I'm sitting under the morning light in the kitchen of Private Weston's. I've been sitting here for five years, writing letters that I never send. There's a letter in front of me now, one I've just written. Cas waltzes into the kitchen. He has work at noon, so he's getting his caffeine fix before. "My caffeine," he'd say. "And Dres fix. Meet me in the break room, big guy."
Christmas has come and past, New Years has come and past. It's been weeks of me thinking of how to say this, how to broach this topic, and a letter seemed fitting.
Cas drapes himself over my back, leaning over my shoulder to look at what I'm working on. "Still writing me letters, I see," he says, amused.
"Last one," I tell him as I finish the last of my sentence with a question mark and then drop my pen. He quiets as he reads what I've written.
"Is this real?" Cas asks after a moment.
"I wouldn't have written it if it wasn't," I say.
Cas swallows and the silence weighs on us.
"So when are you going to give me this one?" he asks, finally breaking the silence.
"Today," I say having just decided. Cas reaches over my shoulder, picking up my pen so he can scrawl his answer.
Will you move in with me? yes.
love, Cas & Dres
YOU ARE READING
Always Cas | ✔
Fiction généraleDresden Gibson never left. But that's not the story he's telling. [sequel to The Art of Moving On] It's five years later, and though time has a way of making all pain feel less prominent, the pain that sits right under Dres's ribcage, the one tied...
