Dean was sitting in the driver's seat of the Impala. In the low light, he could tell he was parked in the expansive garage beneath the Men of Letters bunker. He scrambled to flick on the roof light and found Sam peacefully asleep in the passenger seat.

"Hey." He nudged Sam gently with his fist. "Hey sleepyhead, wake up, we're home." A broad grin painted Dean's face as the last two words came out.

"Huh? Oh, weird, I don't remember falling asleep."

"Yeah, well, we were both pretty tired, I guess." Dean said.

"Wait, but weren't we at some roachy motel in the middle of nowhere?" Sam frowned. It was when he and Dean locked eyes that they both pieced together the sum of their time. "OK, weird." Sam said, hurrying out of the car with his duffel slung over one shoulder. He took advantage of his long legs to stay a pace ahead of Dean.

"You're telling me." Dean muttered. "You're welcome, by the way."

Sam turned back. "For what?"

"For saving your ass."

"Who said I needed saving?"

"I do. Duh."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, ok." His head bounced in a little nod. He didn't need to challenge, Dean was just establishing normality. As he gained ground and he knew Dean couldn't see his face, he let a little smile creep across. "You gonna turn in?"

"Are you kidding, of course I am, I'm beat. You could probably use a little more rest yourself."

"No doubt." Sam confirmed before he closed his door behind him.

Dean crossed into his room and slipped off his shoes and left them where they stayed, askew by the door. When he turned, his body seized in a startled jump, calming his breath when he realized who it was standing against the far wall.

"Hello, Dean." Cas said, mouth turned up at the corners. "I'd like to ask you something. Please do not be alarmed."

Dean blinked several times in quick succession and swallowed stiffly.

Cas stepped closer, inches from his face. His eyes narrowed, searching the micro-expressions, the tiny, involuntary muscle twitches beneath the skin of Dean's brows and cheeks.

"Uh." Dean said. He licked his lips, and his gaze flicked against his will to Cas' mouth. Why did that always happen?

Cas tilted his head slightly. "Dean, do you want to kiss me?" Cas asked, the gravel of his voice coming out in much the same flatly curious tone as one would ask if you'd like a cup of tea, as long the kettle's on.

"I—What?" Dean stammered, almost instinctively evading the question. Cas was unmoving, seemingly unconcerned with Dean's discomfort. His eyes danced around the points of Cas' face. He suddenly felt like there was no air in the room.

"Initially I had planned to discuss these things with you at length, but I currently believe that you would not prefer that strategy." Cas elaborated.

"Ha." Dean said weakly. He blinked several more times, and glanced down, away. "Do you... think that's a good idea?" His voice didn't quite come out as strong as he would have hoped.

"Yes." Cas answered simply.

When Dean looked up, he had steeled himself. There was no more wavering, now, no point in ignoring, or procrastinating, or acting like he had more important things to think about. He did, probably, but it no longer mattered. And, he couldn't deny that he would absolutely prefer kissing to talking, and especially to having to think about what it meant.

So with all the hesitation of someone who was suddenly aware of how close he was, Dean brought his hand to Cas' upper arm and pulled him gently closer still.

It was strange, at first. Cas' lips were chapped and stiff. But Dean's heart thudded against his chest as if it wanted to get closer, and when Cas pressed back against him, a strange little noise escaped, and the whole strange mess started to fall into place. Dean surprised himself by wanting more. Dean had never had trouble with the idea that what is most right is not always the simplest or easiest, and yet he'd somehow failed to see it action in front of him for years. Like many right things, it was worth the learning curve.

There was something between them that didn't care in the least about the brush of stubble or the breadth of muscled shoulders beneath his hands and it made Dean feel as though he'd wasted his time not letting it through sooner.

Sam was relieved to still be tired, even exhausted. He fought to keep the little smile off his face as he tucked himself into the bed in his little room in the bunker, but it stayed determinedly stuck to his mouth, even as he drifted easily off into slumber.

It wasn't long before he smelled salt air. A hazy scene painted itself around him, powdery white sand and hard-leaning palms with washes of color bleeding into each other, drops of blue-green sea slipping into the pink sunset sky, the sun itself melting into the horizon of the shifting ocean.

Sam sat on the beach, watching the waves blur onto the sand and pull away again.

"Gabriel?" He asked the wind.

"Hey kiddo." Gabriel said softly.

Sam turned to see Gabriel walking down the beach to sit next to him. "Still dressed like part of the mummers parade, I see." Sam said.

"At first I was trying to make a point but I think I'm starting to like it. The tights are surprisingly comfortable."

"This place is beautiful." Sam's voice came out quiet.

"Sam."

Sam searched Gabriel's eyes, warm and golden. They reminded him of a rich, single-flowered honey he'd tasted once in a bustling farmer's market. Though he did not know why, pressed his fingers into Gabriel's.

"Sam, I want you to know I'm listening." Gabriel promised. "And I want what you said. Real life."

Sam let out a long breath, too slow to be a sigh.

Gabriel went on, "And I want you to know that now that I'm back, I don't want you to hesitate, should you need me..."

Sam realized the weight of it, of seeing him again, and hot tears blurred his vision. "I need you." Sam said. "I do. I needed you all that time and you were gone, and it never stopped."

Gabriel rose to his knees and wrapped his arms around Sam, holding him tight.

When Sam woke, he felt a strange weight on his chest. Gabriel's arm was tossed protectively across him. For the first time since the dreams had started, he no longer had to wonder alone.

He opened his eyes. It didn't help. The room was still dark.

"Hello?" It echoed across the walls in an all-too-familiar way. He had become intimately acquainted with that precise echo. Crowley tugged at his arms as a test, but as predicted, they were shackled, and didn't go too far. He grimaced, and then sighed as dramatically as he could manage.

"Bloody archangels." He said to no one.