Human Cas enjoys touch.
At first, it’s weird for Dean. When Cas passes Dean in the bunker hallways, he presses his palm between Dean’s shoulder blades or runs his hand across Dean’s arm. The touches start soft and hesitant, like Cas isn’t sure if it’s permitted but, over time, they become warm and lingering.
Dean doesn’t stop him. In fact, Dean leans into the touch. Dean finds himself slowing in the hallways, holding his breath, waiting to feel the heat, the comfort, the thrill, of having Cas’s hands on him.
At first, Cas hurries away when he touches Dean. Now, however, he waits, holds still for a moment, and smiles when he meets Dean’s eyes.
Dean shivers every time.
There’s no chance Cas misses it.
It takes a while for Dean to catch on but he finally notices that Cas doesn’t do the same to Sam. Or anyone. Just Dean.
One day, Dean hears Cas walking behind him. Dean stops in the middle of the hallway, heart beating, waiting, waiting, waiting.
When Cas reaches him, Dean is the first one to touch. Dean turns around and takes Cas’s face between his hands. He runs his thumb across Cas’s cheeks, feeling the stubble rasp over the pads of his thumbs, and stares into Cas’s eyes. Cas stares back, raises his hands, and flattens them against Dean’s chest. Dean’s heart only thumps harder. Cas smiles, feeling it in his palms.
It was a beautiful sight, that smile, so beautiful that Dean leans in, eager to feel it under his lips.
When Dean kisses Cas, Cas kisses back.
After that, they still touch in the hallways but they do in other places, too: in the grocery store while Cas deliberates on which kind of fruit to buy, in the kitchen while washing dishes, on the couch while watching a movie. They touch without hesitation because they can, because they want to, because their hands speak the words they struggle to convey.
I love you, Cas’s hands say, as they had always said, as they will always say.
I love you, Dean’s hands respond, every day and every night, for the rest of their long, long lives.