after a storm (destiel)

Part One

Cas is eating quietly in the war room with a rapt expression, and for the first time since Dean bought a box just to spite Sam, he doesn't feel so bad about the freezer chock full of burritos. He watches Cas from a stealth position behind a column, arms folded over his chest, nausea churning his gut. Cas closes his eyes with each bite and chews like he's never tasted food before—which, right. He hasn't, not the way Dean tastes things, anyway. But it's funny that Cas is however many millennia old, literally watched humanity crawl out of the mire, and thinks frozen burritos constitute the height of gustatory pleasure.

Dean's amusement is short-lived. Why the hell didn't Zeke say something on the drive home from Detroit? They could've headed up to South Dakota and dropped Cas off with Jody for a few weeks. Why did he wait until they were back in Kansas and the knot in Dean's stomach was starting to uncoil because Cas was safe, bumming around in Dean's old sweatshirt, food tucked in his cheek like one of those damned guinea pigs he's always on about?

Dean would get him one, if he asked. He'd get him one with a fancy enclosure, multi-colored plastic sections and all those tunnels.

What makes it worse is Dean wants him here, and he's pretty sure Cas wants to be with him, too. But he won't risk Sam's life. Dean's done a lot of shitty things over the years, but marching up to Cas and telling him he can't stay? Yeah, that one takes the proverbial cake. It takes the whole godforsaken baked-good industry.

Cas's face is one of a man gutted. Dean recognizes that one, the haunted expression he bore fresh from Purgatory. It began to leach from him again as he eased the sleepless nights with alcohol and waited for a word, any word, from Cas—the same gray cast to his skin and bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes, as if Purgatory itself oozed out of his pores, staining him in monotone.

God knows Cas has been through worse, did his damndest just to survive, just to get to them, and now Dean's booting his ass out without explanation when he's only been here a couple hours. Well, A+ job, Dean. Some fucking hero you are.

He almost hurled when he watched Cas die in that apartment, knowing he'd been too late. Ganking that reaper a thousand times over can't erase the sight of her driving a blade into Cas's chest or the sound of Dean's voice trembling his name. Cas's lifeless face still flushed between Dean's palms. Lips Dean would never kiss.

Just a few seconds. He only needed a few more seconds, and Cas wouldn't have—

If he'd run that light, cut off the semi-truck, he would've gotten there in time to stop her.

If it hadn't been for Zeke, Dean would be laying an armful of lilies on Cas's grave instead of ticking down a mental checklist, preparing to send him out into the world.

Despite Zeke's threats, Dean can't stomach the thought of Cas walking out of here. Not even knowing he'd be okay with a fake ID, a couple cards with a cushy limit, new cell phone with Dean's number first on speed dial. It's not enough. Despite eons of observation, Cas has no idea how to be human—it's the difference, Dean supposes, between having an ant farm and being shrunk down to their level.

You can't stay.

His words echo in the tense silence between them.

"Not in here," he amends, waving a clumsy arm around the war room. Cas is still chewing that freaking burrito, lips are shiny with grease. "We should get you set up in your own room."

Cas blinks, taking a second to swallow and process, but he gets to his feet.

"Dean, thank you," he says. Quietly. Gratefully. There's a tremor in his chin before he dips his head. His face is pale. Dean's probably is too. "For a moment, I thought you were asking me to leave."

The sick feeling in Dean's gut is guilt. He wants to rip the Band-Aid off, come clean about Ezekiel and the trials and the extent of the damage they did to Sam, but he doesn't. He slings an arm around Cas's shoulders and guides him toward the hall, Cas held firmly against his side, swaying into him as they walk the gauntlet of doors.

Dean tells him to pick one. Cas selects the room across from Dean's and steps inside with awe.

"Get some sleep," Dean tells him. He shuts the door. He'll tell him tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes, but Dean doesn't confess. He doesn't tell Cas tomorrow or the next day, but he finds soft flannel sheets for the full-size bed in the room Cas selected. He finds a spare blanket and an old pair of jeans and donates his extra pillow.

It's surprisingly easy to avoid a run-in with Zeke. As long as he's got Cas with him, Zeke keeps his distance, leering at Dean between blinks but otherwise dormant.

It's no chore to keep Cas with him. He sticks by Dean at breakfast and follows him to the dungeon to check on Crowley and out to the garage when Dean works on the Impala. He poses question after question that Dean answers with all the patience he can muster—should he drink every time he feels thirsty? How much water is too much? Would it be more practical to carry a canteen because the sensation of dry mouth is, and Dean's quoting, "about as pleasurable as Michael's sense of humor"?

Sammy used to rattle off questions like this, when they were little.

"You wanna know something, you ask," Dean grunts, scrounging around the lower kitchen cabinets for a water bottle that he fills to the brim. Cas drinks and screws up his face and prepares a new onslaught of questions.

He finds the stash of frozen burritos and nukes a couple in the microwave for lunch, serving them on plates like a real damn meal. He calls Dean to the table where they eat like a couple people who eat together all the time.

Dean doesn't struggle to fill the quiet moments. They've known each other long enough that silence between them is comfortable. It's a nice change, eating with Cas instead of Sam and Kevin's collective geekery; to nudge Cas with his elbow and laugh at nothing specific, giddy because Cas is here with him, glancing at him shyly every few seconds before smiling down at his plate.

Dean knows what those looks mean and why his stomach flutters whenever Cas's eyes fix on him. He refuses to put a name to it. Naming something makes it real. If it's real, it can be taken from him; but if it remains this nameless, unspoken thing developing between them, he can have it.

So he revels in it. He stays up long after Sammy and Kevin go to bed, huddled on the couch with Cas tucked against his side, a blanket draped over both of them. Cas isn't naïve—Dean's pretty sure he knows what they're doing. And Dean likes what they're doing, no matter how little time they might get to enjoy it. He sits with Cas long after the good shows are over and infomercials dominate the lineup. He watches them on mute. Cas falls asleep on his shoulder every night, and Dean lets his arm go numb behind Cas's neck. The water bottle is a fixture on the coffee table.

Cas watches, fascinated, as Dean shaves in the morning. Dean shows Cas the correct way to guide a razor over his skin. He indulges in the way Cas thrills over dispensing shaving cream and lathering it in his palm, and he winces the first time Cas nicks himself. Dean applies a bit of toilet paper and gives Cas a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder as the little white square colors red.

His hand lingers. Cas doesn't say anything. Encouraged, Dean slides it to the back of Cas's neck. Cas's face is suffused with pink, eyes dark and curious. He watches Dean touch him in the mirror. He breathes through his mouth, lips just parted. When he opens them fully to speak, Dean squeezes his neck once and drops his hand.

He doesn't kiss him. He's not sure if they're ready for that, if Cas can process it after what that reaper did to him. Dean's not sure what he thinks of sex or how he thinks of it—if he thinks of it at all. Dean's no better than she is if he makes Cas think staying here hinges on that, so he doesn't make a move.

But Cas isn't out of reach. Being able to see him, touch him, breathe him in—it diffuses his desire, like heat lightning that crackles through his veins and suffuses him with contentment. They might never reach a point where he can lower his mouth to Cas's and kiss the exhaustion from his face, but if he can end his days like this, with Sammy dozing in an armchair and Cas's head heavy on his shoulder, hands balled in Dean's shirt, he could be happy.