My Heart In Your Two Hands (1/1)

Title: My Heart In Your Two Hands
Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): None
Summary: Dean is living in Paris for a year on an engineering fellowship, which is pretty fantastic overall except for the fact that he's terrible at French. So when he meets a gorgeous, very French guy who leaves him speechless (literally), Dean wonders if he can make this work even without speaking the language of love.
Notes: The plot is loosely based on this post and the title is a translated lyric from the song "L'air De Rien" by Margaux Avril.

Graphic by addictcastiel on Tumblr.

This fic contains photographs to spice up your reading adventure.
Linked on my Tumblr.
Cross-posted at my Ao3.

Dean sometimes regrets not studying biology beyond high school AP, because if he had, he’d probably have a better grasp of inheritance – or more specifically, why Sam received all the language genes and he got jack squat.

Sam has a knack for learning new tongues; conjugations and sentence structures come naturally to him. He also absorbs vocabulary like a dry sponge, and Dean remembers Sam befriending a French exchange student in his senior year, picking up a hundred phrases and begging their parents to let him visit Mathieu in Nantes that summer. He’d pulled enough puppy dog faces to push them over (his acceptance to Stanford didn’t hurt either) and now, with two months in western France, a French minor in college, and another term abroad in Paris under his belt, Sam is fluent. Which is all well and good except he’s not the one living in the City of Light right now.

Dean is, and Dean, god help him, cannot speak French.

He’s managed to retain some key phrases, mind you, namely “Une demi baguette, s’il vous plait” (‘A half baguette, please’) for his morning trips to the bakery and “Pardonnez-moi” (‘Excuse me’) for the streets, the metro – everywhere. Besides the awkwardness that ensues every time he buys something, not knowing French in France isn’t as huge a pain in the ass like Dean had thought, but still sizable enough that he prays he’ll never get lost and be forced to approach a local.

Sam, of course, mocks Dean mercilessly; about a quarter of Dean’s phone plan is used for listening to trans-Atlantic moose laughter. Dean argues that his program at INSIS doesn’t require French, that he and the fourteen other Fellows are from like ten different countries anyway, but Sam just scoffs, “Yeah, well, I’m not flying over there when you obliviously break the law and get arrested.”

Dean glares at the wall because that is the exact scenario he’s terrified of, and unfortunately for him, Sam’s the only French-speaking American lawyer he knows. He glumly replies with “Shut up, Sammy” and throws in an eye roll for good measure, especially when Sam chuckles and says, “Uh, that would be ‘Ferme ta gueule,’ Dean.”

(Dean later looks up ‘Ferme ta gueule’ on his handy-dandy translator app, trying ‘gool,’ ‘gull,’ and ‘gyuulllllughshit’ before finally unearthing the entry. Upon learning that the phrase means ‘Shut your trap,’ he immediately commits it to memory.)


Dean is twenty minutes late in getting to the Frog & British Library, which is a brasserie slash pub in the 13th district, not, you know, a library. Well, it is actually located near the National Library but that’s besides the point; right now, he’s sweating as he searches for Charlie, having accidentally gotten out at Daumesnil instead of Bercy and backtracked two stations.

He’d texted her on the way, of course, to apologize in advance, and she had assured him it was fine. Nonetheless, Dean shoots her an ‘I’m so sorry’ smile when he finds her, telling her as much as well. “Charlie, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, Dean,” she greets, looking up from a game of Fruit Ninja. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. The metro can be a bitch.”

Dean knows that’s not entirely true – navigating the metro is intuitive for those in the city who aren’t tourists. Still, Dean appreciates her brushing off his poor manners and ongoing battle with subterranean Paris. “Nah, it’s just me. Have you ordered?”

“Not yet, but I’ve decided what I want. Here’s the menu.” She slides the paper over to him and Dean thanks her as he scans the listed items, crying silent, joyful tears at the section labeled Burgers.

Dean met Charlie at a farmer’s market five months ago, on an October Saturday when he ventured out of his apartment feeling groundlessly brave about his meager vocabulary. It took all but fifteen sad minutes for him to panic in front of a pastry stand until Charlie, who was buying fruit at a neighboring stand, came over and asked if he’d like some help.

Charlie works at a swanky tech company on the Right Bank, which grants her a postcard view of the Champs-Élysées from her office that Dean only wishes he had at the institute. Her French is also flawless and she blogs about Game of Thrones and food in her spare time, meaning that Dean gets to accompany her to popular eateries all around the city. He can’t imagine how shitty his meals would’ve been had he not met her, and how boring his after-work hours would’ve been too.

Their dinner arrives partway through Charlie telling Dean about a discothèque she discovered in the 2nd district, and she makes him promise to go with her and her expat girlfriend Gilda next time before they dig in like a couple of hungry wolf cubs. Charlie lightly kicks Dean under the table for moaning around his barbeque burger but he just winks like a cheeky bastard, and she lets out an indulgent laugh right as her eyes widen at something beyond Dean’s shoulder.

“Holy cow,” she whispers, gaze darting back to Dean.

“What?” he prompts.

Charlie leans in a little. “Dean, there’s a guy over there who keeps looking our way and he’s, like, beautiful. Maybe he saw you walking in!”

“What?” Dean repeats, the syllable muffled by beef and bacon. Damn, this burger is good. “How do you know he’s not looking at you?”

“Because,” she rolls her eyes like it’s obvious, which it isn’t, “I just know. Call it female intuition amped up with high-precision gaydar.”

Dean frowns. “But I’m gay too.”

Charlie gives him this look like ‘you’re so clueless, it’s cute’ and reaches over with a napkin to wipe a dab of sauce off his chin. “I’m gonna finish this burger then get out of your hair.”

“What-” Dean mutters for the third time. “Don’t you dare try to set me up with a stranger, Bradbury. C’mon, I can’t even see this guy.”

“Trust me, he’s your type,” she says airily.

“He could be an axe murderer,” Dean shoots back in a whine. The last bite of his burger drops onto his plate, forgotten, a sure sign of trouble.

“Not with that face, he’s not.”

“Not with that- You want me to end up in the fucking Catacombs?”

“Just say hello. You do know that much in French, don’t you?”

“Oh.” Dean sinks back in his chair. “Oh, that is low.”

Charlie hums as she picks up a fry to dip in ketchup, admirably clearing her plate. She then texts Gilda that she’ll be home sooner than planned and rises from her chair, grabbing her jacket and bending down to kiss Dean’s cheek. “He’s the one in the white dress shirt and blue tie. Don’t chicken out. And for the record, it’s ‘bonsoir’ after seven pm.”

Dean huffs as Charlie pats him on the head and fidgets with the unused silverware when she’s gone, incredulous that his friend actually followed through on her blitzkrieg of a scheme. Honestly, it’s insane because, like Dean said, he has his back to the guy and can’t see shit.

Of course, he’s unable to deny the curiosity – and Charlie’s a pro at that, planting seeds of morbid curiosity in his mind about things like frog legs and discothèques and, well, attractive strangers apparently. So after ten minutes of warring with sanity, reason, whatever, curiosity triumphs and Dean moves to Charlie’s old seat on the other side of the table, resettling as casually as possible. He glances around the restaurant, which isn’t that large of a space, and it doesn’t take long to spot this mystery man in white and blue and- Sweet merciful Jesus.

Charlie was right.

God, she was completely right about the guy. He is Dean’s type, like a thousand times over, and Dean is positive he’s looking at the hottest man to have ever, ever crossed his path. Did he mention ‘ever’? There’s the dark, tousled hair, for one. That and fathomless blue eyes, and although it’s spring the guy has a nice summer tan that spreads and disappears under a couple of open buttons on his shirt, past the loosened tie.

Dean continues to stare (not subtly either) but the subject of his newfound infatuation doesn’t notice because he’s deep in conversation with the girl across from him, a willowy redhead. Dean wonders abruptly why Charlie didn’t mention her, and his gape droops into a frown just as the guy turns, their eyes locking squarely in the process. Crap.

Heat flares on Dean’s skin at the other man’s confused expression, and it feels like everything around them has faded into a blur (not in the sense of a meet-cute but rather pure chagrin). And when the guy breaks the eye contact to talk to the girl again, Dean groans and imagines the dialogue: ‘Um, honey, there’s this weirdo staring at me.’ / ‘Really? Ugh, let’s go, he could be an axe murderer. Don’t wanna end up in the Catacombs!’

He slumps in his chair as the two get up, though it turns out that the girl’s the only one leaving, much to Dean’s surprise. The guy kisses her on both cheeks and she gives him a small wave, and, yeah, she might still be his girlfriend but... maybe... Dean averts his eyes to sulk into his drink; he’s more than filled his stalker quota, merci very much.

“Puis-je assieds?”

The question comes out of nowhere, making Dean jump, though that’s nothing compared to the beer glass nearly slipping from his hand when he looks up. The guy – yes, the one he was ogling shamelessly a minute ago – is suddenly standing right in front of him and, wait, what is going on.

“Puis-je assieds? Si ça ne vous dérange pas...”

Okay, Dean didn’t catch a single word save for ‘pas’ but Monsieur Sexy is vaguely gesturing to the chair beside him, and Dean can at least decipher body language so he nods, watching as the guy sits down and leans back with a smile. Yeah, he’s fucking gorgeous.

“Alors, êtes-vous tombé du ciel?” he asks and, shit, this man is officially sex on a stick with a voice like that, gravelly and low, probably tuned by God himself for the sole purpose of speaking French.

Too bad Dean can’t understand any of it.

“Um.” Seriously, what is his life. “... Bonsoir?”

The guy knits his brows as it dawns on him that Dean has no idea what he just said. He briefly appears embarrassed, which Dean finds hopelessly endearing, but eventually replies, “Bonsoir.”

“Uh...” Come on, Berlitz crash course, work your magic. “Je m’appelle Dean.”

“Dean,” he echoes. His accent seems to stretch the name out, making it sound like ‘Deeean.’ “Je m’appelle Castiel. Vous êtes américain, je vois.”

“Yes,” Dean sighs. “I mean, oui. American. You’re- Tu es... No, vous... Um. Cas?”

“Oui, Castiel ou Cas. Ça m’est égal.”

“... Right.” Dean pulls out his phone, intending to apologize for all of his staring earlier. He shrugs sheepishly at Cas as he types into the app.

“Um,” he clears his throat, “je suis désolé pour vous regardent.”

Cas tilts his head, lips twitching amusedly at the corners. “Ça va,” he says, which Dean happens to know means ‘It’s okay.’ (Hallelujah.) Cas then adds “Mais je vous ai clairement regardé aussi” before reaching for his own phone at Dean’s blank look, sliding the device forward a moment later. The browser is opened to Google Translate, where it reads, ‘I clearly looked at you too.’

Dean flushes. “Oh.”

Cas retrieves the phone to type another message. ‘Do you work in Paris?’

“Yeah. Oui, à INSIS.”

“Formidable, vous êtes ingénieur?”

Dean nods at the familiar word. “Yup, engineer. Et... vous?” This is some intense Frenglish he’s got going on.

“Je suis médecin. Plus précisément chirurgien orthopédique... erm...” Cas stops to make a slicing motion with his index finger down one arm, studying Dean to gauge his comprehension. God, he’s cute.

“Médecin... That’s not medicine. Um, doctor. You’re a doctor and... uh, orthopedic surgeon?” Dean mirrors Cas’ pantomiming and curls his fingers like he’s holding a scalpel, laughing when Cas gives him a thumbs up. “So, great, a handsome doctor,” he murmurs under his breath. “Was that...” He grabs his phone. ‘Was that girl your girlfriend?’

“Ah, non,” Cas answers with a fond chuckle. “C'était ma sœur.” Sœur… Sister. It’s ridiculous how relieved Dean is to connect those particular dots. “Et la fille qui a mangé avec vous? Est-ce qu’elle est votre... uh, girlfriend?”

“Who, Charlie? No, a friend. Une amie. Pas girlfriend.” Dean crosses his arms in an x to drive his point home, and there’s an inexplicable flutter in his stomach at a similar relief coloring Cas’ face.

The reliance on Google and charades aside, their conversation moves with unexpected ease, and Dean soon finds himself telling Cas all about his life – Lawrence and moving to Paris and even the Impala he left behind in Jo’s care. Explaining Sam is a bit more difficult because there’s so much he could say, but in the end Dean reads Cas the translations for ‘My brother is a little shit’ followed by ‘But I love him,’ drawing a rich laugh from Cas that tingles pleasantly down his spine.

Cas is... incredible, which is ludicrous to think since they only met today – and how accurate are first impressions, really. Even so, Dean can’t stop the ideas that bloom in his head, like ‘I feel a connection’ and a crazier ‘Maybe you’re the reason I came to Paris.’ And he just knows that he’s stuck in a rom-com when he can’t look away from Cas, not for a second, wanting to drink in the sight of those inquisitive eyes and winsome smile. He also wants to listen to Cas talk for hours, in whatever language, just let the warm voice wrap around him with every word, and as such Dean pays close attention to the anecdotes from Cas’ extensive travels, during which he jokes that he’s never visited the States but made it to Sri Lanka twice.

Dean manages to recall the word for ‘why’ and asks, “Pourquoi Sri Lanka?”

‘Doctors Without Borders,’ comes the reply and Dean’s brain pretty much melts between his ears.

They quickly lose track of time, it seems, because when Dean goes to type another sentence and actually looks at the clock on his screen, it says ten-thirty. “Whoa, hey, it’s, uh, vingt… deux heures et demie.”

Cas raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “Vraiment...” He goes to check his own watch and Dean takes in the graceful bends of his arm and wrist, realizing just how not ready he is to say goodnight.

“Cas, um... voulez-vous faire une… promenade?” Dean glances up from the translation to see Cas’ face brighten at the suggestion, and he can’t remember the last time he was this happy that someone agreed to go for a walk with him.


The March night is cool and Dean’s shoulder bumps against Cas’ as they head in the direction of the library, the Seine flowing peacefully beside them. The street, meanwhile, is far from empty, and Cas shifts closer to Dean as a group of students passes by, neither making an effort to move apart afterward. In fact, Dean takes this chance to reach for Cas’ hand, and grins when Cas tenderly entwines their fingers together.

“So, Cas.”

“Mm.” Their stride slows as Cas rotates to look at Dean, his features illuminated by the lights glowing along the river.

“Je veux...” (‘I want...’) Shoot, what’s the verb for- “Um, avez-vous...” (‘Do you have...’) How do you say ‘time.’ Fuck. Dean lifts his free hand to rub over his mouth in frustration while Cas waits patiently, albeit a tad bemused. “I like you. I mean, I know we just met but...”

Cas peers up at him, eyes narrowing thoughtfully like he could somehow read Dean’s mind if he tried. “C’est bizarre que je tienne déjà autant à toi. Nous venons juste de nous rencontrer.”

Dean laughs softly, holding onto Cas a little tighter, because it’s funny that they’re each talking, in different languages no less, yet somehow not at each other. The words are exchanged with a kind of inherent understanding and Dean likes that. Really likes it.

“We should do this again... I swear I’ll start learning French so we have less of a, uh, Tower of Babel situation.” He marvels when Cas smiles at that because they’re totally re-enacting Love Actually right now – Colin Firth’s storyline to be exact and, let’s be real, that one was the best.

“Je voudrais te revoir, Dean,” Cas says, pulling on Dean’s hand to lead him down the street. “J’ai enfin une raison d’apprendre l’anglais.”

The National Library rises taller and sleek as they get near, mostly blending into the sky except for the transparent staircases lit up in vertical beams. “J’étudiais là. Tous les jours,” Cas points at the buildings then pretends to write in the air, making an exasperated face that Dean always wore himself during grad school. The message clicks.

“Oh, you studied in there,” Dean chuckles as he considers the modern façade. “Not the coziest, huh?” He pictures Cas at a desk, obscured by piles of books, running a hand through that messy hair, and thinks he would’ve never gotten any work done if Cas had been a fixture at the KU library.

‘Where is your favorite place in Paris?’ he asks, having pulled out his phone again.

Cas contemplates the question for a moment then replies, ‘I will show you.’

It’s a direct route on the RER C line from their metro stop to the destination, and Dean peeks at the sign as he follows Cas to the exit. He has an inkling of where they’re headed based on the station name but lets Cas guide him through the streets all the same, past darkened shop windows and along cobblestone until they turn a corner and Dean’s eye line shoots up at a looming edifice.

“Wow,” Dean breathes, suddenly overwhelmed by the cathedral’s intimidating majesty. “This is beautiful.” He figures his expression demands no translation when he turns to look at Cas, who smiles and ducks his head like he’s self-conscious about his choice.

“C’est peut-être un peu... cliché-”

“No, no. Not at all, it’s...” He stares at the statues on the columns and archways, still in awe of their intricacy. Cas shifts beside him and Dean soon feels a soft nudge on his arm, prompting a glance down at the screen being held out.

‘I come here often to think.’

Dean cradles the phone in his palm, both of them laughing as he struggles to type with one hand. Cas loosens the grip on Dean’s other hand for him but Dean refuses to let go, which is corny and a bit ridiculous because it’s taking a full minute to write seven words.

‘I can see why. Are you religious?’

‘No, but my mother is. She named me for an angel.’

Dean’s mouth curves in a mischievous smile and this time he does unclasp their hands so he has use of both his own. For a sentence this important, he needs to prevent all potential typos.

‘I bet it hurt when you fell from Heaven.’

Cas laughs as Dean hoped when he reads the painstakingly crafted message, the sound bright and charming, echoing in the courtyard. The response reaches his eyes too, which crinkle in amusement, and Dean’s breath catches at the warm blue that rejects dimming with the night.

He’s so caught up in the color that he hardly notices the phone returning to his hand, and it requires Cas blushing and nodding toward the device to bring Dean back to the conversation.

‘They use that line in America also?’


Dean tilts his head up, somewhat puzzled, meeting Cas’ eyes again. He’s about to ask, since there was clearly something lost in translation here, but then Cas completely throws him by smiling and pulling on the lapels of his jacket. Dean leans forward with the momentum, eyes widening more and more, and when their lips touch in the middle he just gasps because, wow, kissing Cas is perfect.

Dean strokes his hands up and down Cas’ sides, just as a pair of gentle hands come up to his jaw. They caress reverently then drift to tangle in the hairs at his nape, and Dean’s pulse races at Cas’ open-mouthed coaxing of his tongue, so sweet yet exploring and pretty damn spectacular. The kiss deepens as they arch into each other, chests pressed flush together, ribcage to ribcage. They’re both nearing breathlessness and Cas lets out a quiet, sighing moan, but that’s good too and Dean swallows it with a low, pleased sound of his own.

He’s not sure how long they stand like that, engrossed and ensconced in the great shadow of the cathedral. Time loses its meaning until they break apart and Dean is tugged back to the present, captivated now by the pink on Cas’ cheeks, a shade that matches his slightly swollen lips.

“Comme c’est romantique!” (‘How romantic!’) someone shouts from across the street. Dean tears his eyes away from Cas in surprise for he was certain they were alone, but it turns out that they had an audience of five merrily buzzed, college-aged kids, who start cheering and whistling their approval in earnest. One of them even raises a wine bottle in a mock toast, which has Dean laughing and saluting back, while Cas chuckles and drops his head to Dean’s shoulder, snuffling into the fabric.

“Craziest kiss of my life,” Dean laughs into Cas’ hair, encircling him in his arms and drawing him close. He thinks he hears Cas mumble what might be a whine and that somehow accomplishes the impossible by making the man more adorable.

Cas’ hand move from Dean’s waist to his wrist when they finally release one another, leading him toward the building for a better look. Their cheer team takes its leave then as well, in a cloud of final exclamations and good-natured cooing, and Dean waves them off before pressing a kiss to Cas’ temple, smiling broadly at the embarrassed huffs that are far too cute to ignore.

They spend a solid ten minutes or so walking back and forth past the three portals, Dean gazing up at the magnificent architecture and Cas watching the awe continually cross his intrigued green eyes. The lighting isn’t sufficient to fully appreciate all the details but that’s okay with Dean; he has a strong feeling that the two of them will be visiting again.

It’s almost midnight by the time they depart the courtyard, hand in hand, wrought iron lampposts marking their path. Cas takes them in a direction opposite the way they came, until they’re strolling along the Seine once more, and they keep going – stopping every now and then to kiss – eventually ending up on a bridge with a smaller Notre Dame as their view.

‘I am so happy that I met you tonight,’ Cas tells him, which has Dean simultaneously grinning and sighing because he was about to use his phone to say the same. Instead, he answers with ‘Me too’ and lets Cas brings their mouths together in a brief yet passionate kiss, his heart rattling in his chest and proclaiming that this, this could be love.


Dean can’t help but feel a bit drunk on pure giddiness as he walks Cas home, probably appearing silly too with all of his incredulous glances at the hand in his and its owner’s smile. It gets to a point where Cas shakes his head and laughs, pulling their held hands up to lay a kiss on the knuckles, but all that does is make Dean’s expression verge on foolish and simply unsalvageable.

Cas invites him in for coffee when they reach his apartment in the 7th, a stylish loft with elegant furnishings that suit the doctor well. Dean looks through the framed photographs on the walls, some from Cas’ childhood, others more recent, and it’s in front of a family photo that Cas finds him a moment later, stepping in close behind him, arms sliding around in a graceful embrace.

“Pas girlfriend,” he murmurs, his breath ticking Dean’s cheek, and Dean laughs as he regards the siblings in the snapshot, relieved and amused.

He watches Cas slip into the kitchen to brew their coffee, changed out of his dress shirt and tie, still in his slacks. The plain grey tee is soft where it brushes against Dean’s skin on the couch, and the domestic tableau is such that neither can stop smiling over their cups. They sit and chat like that for a while, the phone between them, of course, and when fatigue creeps in just past three they yield to a couple hours of sleep, with Cas’ head tucked naturally into Dean’s chest.

Waking up is both wonderful and disappointing, as Cas all languid with mussed hair is an image Dean may want to see every morning for the rest of his life. Regrettable, however, is the fact that it’s Friday and they have to be at work in a few hours. Dean rises from the couch, sluggish and reluctant, intending to catch the first train and give Cas a chance for some shut-eye. Cas saves a note on his phone with a time and address for dinner, and perhaps they spend a tad too long kissing lazily at the front door.

The sky is a medley of blue and varying hues of orange, painting a backdrop for the Eiffel Tower that greets Dean on his way to the station. The neighborhood is quiet, not yet awakened from its slumber, and despite his own sleep-addled mind Dean’s footfalls are easy, cheerful, almost dubious in their lightness. It is this dubiety that causes him to pause halfway across a bridge.

He faces the landmark, hands snug in his pockets, eyeing the early traces of sun peeking out from the east. He takes in the river, the buildings, Paris, more attentively than he’s ever done before, unable to resist the warm burst in his chest at the thought that he’s actually found love in the so-called City of Love. It’s unfailingly cliché, and unfailingly right.

So, standing there, bathed in a halo effect of illumination around daybreak, Dean utters four words he never thought he’d have the occasion to say.

“I love you, Paris.”


Dean’s French, amazingly enough, does improve in the coming weeks, more than it ever had in the past five months. If this happens to coincide with the frequency of his and Cas’ dates, well, Dean wouldn’t deny any of it. Call it the power of love, if you will, or something equally cheesy.

Charlie takes the news of their relationship in stride, like some clairvoyant who knew all along that they would meet under her psychic, mother-hen guidance. Sam, on the other hand, flips out (predictably) at the announcement that Dean’s found a boyfriend.

“An expat, right?” he asks, breathless with disbelief. “What? A surgeon?” he adds in increasing decibels when Dean elaborates. “You’re dating a French surgeon? What the heck do you talk about?”

Dean rolls his eyes, torn between arguing that his French is passable now and scarring his brother by saying that they just make out a lot. Ultimately, he responds with a smug “Ferme ta gueule, Sammy,” which has Sam sputtering and demanding introduction to this “supernatural entity called Cas” who successfully taught French to Dean “English only, please” Winchester.

Dean has to admit that getting a basic handle French has made his life a lot easier, particularly when he goes grocery shopping to bake Cas an apple pie. (Cas wondering if he’d meant ‘apple tart’ was cute, with the puppy head tilt and everything, but it also scandalized Dean to no end.)

The best part of learning the language, though, has to be understanding all the things Cas said to him on that first night. And as Dean recalls and translates each sentence, the more he’s astounded, because he realizes that they were mirroring each other’s sentiments perfectly from the start.

“It’s strange that I feel so strongly for you. We only just met.”
“I’d like to see you again, Dean.”
“I finally have a reason to study English.”

Most importantly, it turns out that the question Cas asked him after sitting down at his table in the restaurant was “So, did you fall from Heaven?” which explains a few crucial things. Apparently, the line is international as Cas had speculated and, yes, Dean is officially Colin Firth.


Three months later, INSIS offers Dean a permanent position in engineering research, which he gladly accepts. He celebrates the offer with Cas over champagne and goes apartment hunting the next day, signing a lease within the week for a place not five minutes away from Cas’ building. It’s a nice addition, like having a second home, since he rarely spends a night without Cas anymore.

July arrives the following month, which means a flood of Parisians vacating the city to sunbathe all over Europe. Dean, meanwhile, toys with an idea that Cas might like, perhaps better than Nice or Italy, and so he finds his better half in the study one evening with the hope that he is right.

“Hey. Cas?”

Cas is poring over a scary, frankly nasty-looking diagram in a medical journal, publications that Dean avoids like the plague for the sake of keeping his food down. He instead focuses his attention on the glasses perched low on Cas’ nose, dark-rimmed and wide, because those are the most ridiculously attractive thing Dean has ever seen.

Cas glances up at Dean calling his name, simultaneously sticking a pen in the binding so he can close the journal for his digestively fragile boyfriend. He watches curiously as Dean leans against the desk, blue eyes fondly prompting, and he relaxes in his chair, away from the work, to let him know that his attention is undivided.

“Um, à propos de nos vacances... Peut-être nous pouvons rendre visite à mon frère et sa femme? Il fait très beau à San Francisco en été. Qu’en penses-tu?” (‘Um, about our vacation... Maybe we can visit my brother and his wife? The weather’s beautiful in San Francisco in the summer. What do you think?’)

Dean licks his lips a little nervously, unsure whether Cas would want to be halfway across the world on his vacation, unable to see any of his family for the duration. Damn, the suggestion seems kind of selfish now that he thinks about it... And, besides, he’d be happy as a clam in the south of France or the Mediterranean, or wherever, as long as Cas was there with him.

Or, you know, we could just-”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas replies then, his smile soft and adoring. “I would love to meet Sam and Jess.”


When Dean is done kissing Cas senseless, he straightens up to catch his breath, announcing that he should go call Sam and deliver the news.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Cas says, his tone solemn but eyes twinkling. “I cannot wait to tease you in French with him.”

Dean stops short in the doorway, turning around slowly, gaping. “Oh, you did not-”

“Mm,” Cas smirks, cocky and sexy as all hell. “T’es mignon quand t’es fâché.” (‘You’re cute when you’re mad.’)

“... That’s it.”

Cas is laughing by the time Dean rounds in on him, though the sounds fade into gravel-threaded moans at Dean climbing onto his lap, cradling his face for an deep, covetous kiss. Dean’s answering grin is filthy, his teeth playful as they bite Cas’ lower lip, and he feels possessive hands grip the dip of his back as they make out like teenagers on the swivel chair, pawing and clutching and needy.

Dean gasps when Cas tightens the hold on his waist and stands up, carrying him easily like he’s not a full-grown, six-foot man. One of the things Dean has learned about his boyfriend is that Cas is insurmountably strong, the hard-cut body quietly hiding the kind of stamina you’d need to perform surgeries for hours and hours and still go running in the morning. Either way, that strength is currently being used to tote Dean to their room, kissing him wet and urgent, and Dean is so turned on by all of it plus the dirty, growly French that he’s near-unraveled when they crash onto the bed, everything else forgotten.

Suffice to say, no more gross diagrams are studied and no international calls are made that night, although Dean does pick up some new, intriguing phrases to keep in his secret arsenal. Because if Cas wants to tease, then teasing is what he’s gonna get, and as for Sam, well, he best be prepared for a few traumatizing rounds of How Dean Learned That Word.