Author's Notes:

I have two very important people that I need to thank for this fic.

First, Kyra. The entire idea for this fic was hers, I take zero credit for it. I just picked it up and spun it into something a little longer. I really, really hope this does it justice. Please go find her, and her blog, because it is a world of awesome Destiel things, including some fantastic fic and ficlets and drabbles.

Find her on Tumblr (username moonstiel) , or AO3 (username letters_of_stars)

Second, and just as importantly, Liann. She did a wonderful job as my beta for this fic, and is my partner in crime when it comes to crying about Destiel. She is also an all-round awesome human being, and writes incredible fic of her own.

Go find her! You won't be sorry. She's on Tumblr and AO3 (username nurfherder)

Finally, the lyrics referenced at very beginning of this fic are from Pink Floyd's Time.

Home, home again / I like to be here when I can

And when I come home cold and tired / It's good to warm my bones beside the fire

-Time, Pink Floyd

Boxy red numbers are staring at him when Dean wakes up, informing him that it is 3:45 in the AM. Pink Floyd is suggesting that he's tired of lying in the sunshine, and staying home to watch the rain. That he's young, and life is long, and that there's time to kill today.

Well. They're half right about that last part. While he doesn't plan on killing time today, he will be taking something else to the gallows.

Slapping his hand down over the snooze button, he traces his fingers along the shell of the alarm clock, searching for the switch to turn it off.

"This should be illegal, you know," a voice grumbles behind him, while at the same time a nose tucks itself into the space between Dean's shoulder blades. "Being up this early on a Saturday."

"I know," Dean murmurs, pushing the blankets down to his waist. They're the first words he's said since 8:00 last night, so his voice sounds like it's being dragged down a dirt road. Rough and bumpy. "Believe me, I know."

Castiel wraps an arm around his waist before he can move, hauling Dean back so he's flush against his chest. The nose moves from the track of his spine to the soft platform of flesh just beneath his ear. "It's quarter to four, Dean. In the morning. Where are you going?" His words are devoid of criticism, coated instead with a thick layer of curiosity and confusion woven together.

"On a job. Hot Springs, Arkansas. Told you about it last week, didn't I?"

"You mentioned it, but… you're going today?"

"Only if you let me up in the next few minutes. Still gotta pick up Sam, and it's a good seven hour drive between here and there. Less if my girl doesn't mind me stretching her legs a bit."

There's a short pause. "Dean…"

Hearing a note of… something- concern, maybe? Disappointment? -in Cas' voice, Dean rolls over and instantly finds a stubble-covered cheek with one hand. He strokes along the sharp edge of bone with his thumb, tilting his head forward so their noses brush together. "Hey. You aren't mad you're not coming along, are you?" he asks, a frown crinkling his forehead. "It's just a standard barbecue job. And… Sam and I haven't been out on our own in a while. This was sort of gonna be a Thing."

"No, it isn't that. I just…" A shadow flits across Castiel's face, but disappears in the same instant, like folds being snapped out of a tablecloth. As though he'd been trying to decipher something, and had suddenly arrived at the answer. "Be careful," he says simply, pressing his lips against Dean's in a kiss that is at the same time casual and intimate.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean responds with a grin. He gives his fallen angel's ass a firm squeeze, and rolls their hips together briefly. A promise to be fulfilled later on. "See you tonight, hot stuff."

[|]-|-+-|-[|]

Despite the fact that they'd been living together for close to eight months now, Dean is still getting used to this. Being a homeowner. An owner of his own home.

It was fucking trip some mornings.

He'd be standing there in front of the coffee-maker, hands braced on the countertop in front of him, watching the ribbon of energy-infused liquid streaming into his mug. Looking up to glance out the window every so often…

And it would hit him.

All of this is his. The coffee-maker. The mug. The sugar and its ceramic bunker. The countertop. The windows. The curtains. The couches in the living room, the bowl of fruit on the table, and the fucking fridge magnets. Every last damn cubic inch of stuff around him belongs to Dean.

Well. Dean and Castiel.

Christ. That, too. The part where he isn't just Dean anymore. He's also one half of an and.

Dean and Castiel.

Castiel and Dean.

He used to have that with Sammy- still kind of does -but it's in a very different way with Cas than it was with his brother. Much as the two of them are still greatly independent individuals, they're also a singular unit now. Partners, in nearly every possible definition of the word.

Friends. Lovers. Homeowners.

Family.

Dean is like a goddamned functioning adult now with bills and responsibilities and actual legitimate shit going on in his life. He has a fucking career (not much of one, yet, but it still manages to let him pay half those damn bills and the mortgage and everything else he and Cas have to worry about).

Seriously. When did that happen?

Although there's still the hunting. Dean might've saved the world more times than he can count, might not owe anyone a damn thing, might not have to do this anymore, but… he still does.

Telling Dean not to keep hunting despite everything he has going on in his life is like giving a bird a set of gills and telling it not to bother flying anymore. Just ain't gonna happen.

So that is why, on this cold morning, he is draining coffee into a single travel mug instead of two ceramic ones. Why he is up, and dressed, and has his coat on when the sun hasn't even made it to their side of the Atlantic yet. Why he's not still burrowed under the sheets with a very warm and pliable former angel.

With his very warm and pliable former angel.

Dumping the requisite cream and sugar into his coffee, Dean snaps the lid onto his mug and makes his way out the front door. He trails his fingers over the hood of his black chariot and climbs into her. Apologizing for waking her up so early, he slips the key into the ignition. He then pops some Alice Cooper into the tape deck- because it feels like that kind of morning –-pulls out of the driveway, and heads off to pick up Sam.

[|]-|-+-|-[|]

"Dean, we don't have to do this today, you know," Sam says when he folds himself into the passenger seat. He's wearing that 'please Dean, please, listen to me for the sake of puppies and rainbows' look. Where his eyes go kinda sparkly, and one eyebrow sinks down while one corner of his mouth turns upwards in a sympathetic smile.

"Today's as good as any other, Sammy."

"Yeah, but, I mean… This ghost's being a nuisance, yeah, but it doesn't seem to want to hurt anyone. We could put it off 'til tomorrow."

The elder Winchester actually looks offended by this suggestion. "Hell no. I'm not waking up this early two days in a row." Or ever again, if Dean can help it. "Not when we're already practically on the road."

"Dean…" Sam says. He laughs, sounding a bit uncomfortable. "I'm just saying… You know, since-"

"Yeah, and I already heard you. Now come on, this ghost ain't gonna gank itself."

Sam closes his mouth, looking puzzled and disappointed. Still, he doesn't say anything else. Just hooks his elbow up onto the edge of the window, and stares out the passenger side as they get moving.

[|]-|-+-|-[|]

It's 11:15 when they cross the town border into Hot Springs, Arkansas. 1:00 in the afternoon before they confirm the identity of their spook. 1:30 by the time they find out where she's buried.

At around that same time, the sky cracks open and starts pouring rain down with barely more than a few warning shots beforehand, like someone just stuck a knife into the bottom of a water balloon and let the thing drench them. Dean looks up as the windshield wipers clear away a small lake of fluid, which just replenishes itself in the same instant. "Of course. Just our damn luck that we get here in the middle of monsoon season." He shakes his head. "This is gonna suck."

"Hey, I did say that we could've-"

"Yeah, well we're here now. I'm not turning around and coming all the way back just to skip out on some rain. Now get your eyes on the map. They said this graveyard's hard to find and I don't wanna miss it."

Sam shakes his head. "Yessir," he mutters. It earns him a playful punch on the shoulder.

[|]-|-+-|-[|]

"Grace Flemming," Dean reads from the headstone. "That's it, right?"

"That's it," Sam confirms, checking the dates on the slab of granite against the ones on their printout from the library.

"All right. Let's get this done," says Dean. Tossing the bag of salt down beside him, he offers one of the two shovels to Sam.

"Uh, no," he says, holding his hands up. "It was your idea to come out here today. You get to dig."

"Are you serious?"

Sam looks at him. Just freaking looks at him. Jaw clenching, Dean steps closer to him, able to feel the wet squelch of his socks inside his boots. "Take the damn shovel, man. You didn't come all this way just to throw some salt on the bones and light 'em up."

"I dunno. Maybe I did."

"Sam? Dig."

[|]-|-+-|-[|]

By the time he pulls into the driveway, Dean can barely keep his eyes open. He spent about sixteen hours on the road today. Another three on the actual case, figuring out who the ghost was, followed by the standard dig, salt, and burn.

He feels like his bones are made of lead and his muscles are hardening glue. He's cold. Shivering. Caked in mud. Every thought that passes through his head seems to have to weave its way through a jungle and up a mountain before it can reach completion. At this point, his brain is demanding sleep. A good, solid, eighteen hours of it if he can manage.

Even Zeppelin on full blast is barely enough to keep him conscious at this point. Much as he still gets a charge out of it, Dean's body no longer takes kindly to the demands put on it by hunting. Makes damn complaints like these all the time; telling him he can't spend nearly a day on the road, or go head-to-head with a goblin on his own anymore.

Dean wants his body to shut up about it already, 'cause he obviously doesn't plan on stopping, but unfortunately, it knows how to make him listen.

He kills the engine, and just sits there for a few moments. Recharging his internal batteries enough to let him stumble up to the front door, find his house key on its ring, and let himself inside.

With a glance at the clock just to the left of the entrance- 11:36 p.m. -he wonders if Cas is still awake.

And, well, if he isn't, he will be in a second. Their house is small. Two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living-room. An unfinished basement that's just big enough to act as a glorified storage locker, and a decent backyard given the size of the house. 'Modest' is what a more dignified man would call it, to avoid admitting he lives in a place that's smaller than some peoples' garages.

Dean is not that man, though.

Their house does border on microscopic, but… it's theirs. Which is really all that matters to either of them.

Point being, even with how quiet he is as he sneaks through their dwelling, Cas will wake up to the sound of him coming in. He always does.

Tossing his keys onto the small table by the door, he kicks his boots off. Starts working his way toward the back of the house when he sees it. A faint glow of light from the kitchen. "Cas?" he calls softly, rounding the corner. What's waiting for him stops him in his tracks, damp feet slapping against the hardwood floors.

Castiel is sitting at the kitchen table, wearing green pyjamas and a soft smile. The small, fluorescent lights over the countertop are on, casting a white glow on him from behind. Resting in front of him on the table is a piece of pie with one candle sunken into its terrain. The flame is burning bright, but has already melted halfway down the wax stick. His hands are crossed in front of him, and his head tilts a few degrees to the right when Dean walks in.

Cold fear creeps down Dean's spine. A slug trailing its way down each vertebra until it settles onto his tailbone.

This isn't good.

Obviously, Cas has put this little tableau together to celebrate something. And Dean has no idea what that 'something' might be.

And, crap. Crap, crap, crap.

Whatever it was, he forgot all a-fucking-bout it, and went out on a hunt instead.

Dean is too tired to play this game though. He can barely remember how to spell his last name, let alone start flipping through his mental agenda to figure out what day of what month it is, and whatever special occasion he's allowed to slip past his conscious bull's-eye.

"Shit," he mutters, dropping his head as a long, slow, defeated tide of breath rolls through him. "Cas. Look, I'm sorry." He shakes his head, glances up at his lover with an exhausted gaze. "Whatever it is I forgot, I'm sorry." His arms kink at the elbows as he brings his hands up to start trying to peel his jacket off his shoulders. For some reason though, the tendons, muscles, and bones don't want to listen to him. He ends up standing there, arms working in a sort of hybrid wing-flapping, paddling motion, as he tries to work the garment off his shoulders through sheer willpower.

"I just… You know me. I barely know what day of the week it is, let alone whatever makes this one special. So, if you're gonna be mad, I get it. Just, please wait until tomorrow, okay?" he pleads, not noticing that the former warrior of heaven has stood up- and is closing the distance between them. "I'll do anything to make it up to you. I'll unload the dishwasher for the next month. I'll do the laundry and… trim the freaking hedges and-"

He stops when a set of nimble fingers sneaks underneath his own digits to wrap around the edges of his coat. Dean looks up to find Cas standing just inches away from him. That warm, loving expression still hanging from the corners of his face.

He doesn't understand. Doesn't get why Cas isn't giving him his usual look of resigned disappointment. Why there aren't succinct but strong words being levelled at him.

He forgot… something important here, and Cas is… taking his jacket off for him. Twisting at the hips to hang it over a chair. Straightening out again so he can cup Dean's chin between the heels of his palms, and kiss him gently. Lovingly.

Christ, it almost hurts. He doesn't deserve this. When he'd asked Cas not to get angry tonight, he didn't mean he had to behave the exact opposite of that. Like he was actually glad to see Dean, and wanted to be near him.

Those strong but careful hands skim down the column of his neck, making him shiver from the skin-on-skin contact. They follow the crests of his shoulders, and trail down his arms, slowing to massage the aching, concrete-filled muscles there for a moment before completing their journey to his hands. Castiel threads their fingers together, and tugs Dean over to the seat he'd been occupying a moment beforehand.

That same gentle grip returns to his shoulders as Cas turns him around, directing him into the chair. As he's sinking down, Dean glances around the kitchen, and notices the calendar stuck to the fridge.

January. It's January.

Well. He knew that much, at least.

What happens in January that's so damn important though? That warrants a slice of pie on the kitchen table when he gets home?

Hang on. The date on the Arkansas newspaper they'd been reading, printed two days ago. January 22.

That meant today was…

Oh.

"Oh," Dean echoes the thought in his mind, and turns around to look at Cas, who's standing over him, fingers tickling either edge of his neck. His partner is smiling at him, obviously amused by the mental turmoil Dean had been rolling in until two seconds ago. "Right."

He remembered. Cas remembered, and hell, Sammy probably (no, definitely) did too from the way he'd been acting all day. Both of them knew what day it was, but neither of them had used it as an excuse to stop him from going on the job. Because even if they'd tried to, he would've driven to Arkansas today anyway. After all, his own stupid meaningless personal crap shouldn't take priority over a family that's being haunted by some overly-playful ghost.

At the same time though, he would've felt damn guilty about skipping out on whatever Cas or Sam might've had planned, no matter how low-key it was.

Still. While Cas hadn't reminded him about it this morning, he obviously isn't going to let Dean completely forget about it, either. It's your birthday, Dean. I thought this was one of those rituals that most humans placed a great deal of importance on, would be his argument.

Warm hands squeeze the domes of Dean's shoulders, a lifejacket helping to buoy him up out of the shallow pool of introspection he'd fallen into. Cas presses his lips against Dean's temple. Kisses the crusty, muddied hair there, before moving his mouth to Dean's ear. With a soft, contented sigh, Dean reaches up to wrap one arm around the back of his lover's neck, scratching dull fingertips through the line of hair there. He smiles when he feels those lips moving, and whispering against him. "Happy birthday."

[-End-]

...And in case you'd like to see the original idea by Kyra, here it is:

The first year in their home Dean spends the entire day of January 24th out on a standard salt-and-burn job with Sam. He gets home late at night, covered in mud and exhausted, and finds Cas in the dimly lit kitchen, sitting there at the table in his pajamas. There's a piece of pie in front of him, with a solitary, flickering candle stuck right into it. Cas smiles as Dean stands there, wondering what's going on, and stands without a word. He pushes Dean's jacket from his shoulders as he kisses him, and leads Dean over to the table and down into his seat. And Dean remembers what day it is just as Cas whispers, 'Happy Birthday'.

...Thank you for reading! Please note, this is my first ever Supernatural/Destiel fic, so concrit is always greatly appreciated :)