Just Realized My Favorite Sitcom Husband Is Bisexual Disaster Feminist Twink/twunk With A Heart Of Gold

Relationship: Dean Winchester/Castiel

Summary: Cas and Dean finally meet again in heaven after the confession.

Tags: angst with happy ending

Dean couldn't stay still.

After rearranging Bobby's entire house (Bobby was not happy), Dean had cleaned the whole gun collection (twice), the attic, and then resealed the drafty windows. That was done pretty quickly so he also cleaned the yard, refitted the back door, and even fixed the creaky porch - why the hell did that thing still creak in Heaven anyway?!

But it wasn't enough.

There was still an itch below his skin, a restlessness he couldn't kill. So he was now elbows deep in a Pontiac Firebird, trying to fix a problem that Bobby claims doesn't exist - but Dean knows there's a squeaky noise coming from somewhere and he's gonna find it. He rubs his arm against his sweaty forehead, unwittingly smudging it with a streak of oil. He's so focused that he doesn't notice the presence behind him until Castiel speaks.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean startles and nearly hits his head on the hood of the car. He turns around quickly, green eyes clashing against blue.

He hasn't heard that rumbling voice since that day in the bunker, and he hasn't seen those eyes staring at him since they were being devoured by the black tendrils of The Empty. The sight momentarily brings flashbacks that Dean would rather forget - of words that whispered a goodbye, of a fantasy that was far too real, and of the cold despair after being left alone in an empty room, staring at the spot where his everything had once stood.

"Cas," he tries, but his voice falters.

Cas smiles, though his expression seems somewhat sad. They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, lost in each other. Then, the moment cracks. Dean frowns and turns away, back to the car. There's something dark and bitter lodged in his chest, it tastes of bile and it spills into his words.

"Good of you to finally show up."

If Cas is bothered by the harshness in his tone, he doesn't show it. Instead, he chooses to remain silent, but does come closer, peering over Dean's shoulder to observe what he's doing. For some reason, it strikes another nerve and Dean huffs, throwing the wrench he was holding on the floor and turning back fully to meet the angel.

"Look, I don't know why the hell you think you can show up here like this after avoiding me for months."

Cas moves away, allowing Dean space now that he's facing him again, especially since he looks like a mountain lion ready to pounce. It pisses Dean off even more, but he stubbornly keeps his glare and folds his arms - demanding something, or maybe anything.

Cas opens his mouth to speak and Dean waits, and waits, and waits but nothing comes out. Chapped lips close once again, like a tomb being sealed back up. The angel avoids his gaze, staring at the floor. Dean's jaw ticks, tightens, then explodes:

"You know what? I'm fucking done. Months, Cas! Months!"

Fuck, he hates the way his voice sounds.

He knows he's at the edge of holding it together, like a dam ready to overflow. He closes his eyes and forces himself to calm down, breathing in and out. His hand comes up to run against his head, streaking dark black oil into the short hair and messing it up. It feels like Chuck still has him dancing in his palm, and that Billie is still there, waiting outside the door. It feels like the Empty never let go of Cas, never returned him. And Dean is still on that floor, head in his hands, phone ringing into the silence. Yet here is Castiel, angel of the Lord, standing in front of him, safe and sound.

"Why are you even here? Why now?"

"I miss you."

The words crash into Dean like a truck doing 90 on the highway, punching all the air out of him. His lungs burn with the weight but he can feel part of that anger dislodging and falling away. His ribcage is cracked by the claws of hurt, his eyes flooded by resent, but his heart - the traitor - sings a choir of pointless, stupid, hope.

He throws his head up, staring at the sky and trying to keep it all in. Finally, he surrenders to that tug of hope, feeling like a rabbit caught by a fox but still praying to be spared. He's madness shaped haphazardly into the shell of a man.

"Well... I was here." His voice cracks, following the betrayal of his heart. "Where the hell were you, Cas?"

"I..."

The angel seems just as lost on what to say, what to feel.

"I thought it would be best to give you some time, and space."

Dean swallows the rock in his throat that's keeping him from breathing. They stay like that for a beat, and then another, and then another. It seems like centuries before Dean finally gains the courage to look back down.

"You know... I... I dreamed about how you would tell me."

Cas frowns, not yet picking up on Dean's meaning. Dean continues.

"Sometimes it looked like you were about to say it... like that one time when we were at the diner after the twin witches case. We were laughing about something stupid - I don't even remember what anymore. And all of the sudden you looked at me like I hung the moon. I... I thought you were gonna say it then. I was so freaking scared."

Castiel's eyes widen slightly. Great, the poor bastard is finally catching on. Still, Dean presses on.

"Or that one time in the library, when you caught me reading Jane Austen and I kept sayin it was for a case... but hell, you knew the truth... and you just played along and smiled at me like it was ok. You looked like you were about to say it then too."

"Dean..."

"Then there was that one time in the kitchen... I was making burgers and asked you to help me but you kept messing up. I have no idea how someone who can master an angel blade like you do, can suck so hard at cutting tomatoes. But when I was complaining and teaching you how to do it you just looked at me with these big freaking eyes..."

Castiel's breath falters, even though he doesn't need to breathe. It's enough to make Dean brave, it's enough to make him step closer. Cas tilts his head, eyes rimmed red and seemingly about to burst.

"You knew?" Cas gapes, shocked, eyes big and round. He looks hurt, confused.

"I think... part of me always knew. And it freaking terrified me, Cas."

"I'm sorr-"

Dean doesn't let him finish, instead just grabs his lapels and pulls him in. If Cas doesn't get it yet, Dean will just have to show him.

The clash of their lips is like stars colliding - explosive, colossal, namelessly bigger than Dean can ever define.

But if Cas is Icarus, Dean is the Sun - and every star devours itself until there's nothing left. Cas had pried him open, ruthlessly, mercilessly, with three little words. And then? Then he had left. He'd left Dean behind just like everyone always did.

'Don't do this, Cas.'

The words echo in his mind now, even as he loses himself in the feeling of Cas, so close, so perfect, finally here - his - even if just for a breath, before Dean's alone again. For once, Dean doesn't care if he will be broken forever, beyond repair, or if he will eat himself alive until there's nothing left... not if it means living this moment of truth, of freedom, of love.

Dean knows he should pull away. He can feel the wetness trailing down his cheeks, the despair in his hands, the eagerness in the pathetic sounds escaping his mouth. He should let go, but doesn't know if he will ever have the strength.

But then something magical happens:

Cas starts to kiss back. Slow, tentative at first, but then with a kindness that picks Dean apart and glues him back together, and a gentleness that swallows worlds. Suddenly the destructiveness, the bottomless hunger, the fear - they all melt away into nothing. The planets align and the universe sings a harmony of

'yes',

of 'right',

of 'meaning'.

Maybe it was always supposed to be like this - maybe part of Dean had to die for a galaxy to be born. Maybe the part of him that was so afraid of getting hurt had to be murdered so he could receive the sacrament of Castiel's lips on his, so he could feel the angel's hands like salvation on his skin, so he could fall with the surety that he would be caught. It all becomes too much - too big - and Dean hides his face in the crook of Castiel's neck, his hands fisted on the crinkles of the trenchcoat.

Something had irrevocably changed, and could never be put back.

"Dean... I'm sorry."

Cas says, astounded, finally getting it. For someone who always read Dean like a book, who always saw right through him, it had taken him a while to understand that the very thing he wanted, he could have always had - if only he had asked. If only he stayed. If only he was Dean's.

"I didn't realize."

"S'okay..." Dean mutters, the sound wet and breathless. His fists unwind, and he lets his hands travel across the expanse of Castiel, all around until they're pressing against the angel's back, and then pulling, hugging Cas close. "Just... don't ever do that again. I need you."

Don't leave.

Don't leave me.

"I won't. I promise."

Cas whispers, treading his fingers across Dean's hair. A tingle of grace hums and the oil and sweat and grime disappear, almost like they were never there. Gently, he kisses Dean's temple - it's a shrine worthy of worship. Cas confesses once again, but now enlightened:

"I love you."

Dean holds on tighter, arms trembling.

He doesn't say anything back, so Cas pulls his chin back up, kissing the words against his lips again and again and again until Dean starts to believe them.

When Dean finally whispers it back, the look on Cas' face irradiates a warmth he never thought could exist. It pads the hole inside him with something soft, and sweet, that promises to grow. Cas kisses his knuckles, reverent and slow and then smiles, wide and brighter than any single point in time before.

Just like that, Dean is sure:

He'll never have to say goodbye again.

no, you don't understand... As soon as Cas got back from the empty and there was Destiel kiss, Dean would treat him like a Queen. Pampering, hand kisses, sandwiches, bees, etc

because we need all the softness in our lives, could I ask for slow dancing + ineffable husbands? 🥺

I think we all deserve this, yes

---

Crowley—and he would sooner jump head-first into a pool of holy water and then drink it than admit this aloud—is happy. Deliriously happy, in fact. He's topped out the happiness scales and is inventing new shades of happiness as he twirls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and pretends not to be watching Aziraphale across the table as said angel watches London go by through the rain-streaked bookshop window.

They're okay. They're both okay. The world, too, is okay. They've still got it. They've still got each other. All is right in creation and eternity stretches out in front of them, absolutely bursting with potential. It's the first day—since it is actually three in the morning now—of the rest of their lives.

So they ought to start, Crowley thinks, as he means to go on.

"Angel," he says, something inside him curling up warmly at the way Aziraphale's attention falls on him all at once.

"Mm?"

"You," he says, tapping on the back of Aziraphale's hand. "Owe me something."

"I owe you a great deal," Aziraphale says quietly, looking away.

That won't do. That won't do at all.

Crowley gestures vaguely at the record player, and the first strains of something soft and slow crackle in the air.

He stands, giving himself a moment for the room to stop swaying, and then offers his hand.

Aziraphale looks at it like he's never seen it before.

"Apology dance," Crowley says. "Version two."

Aziraphale continues to stare at his hand, an adorable little line forming between his brows.

"Come on," Crowley beckons with his extended hand. "Do you know how often I've offered to dance with anyone? At all? Once. Just now. You'd be missing out on a genuine historical event if you don't take me up on it."

Aziraphale takes another moment. He's gotten cautious. It'll wear off, Crowley thinks—hopes—sometime between ten seconds and a millennium from now. Give or take.

But that's all right. They've got time. And now he's not wondering anymore. He knows. He's just got to wait.

"C'mere," he tries, promising himself he'll drop it if Aziraphale doesn't take the bait this time.

But he does. Wonderfully, gloriously, he does. His hand slips into Crowley's like it was made just for the purpose. Crowley's fairly sure it was. Not even God could tell him otherwise.

Crowley does not slow dance. Generally speaking, short of emergencies or spectacular drunkenness, he does not dance, full stop.

But it's very easy to draw Aziraphale close. Rest a hand on his waist. Sway aimlessly with him in small, easy steps around the cramped quarters of the bookshop.

"There we go," Crowley speaks up once he's sure they're really doing this. "Think I like this one better."

And then, because he really wants to and he's still feeling very brave and at least a little drunk, he leans close to rest his forehead against Aziraphale's, and smiles. This is also, he thinks, where his head belongs. In the grand scheme of the universe.

"A-apology... accepted, then?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yeah," Crowley says. "Think so."

"G-good. Good. Crowley, I'm so—"

"Shh," Crowley murmurs, twirling Aziraphale away slowly and then pulling him back in. "Forgiven. Forgotten."

Aziraphale makes a noise of disbelief.

That won't do, either.

Slowly, ever so slowly, with all his attention laser-focused on Aziraphale to see if he flinches or pulls away or stiffens at all, Crowley raises a hand to his cheek, and strokes his thumb along the ridge of it.

"Would you forgive me again if I kissed you, angel?"

Aziraphale's breath hitches. The lights flicker. The record skips.

"Since when do you ask permission?" he asks, voice trembling again.

Crowley laughs, low and crackling along with the record player. "I'm not," he says, leaning in close, until there's barely the space for an angel to dance on the head of a pin between them. "I'm begging forgiveness."

And then he closes the distance, soft, tentative, gentle. Six thousand years, give or take, in the making. It feels like every second of it. It feels like every second was worth it, when Aziraphale opens up under him, and—surprise of surprises—darts his tongue out in the world's least practiced attempt at kissing back.

Not, honestly, that Crowley has any more experience. He's just not trying to rush headlong into the complicated stuff.

He pulls back laughing again, giddy with it, and gives Aziraphale another, more enthusiastic twirl under his arm.

"Well?" he asks. He knows the answer. It's written all over Aziraphale's face.

His angel clears his throat. "Well. We may need some practice to get that right."

Crowley breaks into a grin that immediately makes his face hurt. "Just as well we've got forever, then."

Neil Gaiman, probably: Crowley is a cool, suave, powerful prince of Hell. He is somewhere in London sipping whisky and staring mournfully into the middle distance while "Pale Blue Eyes" spins on the record player.

Me: So the Bentley is refusing to play anything but "My Happy Ending" by Avril Lavigne on repeat and Crowley has been lying in the back seat for three days straight. He has consumed half a dozen gallons of ice cream right out of the carton while ugly crying so hard that his corporation manifested smudged eyeliner in sympathy.

beloved djungelskog...

I love movies but you can’t really fuck them

i dont want a love like the movies. i want a love like they have in sitcoms. playfully roasting each other. every one teasing us when we're together. slowly becoming best friends. like Jake and Amy from Brooklyn Nine-Nine, or Jonah and Amy from Superstore, or Phil and Claire from Modern Family, or Ben and Leslie from Parks and Recreation. Movies say 'happily ever after' but sitcoms show you the after. I want a love like the sitcoms

it was the meat of the homent...