’s prominent collarbone— now missing like a part of Castiel left with it. Dean brought his hand up to cup Castiel’s tense jaw, tenderly swiping his thumb across his skin. “You can.”
It wasn’t quite permission—it was more than that. It was hate and pain and the worst, hidden parts of themselves. But it was glorious. Their own slice of heaven, a version that would accept them, and for a moment, they were free.
Castiel kissed him first. Lips smashing together as their tongues traced the lines of each other's teeth. Dean thought it was no different from kissing a woman, besides the tears he could feel wetting Castiel’s cheeks. Dean pulled away.
“We don’t have to. If it’s not what you want.”
Castiel’s pupils were blown wide, his gravely voice coming out like an offended growl. “Get on your knees.”
Dean hit the ground like someone pushed him, looking up at Castiel like he was a shrine to be worshipped. Castiel put a hand to his head, and with a dizzying lurch, they were back in their motel room. Dean pressed his head against the angels knees until his vision stopped swimming. Castiel threaded a hand through Dean’s hair. When he was stable, Dean stood.
Dean glanced back at his bed. “In a little bit of a rush there, Cas?”
“Pants off. Now.”
Not a second was wasted. Dean's jeans and belt hit the floor with a clink, followed shortly by his flannel when his shaky hands managed to unbutton them.
The second he was laid bare, Castiel shoved Dean down onto his stomach, wrapping himself around Dean's back instantly, soaking in his warmth. Dean preened into it.
Castiel nuzzled his nose in between Dean’s shoulder blades and spoke directly on his skin. “Your heart is racing. I can hear it.”
Dean perked up, a little offended. “And yours isn’t?”
Castiel chuckled. “No. Nothing has ever felt more right.”
And when they woke up dazedly the next morning, with sweat clinging to their skin and tacky cum drying between their thighs, Castiel realized what Heaven on Earth could feel like.