The rain was welcome.

It had been days, weeks even, since the last rainfall, and the garden had begun to show signs of dehydration. The lack of water itself would not have been a problem—it was easily remedied with a watering can or the emerald green hose coiled on the patio. But Castiel was overzealous in his tending of the garden, terrified that the newly-planted herbs and flowers would wither and die. Several times a day Dean caught him gazing out the kitchen window, forehead pressed to the glass, as the angel's blue eyes surveyed the little brown plot like a worried father.

Once, Dean had awoken in the early hours of the morning to find the bed empty and cool beside him. Panic-stricken that someone, or something, had come for his angel, he had lunged out of bed and sprinted around the silent house in a frenzy. Heart pounding in his chest, he cried out Castiel's name, racing from room to room in his boxers and one slipper (the other having fallen off in his haste). Finally, as he darted through the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of something moving past the window. He grabbed the Colt from the fifth drawer on the left of the sink and stalked outside, barefoot into the brisk night air. He tramped through the underbrush he'd yet to clear out (they were restoring the estate and it was taking longer than planned), around the corner of the house, and was shocked to find a shadowy figure traipsing across the garden. He cocked the trigger of the legendary gun, moving silently despite the roar of blood rushing in his ears. When he came closer, he let out a strangled sort of yelp halfway between frustration and relief.

The angel's dark, tousled head turned toward the sound and a wincing expression spread across his face. He knew he'd been caught; the watering can hanging from his left hand was damning evidence. Dean crossed the garden, careful not to step on the precisely-aligned little clumps of upturned soil beneath which the seedlings lay. Castiel's mouth had opened and closed awkwardly as he struggled to explain himself. Dean took the watering can from him.

"What the hell are you doing, Cas?" he demanded. "It's fucking three in the morning."

The angel's eyes went wide and he hung his head, speaking to the ground. "I couldn't sleep. I went to get a drink of water and then I thought it made sense that plants thirst at night, too."

Dean stared blankly at him and the angel looked up to meet his gaze, face as solemn as death. Dean shook his head. "So you decided to just walk outside and water the plants before the ass-crack of dawn."

Castiel tilted his head to the side in the familiar stance of bewilderment. "The dawn does not have a crack, Dean. I don't understand—"

"Don't worry about it. Forget it. Just come inside, Cas, it's fucking cold." He put an arm around the angel's shoulders and led him away, explaining for the thousandth time that it was just as likely for Cas to drown the plants with over-watering as for them to wilt from dehydration. For a being with a near-eternity of life experience, he was absurdly lacking in common sense.

Dean smiled at the recollection of the memory as he watched the rain streaking down the bedroom window. It wasn't just a normal rainy afternoon, it was the delicious sort of cosy storm that he prized above all others. The sky was darkened to an ominous dusky purple and the clouds contorted into shreds and streaks across the horizon, every now and then sharply illuminated with lightning. The distant roll of the thunder was as calming a sound as Dean had ever heard, and he decided he would relish the rainstorm as thoroughly as possible. Living in interior Alaska had given him new insight into summertime—if the world was warm enough to produce any kind of precipitation that wasn't frozen, it was more or less a miracle. Although, he noted inwardly, he had a considerably stronger definition as to what truly consistuted a miracle, having borne witness to several in his short lifetime already.

He glanced at the clock; it was nearly five. Castiel's evening class would be ending soon. Dean had reacted with surprise at the revelation that Cas was interested in school. He'd never been a huge fan of formal education himself, but he supposed that it made sense for the angel to be curious. Thousands of years he'd watched the Earth, but until recently he'd never been given much of a chance to experience any of it. Now that Cas was almost human, he was rabid for knowledge, ravenous to collect every scrap of humanity. If he had his way, the angel would leave no stone of mortal existence unturned. He was determined to learn all there was to know about being human, and Dean was usually more than willing to act as guide. Dean smirked and sank into the mattress behind him, thinking about the many things he'd already shown Cas, the various aspects of living that he'd introduced to his precocious angel.

Castiel was not only interested in exciting things, though, to Dean's dismay. He was intrigued by biology, world history, romantic poetry, quantum physics, foreign politics, song composition; it had been a massive chore having to narrow down his options in choosing which classes to attend. In the end, they had jointly decided on an introductory course on string instruments (which Dean was adamant about because he loved the idea of Castiel playing a harp), intermediate chemistry, a lecture course on Shakespeare, and, to Dean's undying amusement, a class on Christian mythology. If the angel didn't receive top marks in that one, there was no hope for him at all.

Tonight it was the Shakespeare class, which met every Tuesday and Thursday evening. The first few weeks of classes, Dean had insisted on driving Cas to and from the college, concerned that the angel was still quite unprepared for driving alone on the rough Alaskan highway. But after a long weekend during which Cas demanded Dean teach him to drive around an empty lot nearby, Dean was satisfied that he could handle the commute himself. It still made him nervous, though, on nights like this. The rain was really coming down, the rare Chinook wind blowing it nearly diagonally from the sky. Visibility was not fantastic at the moment, and Dean was as much worried for the Impala herself as Cas. If worse came to worst, the angel could always simply pull over and zap himself home. But the idea of the Impala lying deserted on the side of the road, half-tipping into a ravine, made Dean's stomach turn. That baby had traveled too far and run for too long to end up being stolen or vandalized by some backcountry hooligan or drunken hobo.

Dean leaned back into the stack of pillows, arching his arms back behind his head. He sighed and shut his eyes, wondering how long it would take for Cas to make it home. He was a cautious driver, more for Dean's sake than anything else, but Dean had a feeling that he probably drove much faster and aggressively when alone. It was easier to be reckless when there wasn't a warm-blooded, fragile hairless ape in the passenger seat, eternally mere inches from harm.

If Cas thought Dean weak or frail, he took great care not to show it, choosing instead to regard him with as much dignity and respect as he could muster. Dean knew there was a struggle there, for Cas to ignore his instinct to protect his human charge, to shield him from all potential danger. He was good at disregarding this impulse to an extent, but there were still many, many times when he had stepped in firmly to boss Dean around. Dean knew that, even if he didn't always act on it, Cas lived in a constant state of vigilance, ever a slave to his need to steer Dean away from the edge of the path. It used to annoy Dean, to feel like a child under the care of an ancient guardian, but over time he had learned to accept Castiel's overbearing guidance as a symbol of affection rather than blind authority. Nowadays, he often found himself pressing at the corners of their limited world, dipping his toes in the shark-infested deep end, just to get a rise out of the angel. It usually resulted in some small spasm of righteous wrath, a sudden demonstration to clarify exactly which one of them held the upper hand. But there were other, blessed times when Castiel's panic at Dean's recklessness led to glorious displays of intimacy. Dean secretly liked to refer to this as the 'thank god you're alive' effect, which was arguably one of his favorite moves to date.

He checked the clock again and was disappointed to find that only a few minutes had passed. He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity and wondered exactly when he'd turned into the kind of pathetic sap who counted the seconds until his lover returned. He shuddered at the word 'lover'. It was a shivering, shallow kind of word that belonged in melodramatic romance novels with shirtless men and fainting women on the cover. It was not suitable to describe was Castiel was to him. It wasn't enough.

Bored and growing tired of the ticking of the clock in his ear, Dean wriggled off the side of the bed and loped over to the grey swivel chair at the flimsy workdesk in the corner. It was a cheap piece of crap, admittedly, but after watching Cas spend hours assembling it when the box arrived from IKEA, Dean didn't have the heart to replace it. He'd wondered how Cas was so rubbish at building a simple piece of furniture that came with instructions when he had obviously reassembled Dean's body with masterful ease. Or perhaps, Dean mused, it had actually taken a very long time to put him back together. The image of a bloodied, pulpy mass of limbs and skin arriving at Heaven's doorstep suddenly invaded his mind and he laughed aloud. Maybe that's how it had happened. Cas had sat down on the floor (or the cloud maybe), and spent days poring over the blueprint for a human shape, arranging Dean's bones and muscles in the appropriate fashion. He'd done a bang-up job of it, too; not an eyelash was askew, nor a single freckle misplaced. The one physical blemish on his body was the fiery pink handprint on his shoulder, and Dean had long since begun to regard it lovingly. As far as branding a claim could go, Dean was relieved to have a badass handprint rather than a name tattooed on his ass. He grinned and subconsciously ran calloused fingers under the sleeve of his shirt and across the slightly-raised scar. It had faded somewhat over the years, but he hoped it would forever remain in some form, an indelible mark of the love that rescued him from a fate far worse than death.

Dean flipped open the netbook on the desk and idly began to click through pages of news on his homepage. Nothing he read was of any importance in light of the life he'd lived. After facing the apocalypse and touring both Heaven and Hell, it became irrelevant which celebrity was selling their sex tape. There was a time when Dean might have been at least minimally interested in tracking such a video down and watching it, out of curiosity more than anything. But lately he'd become far less enamored of pornography, having stumbled into his own sort of magical mystery tour of sexual experience. He was still relatively new to the world of gay sex, and he imagined that even five years ago he would have hardly considered it an option. But his lifelong, open appreciation of physical beauty regardless of gender had since blossomed into a manifestation of bisexuality. It wasn't that women weren't good enough or that he had suddenly decided he preferred to look at a penis over a vagina. It was entirely wrapped up in the fact that Dean was singlemindedly focused on the set Castiel was rocking. If Castiel had, by chance, chosen a female vessel, Dean would have undoubtedly fallen just as hard. It simply wasn't important anymore whether he was regarded as straight or gay or anything in between. He was angelsexual, as Sam had mirthfully coined, and he was fully accepting of this truth.

Dean closed the internet tab and opened the bootlegged list of songs he'd illegally downloaded. Sam had given Dean an iPod for Christmas, but Dean had been ambivalent on the idea of shelling out his hard-earned money for new music. After all, most of the music he listened to was already available to him on the same five or six albums bequeathed to him by his father. Dean had explained to Sam that if the choice were between paying for Dean's burgeoning song collection and covering Castiel's tuition and book fees for college, education was infinitely more important. It had been exactly the correct chord to strike, as Sam had always been greatly invested in formal schooling. So Dean got his iPod, Cas got his classes, and Sam got his peace of mind. Besides, Dean had told him, after a lifetime of credit card fraud and petty theft, illegally downloading music was hardly something to cry over.

He scrolled through a short playlist eloquently titled "Buttsex", and rested his chin upon one open palm thoughtfully. The list was severely lacking at the moment, filled only with a few AC/DC songs and a couple of songs he'd added jokingly, like Chicago's "You're the Inspiration" and Hot Chocolate's "I Believe in Miracles". Because of this, the playlist had been largely overlooked and certainly had never been used during the unholy act itself. Although, Dean thought with a smirk, if he was fucking an angel, perhaps it actually was a little holy. And a holy fuck was definitely deserving of a fantastic soundtrack. A glance at the computer's digital clock told him he still had at least twenty, maybe thirty minutes to build up the track list before Castiel arrived home. He cracked his knuckles, pulled one leg into the seat to get comfortable, and began sifting through the expansive iTunes library with a critical eye.

He deleted the jokey songs and replaced them with "Unforgiven" by Metallica and "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin. The latter had always been a staple of Dean's sex music menagerie, along with several other Zeppelin songs. But this one seemed impossibly perfect in light of the heavenly nature of his sexual coadventurer. On that note, he added "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash and "Knockin' On Heaven's Door" by Bob Dylan. He loved the Guns 'n' Roses cover, as well, but he'd always considered Axl's vocals a little harsh and shrill for lovemaking. He shuddered again. Since when had he ever used the term 'lovemaking', even in his head? Castiel was ruining him for all of manly manhood, apparently. He dragged over a few more songs: "House of the Rising Sun" by the Animals, "Desperado" by the Eagles (against the voice in his head that protested choosing such a sappy song), and, for kicks, "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails. The last one was more of a joke than a serious selection, chosen purely for the lyrics about getting closer to God. Trent Reznor could never have guessed how literally his words applied to Dean's situation. Cas was usually much too tame and gentle for their trysts to be reminiscent of fucking like animals, but Dean was working on getting the angel into different flavors of the act, so it was entirely possible that they would one day reach that point. The concept was more than a little intimidating, even to Dean, but not unpleasantly so.

Content with the choices he'd made thus far, he scrolled aimlessly awhile, clicking songs at random just for the sake of inspiration and to have background noise apart from the rain. His cursor passed over a title that made his heart hiccup a little at the onslaught of memories it revived: "Hey Jude". The unexpected rush of emotions coursing through his body made him minimize the application momentarily. He shut his eyes, recounting the faint echo of his mother's voice singing the opening lines, her high clear voice rasping inexpertly over the lowest notes, just beyond her natural octave. It was an imperfect rendition, to be sure, but in all his years Dean had never heard another voice sing it so beautifully. Innumerable times since then, he had returned to the song in his moments of dark despair, of bitter anger, of desperate fear or loneliness. He remembered the night when Sam abandoned them for Stanford, when Sam had stormed in one direction, their father in the other. The latter hadn't returned until late the next morning, smelling of liquor and still muttering about betrayal. Dean had spent that night torn between the two, unable to chase them both at once, unwilling to deepen the chasm that split his family unevenly. So he'd carried the hotel's clock radio into the bathroom, stripped down, and climbed into the bath tub. He sat with his knees drawn to his chest, softly humming through the local station's "Midnight Beatles Power Hour", which naturally featured "Hey Jude" as the segment finale. Dean remembered the exact moment the tears began to fall, as the last bridge crescendoed into the highest 'better' and he felt so deeply the realization that nothing would ever be better, not for him.

And for years, he was right. Nothing got better, not really. There were good days, of course, times of hope and nights of triumph when he and his father successfully took out a wendigo or exorcised a demon. But the peaks were dwarfed by the monumental lows: the gnawing ache of Sam's absence, the ever-present tension between Dean and his militant father, the daily reminders that his life was so drastically darker and bloodier than most of the lives running parallel to his.

Dean brought the program back up to the screen, the cursor still hovering hesitantly over the poignant song title. It didn't feel right to overlook it, to keep scrolling past that gem of a musical memory, but it didn't fit the mood of his "Buttsex" playlist, by any means. He bit his bottom lip and created a new, blank track list, into which he dragged "Hey Jude". It sat alone, a formidable title flanked by a stretch of white emptiness. What could possibly follow? But was it really a playlist if it only contained one song? Dean dragged his fingers through his hair, annoyed at himself for making such a big deal out of this. He named the playlist "Whatever" and pushed the chair back from the desk. He stood, stretched, and walked out of the room, intent on watching some television to distract himself until Cas came home.

But no sooner had he reclined back into the sofa and picked up the remote than there was the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine outside. Dean sat up quickly, craning his neck to peer through the open door into the kitchen entryway. He heard the jingle of keys as they scratched against the front door, and then the soft padding of Cas's footsteps. He walked lightly, and after ditching the plastic-soled shoes of his vessel, he had nearly mastered the art of sneaking up on Dean without even trying. Dean remembered Jimmy with a sort of odd fascination. It had been a struggle to validate his feelings toward Cas's physical form, knowing that at least some shred of Jimmy Novak remained within. But after some diligent research, Sam and Bobby had discovered a fantastic spell to help Jimmy move on. He wasn't exactly in Heaven, as he was still tied to Castiel, but in a way he had even more freedom than the true tenants of Paradise did. He was essentially an astral form now, a shade between ghost and flesh that was capable of passing from one realm to the next. Cas wasn't certain, but he suspected that Jimmy was now privy to dimensions and layers of reality that even angels could not hope to infiltrate. Jimmy could travel to and from Heaven, he could walk the Earth, watch over his wife and daughter as they aged. It was a truly superhuman feat, an impossible gift, but Dean firmly believed he deserved it.

As the angel passed through the doorway, Dean gave him a casual nod. Castiel crossed the room and dumped his books and neat black folder on the coffee table, sighing. He shrugged out of his burgundy raincoat, letting it fall to the floor in a soaking wet heap. It was then that Dean noted the dampness of the angel's dark hair, a few rogue curls lying plastered to his forehead. Dean's stomach made an unsettling sort of leap and and he gestured for Cas to sit down. The angel shook his head.

"I'm all wet," he explained flatly. He raised a hand to his head and shoved the hair backward, only to have it protest forward again. Dean shrugged.

"And? It's just water. We got this couch from a city dumpsite. I think it'll be all right."

Cas wavered a moment and Dean raised an eyebrow. "Class go okay?"

The angel didn't answer, staring at some undetermined point above Dean's head, his blue eyes avoiding meeting Dean's gaze. Finally he murmured, "Shakespeare says some startling things about angels, Dean."

Dean suppressed a snort. It was strange how Castiel took these things to heart, when he was so immune to most slights and insults. "Like what?"

Cas rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "We don't ride on clouds. I don't believe that is even possible."

This time Dean couldn't hold back the chuckle erupting from his throat. Castiel's eyes flicked downward to cast an offended look toward Dean. "We are greatly misrepresented, I find."

"Well, Shakespeare said some pretty shitty things about humans, too, I think."

Cas agreed reluctantly. "Yes. He speaks ill of us both."

"I don't know a whole lot about Shakespearean literature, Cas. This is probably a conversation you wanna save for Sam. That nerd would be all over this shit." Dean was perfectly comfortable with his ignorance. Being able to recite Romeo and Juliet had never been particularly high on his list of aspirations. It wouldn't be much use in a battle against a ghoul or anything. Finally, Cas sat down beside him on the faintly-odorous couch. He rarely looked comfortable, whether he was sitting or lying down or standing awkwardly in a corner. Dean had commented a few times in the past that Cas had a perpetual 'stick up his ass', but after they had embarked on a sexual relationship, he'd decided the phrase was a little confusing. Even now, after all this time together, Castiel still perched on the edge of the furniture like a bird on the precipice of a building, like he was prepared to be shooed away at any moment. This was in stark contrast to Dean, who was apt to make himself comfortable in any and every situation. It was Dean's quest to loosen the angel up and make him realize that he was nearly human and therefore fully welcome to partake in the sloppy slothfulness of humanity.

"So that's all you're worked up about? Ole Billy Shakespeare talkin' shit about angels?" Dean pushed, turning to face Castiel, whose eyes were still focused on the peeling linoleum floor. Dean attempted to read the angel's face, but beyond the beautiful slope of brows, nose, cheekbones, and lips, there was nothing to determine. Cas had a poker face to envy, for sure.

"It's not only that. I am finding myself—overwhelmed—at the beauty of his words," Cas rasped solemnly. "I was inclined to believe that the Bible was the most admirable source of human literature, but I am now questioning that belief."

Dean quirked his head to the side. "Yeah, if the angels are being taught to judge all of humanity on the damn Bible, no wonder you guys think we're stupid. I mean, don't get me wrong, there's some good stuff in there, but even I know Corinthians doesn't hold a flame to Hamlet."

Cas nodded slowly. "Corinthians is almost devoid of humor," he agreed, entirely deadpan. " I am beginning to understand what comedy means for humans. But it is strange. Your comedies—they are sometimes difficult to differentiate from the tragedies."

"Ain't that the truth," Dean replied in an undertone. "Look, just don't overanalyze it. I mean, I know it's a lit class so part of the deal is analysis. But don't take it too seriously." He knew his words were falling upon deaf ears. Castiel was tireless in his mission to analyze every miniscule detail of life.

He suddenly tipped his face upward to meet Dean's eyes, lidded crystalline blue versus round earthy green. Dean felt that recurrent flip-flop of his gut and cursed himself for being such a pitiful romantic for this daft angel of the Lord. Cas's tongue emerged to wet his lips before he spoke. "I'm very tired."

The words were heavy, like they had been a chore to deliver. Dean damned the class that wore him out. There would be no use for his "Buttsex" playlist tonight. "Well, go lie down."

Cas slipped out of the room and down the hallway, his feet dragging slightly. Jesus, he was tired, Dean thought. He remembered a time when Castiel rarely rested at all. Little by little, Cas was turning into a regular joe. Dean was pleased to find that Castiel was able to assimilate without much difficulty, but it still disturbed him to some extent that his angel was losing much of what made him otherworldly. Not long after Sam had labeled Dean angelsexual, Dean and Cas had sat down to have a serious conversation regarding their relationship. Sam had highlighted the concern that Dean's interest in Cas might be largely led by some sort of latent kink, and by fetishizing Castiel he brought a shallow falseness to their union. Dean had been stopped in his tracks by this possibility. He'd never put much thought into what Cas was and what it meant for them as a pair. Once he'd really considered it for longer than a few seconds, he determined that he would feel the same if Cas was human. His baby in a trenchcoat was still the creature he adored, superhuman powers or not. Still, he openly admitted that the fact that he was fucking a damn angel was at least somewhat of a turn-on. He had teased Sam, saying, "So you're into banging monsters and I've got a thing for Superman." Sam, ever the smart-ass, had turned the joke back around on him with the retort, "Well, then you better get used to your new nickname, Lois Lane."

He'd really handed that one over. He should have seen it coming, but it didn't bother him all that much. Knowing that he alone was essentially kryptonite for an immensely powerful ethereal being was consolation enough. He smiled to himself and toyed with the remote in his hands. Yes, Dean had been Castiel's Achilles heel since the very start, even if it had taken awhile for Dean to realize it and even longer to acknowledge it.

He got up and walked up the little step into the kitchen, reaching into the fridge for a beer, his first of the night. He remembered a time when he drank from the moment his eyes opened in the morning until he fell back into bed, a half-empty bottle on the nightstand. Nowadays, while he still greatly appreciated the fine art of alcoholism, he found that there were less reasons to drink excessively. There was not as much to hide from. There was nothing chasing him anymore, no golden-eyed demon, no Lilith, no renegade angel set on his destruction. There were only the usual suspects that had and always would be: the ghosts, ghouls, vampires, rougarous of the world. They were small fry in comparison to the terrors he'd faced. So now, when he tipped back a bottle of beer or whiskey, it wasn't in an attempt to drown out the world around him. It was simply for the pleasure of a buzzing head, the exquisite delight in tasting bittersweet intoxication in the mouth of his angel. The latter thought brought a wide grin to his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners although there was no one around to behold the rare sight. Truthfully, though, it was a great deal less rare than it ever had been before.

Dean leaned back against the fridge, twisting the beer open on his forearm and deftly capturing the cap as it fell. He took a long draught and sighed happily. It was really quite embarrassing how very domestic and boring he'd become. The simplest things brought him immeasurable joy these days. He was content to go to work at the local garage, delighted to meet Sam for a drink the next town over, pleased to take a call from Bobby on the long drive into town. And he was endlessly giddy about coming home and falling into bed with a literal angel.

He stood swaying slightly in place a few minutes, engrossed in thought, before he realized he was in fact, swaying to a faint melody drifting from across the house. Dean strained his ears to catch the tune and realized it was just a voice alone, not a real song at all. It was Cas singing to himself. The song was not one Dean immediately recognized and, rapt with curiosity, he began to tiptoe away through the den and down the hallway toward the sound of the angel's voice. When he was a few yards from the cracked bedroom door, he could make out the song at last. Dean's eyes widened and he was torn between amusement and extreme confusion. Where had he even heard this song? Cas was singing a Marvin Gaye song. The voice was so light and—well, angelic—that it almost sounded like a hymn. Dean shook his head and wondered whether he should interrupt or not. Finally, he couldn't resist any longer and he nudged the door open with his foot. Cas was sprawled across the bed on his stomach, his chemistry textbook open to a page of graph and equations. The juxtaposition of "Let's Get It On" with a chart of biological compounds was one Dean had never expected to encounter in his life. Against his will, a choking giggle spilled from his mouth and Cas immediately halted his song and looked up. If he was embarrassed, he certainly did not show it.

"Hello, Dean," the angel greeted calmly.

Dean entered the room, a bemused smile still playing about his lips. "Cas, where did you get that song? It's not on my iPod."

Cas shrugged. "It came on the radio on my drive home. I liked it. It reminds me of Shakespeare."

Dean was too stunned to even laugh. "You can't be serious."

Castiel's brows knitted together quizzically. "Why not?" Dean slumped into the swivel chair and shook his head, setting the beer bottle down with a clink. Cas followed him with his ocean eyes. "There are definite similarities."

"If you say so," Dean laughed. Cas sat up indignantly and cleared his throat.

"There's nothing wrong with me loving you," he began to recite, as seriously as a high school kid professing his love in a crowded cafeteria. Dean's mouth fell open. "And giving yourself to me can never be wrong if the love is true."

Dean blinked several times, unable to form a coherent response to this unusual display. Cas went on, "It is repetitive in some places. But much poetry is like that, I've found."

Dean wondered if he would forever be surprised by the strange and wonderful things that came out of Castiel's gorgeous mouth. He hoped so. "I guess when you put it that way."

Cas smiled, and the image was so beautiful and endearing that Dean's expression grew to mirror it. This bizarre creature sitting archly in the center of the bed meant more to him than he had ever believed possible, and in that moment the adoration in his chest swelled so that he felt he might burst or float away. He was so enraptured that he didn't even take a moment to tease himself for being so vulnerable, so hopelessly romantic. These were background voices, drowned out by the roaring forefront that shined a heavenly light upon the folded-up angel a few feet away, smiling like a child.

Suddenly, it didn't bother Dean that he probably wouldn't get laid that night. The space between them became miles, unbearable, and he stood up to walk over and settle into his side of the bed, leaving his beer almost untouched. He always slept on the right, for the most ridiculous, petty reason in the world. Dean would never admit that there was even a reason at all, claiming instead that he was simply a creature of habit. But if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, the reason was that Castiel's hair was parted on a particular side (Cas was wholly disinterested in experimenting with his physical appearance). Dean loved to wake a few minutes before Castiel, turn over, and press his lips to the smooth white forehead restfully unlined beside him. It was so disgustingly chick-flicky that Dean could hardly bear to dwell on it without wanting to punch himself in the face, but it was true, regardless.

At the moment, he was reclined back into the mountain of pillows at the headboard. There were far too many of them, in Dean's opinion, but he accepted that it was a result of his own mistake. He had sent Cas with Bobby, of all people, to purchase bedding and sheets. Bobby, of course, had wandered away to look at power tools or something, leaving Cas in the eager hands of an energetic salesgirl. Chelsea, Cas had called her, talked the angel into buying six decorative throw pillows in addition to the two standard pillows included. Unable to tell a scam from proper advice, Castiel bought the mass of pillows. Once Bobby finally came meandering back, he could hardly locate the angel behind the stack of eyelet and down stacked in his shopping cart. Needless to say, Dean had learned his lesson. Bobby was great for fixing your car, dispensing advice on paranormal lore, and even tips on how to remedy a raging hangover. But he was definitely not the best shopping companion for a clueless angel.

After some time, though, Dean had grown to actually like the pillows. They were useful as tables for breakfast in bed or for wedging between his legs when he awoke hours before Cas with a festive boner. He had even begun incorporating them into sex, using them to cushion and elevate as needed. Dean's eyes traveled along the outline of Castiel's body, faced away and slightly hunched over the textbook. He had stopped singing, but the humming continued, and when Dean reached out to pull the angel back toward him, he felt the vibration of Castiel's low voice thrum through his limbs. Cas obliged without question, sinking into the warmth of Dean's body. The angel himself was still slightly cool from his trek through the rain, and Dean tugged gently at the side of Castiel's cotton shirt. Catching the hint, Cas wordlessly peeled the shirt off and tossed it over the side of the bed, returning to his book. Dean peered over the angel's shoulder at the pages. His total ignorance slapped him in the face yet again, as he realized that absolutely nothing in those formulas made a lick of sense to him. But it was fascinating to him that these things fascinated Cas.

Suddenly, the angel was speaking. "Dean, would you mind if I played music? Reading is more enjoyable with music."

"Yeah, dude. Do your thing."

Cas flicked his eyes toward the laptop on the desk across the room and the sidebar began to scroll of its own accord. When the cursor highlighted a song and sound began to leak from the speakers, Dean felt a shiver scurry down his spine.

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad."

Dean pulled his arm back from around Cas's shoulders. The angel looked at him with mild concern. "Do you not like this one? It was isolated from the rest."

Dean floundered a moment before quietly stammering, "Y-yeah, it's cool. It's fine."

Castiel's gaze was unrelenting. For a full and agonizing five seconds his eyes burned into Dean's, and then he shut the book in his lap and shoved it away. "I like this one. It is like a lullaby, I think."

A lump rose in Dean's throat, to his displeasure. He was not keen on the idea of crying like a fucking child in front of Cas. Not over some cheesy old song. Castiel's palms rose slowly to light along the contours of Dean's face, as delicately as one might cradle an egg. "I have heard it before," Cas continued, his eyes unblinking and shaded by still lashes. Dean sat transfixed, hardly daring to breathe as the angel's lips parted and shaped themselves into an 'o' to catch the "oh well you know that he's a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder."

He hummed the na-na-nas with a resonant vibrato and Dean felt the damning sting of tears in his eyes. He cursed bitterly in his mind, angry at himself for ever being stupid enough to make a playlist with only "Hey Jude" in it. Of course Cas would choose that one. The angel's voice was still stirring the air around them, settling in around Dean like a cocoon. He'd known that Cas could sing fairly well, but he had never paid very much attention before, as he was usually singing along loudly himself. Now, as he silently soaked in the sound, he found that Castiel's voice was truly a precious gift. All these years had passed and Dean had never been sung to sleep, never been serenaded. He leaned into the angel's hands, closing his eyes in the sweetness of the moment.

Suddenly a breath was at his ear, and Dean inhaled sharply at the warmth and proximity of Castiel's face, the tickling sensation of stubble against his neck. "And don't you know that it's just you. Hey Jude, you'll do. The movement you need is on your shoulder," came Castiel's whispered singing, intimate as a prayer. Dean's mind jumped inexplicably to the concept of an angel upon one's shoulder, and his breath caught in his throat.

Dean's eyes fluttered open and he lunged forward to capture the na-na-nas as they spilled from the angel's lips, muffling the melody in crashing lips and questioning tongues. In the corner of his blurred vision he saw Cas raise a hand; the fingers twisted gracefully as though turning a knob, and the music volume swelled several degrees. Dean's hands trembled as they lifted to dance along the back of Castiel's neck and thread into the drying tufts of dark hair that gathered there. Cas disengaged his lips long enough to sing the words along Dean's jawline: "Take a sad song and make it better." Dean pulled the angel's face to his, drawing the full bottom lip between his teeth with gentle precision. Castiel's hands twisted fitfully in the fabric of Dean's shirt and, breaking their kiss for a moment, pulled the garment up over Dean's head.

As the chorus began the crescendo of betters, their hands were no longer wandering aimlessly—they desperately fought with clasps and zippers, damning pockets and ties and pulling at the thighs, the knees, and at last the jeans were discarded over the end of the bed. With superhuman speed, Cas had pinned Dean beneath him, pressing deep bruising kisses into his collarbone, his heaving chest, his taut stomach. His hands were everywhere his lips were not and Dean found himself groaning as the song segued into passionate screams. Castiel's right hand shot out into the empty air and with a snap of his fingers a little bottle came flitting into his palm. Dean hitched one leg upward over the crook of Castiel's arm as the angel slicked the sickly-sweet liquid along the hard length pressed between Dean's thigh and his own erection. Cas's lips returned to Dean's mouth, stifling his cries as he pushed inside, first delicately, questioningly, and then with certainty and vigor. Dean felt the rush of blood to his head and the pounding of his own heart mingled with the moans Castiel was breathing into his ear and the raw improvised vocals of "Hey Jude"'s last few minutes. The initial pain was one he welcomed, even relished. It was a comforting, fulfilling ache—much like the rub of being adored far too much to be deserved. Once the twinges of pain gave way to unfettered pleasure, he twisted fingers through the angel's black hair with one hand while the other snaked down his own body. Castiel caught the wandering hand in his own and pinned it back to the headboard, the pillows having been long since knocked aside. Dean let out a very undignified whimper and felt Cas smile against his lips. Cas's free hand took its place along Dean's cock, sliding expertly, teasingly back and forth.

Dean bit into Castiel's lip, harder than he probably intended, and tasted the faint flavor of blood. A moment's panic set in before he felt the thrum of Castiel's moan, the rhythm of his movement quickening, deepening. That's new, Dean thought, amidst the blurring waves of ecstasy. He felt teeth on his neck again and he cried out, "Cas—Castiel!" And the novel sound of the angel's full name in Dean's throaty tone spurred them both. Cas pushed more deeply still and Dean gasped at the blinding sensation. "Oh, that—Jesus," Dean breathed.

"Dean," came Castiel's gravelly voice, the name drawn long and sensuous as an epithet. "Fuck."

It would never cease to shock and excite Dean to hear Cas utter a curse word. It only ever occurred during sex, and only when he was close. This knowledge was endlessly delighting, and Dean angled his hips upward to meet Castiel's thrusts. The angel's hand slid to the nape of Dean's neck, wrenching his head backward, the fingers knotted in his hair. Dean's neck deliciously exposed, Cas buried his teeth into the flushed skin there as their hips met and fell away in steady, raucous unison. As the final bars of the song faded away, Castiel hissed, "I love you," into the curve of Dean's neck. With one final plunge, the angel gasped a long string of words in Enochian and Dean felt his own shuddering finish stumble directly after as he murmured his angel's name over and over. Castiel withdrew reluctantly and collapsed, his weight fully aligned with Dean's shaking body. The silence was punctured only by the steady patter of rain against the glass. For several minutes they lay there, barely moving, breathing in the afterglow and basking in shared heat. Finally, Cas's lips grazed across Dean's chest and he propped his chin up to look into Dean's eyes. The angel's face was flushed, his hair sticking up in every direction, his bottom lip dark pink and chewed to hell. Dean could have sworn his eyes were a deeper, clearer blue than usual, but in the wake of what had just happened, every color within sight seemed more vibrant, more beautiful.

"You did not say it," Cas said softly.

Dean narrowed his eyes at him, confused. After a moment it dawned on him what the angel was referring to, and he sighed. "I love you, Cas."

Castiel did not smile, but a certain unexplainable light flickered in his eyes. All was well.

"I thought you were tired," Dean reminded him, one eyebrow raised. Now, the angel smiled.

"I suppose I lied."

Yes, Castiel was becoming more human every day.