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ialwayscomewhenyoucall · 7 years

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How Do I Love Thee?

One morning Cas found it taped to the bathroom mirror:

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Later, at breakfast, he waved the paper at Dean. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning?” he asked.

“What?” protested Dean, ears pink. “I read. Not as much as you since you moved in here, but I read.”

“I like the poem,” Cas said. “And aside from the fact that you had no ‘childhood faith’, it fits, I think.”

“That's not quite true,” Dean said quietly. “I didn't believe in Chuck when I was a child, that's true enough. But Mom taught me to believe in angels.” He looked up at Cas, grinning. “And yes, it fits. After all the crap we've done for him, Chuck had better give us a place together in heaven after we die!”

“I have hope,” said Cas.

*****

A few days later, Cas found a sky blue scrap of paper on the passenger seat of the Impala:

He walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in his aspect and his eyes.

He smiled at Dean. “A bit liberal with the pronouns, but I like it.Tennyson.”

“I liked the part about the starry skies and the eyes. It made me think of you. And “all that's best of dark and bright”? I couldn't describe your wings better. So what if I changed it a bit…” Dean mumbled.

Cas leaned over to brush his lips against Dean’s cheek. “It’s perfect.”

*****

Later that week Cas awoke to find Dean gone from their bed. There was a text from Dean on his phone.

Dean: On a hunt. Didn’t want to wake you.

Love seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care;

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.

Cas laughed. He wasn't having much trouble remembering the poets Dean was asking for, but Dean sure was finding the perfect words. He replied:

Cas: William Blake. But here with you is better than Heaven. Be safe.

A few minutes later:

Dean: I always come home to you, angel.

*****

It had become a game.

Again on the bathroom mirror, this time written with a marker:

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Cas wrote underneath:

We’ve both met cupids, Shakespeare. They’re not blind, just annoying.

*****

The next night at dinner, written on Cas’s napkin:

For where thou art,

there is the world itself,

And where thou art not,

desolation.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Shakespeare? Two days in a row?”

Dean blushed. “I found a good website.”

Cas chuckled. “I think you can do better than that.”

Dean’s look said Challenge accepted.

*****

The following week, crumpled and folded, stuffed into Cas's left shoe:

...all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope

and torture a confession out of it.

Dean could hear Cas’s laughter echoing down the hallway. He grinned. He'd been hoping for that response.

“Billy Collins,” Cas gasped as he entered the library, attempting to get his hysterics under control. “This is the best one yet. I love it! Were you thinking of Crowley?”

“I kind of cheated with that one,” Dean admitted . “I saw you reading that book last week.”

“He's a favorite of mine,” sighed Cas. “He sees the world in unexpected ways.”

Dean cupped the angel’s face in his hands. “I wonder what he'd write about you, angel?”

It was Cas's turn to blush.

*****

The next was tucked between the pages of the book Cas had been reading.

Talk in song from tongues of lilting grace Sounds caress my ear And not a word I heard could I relate The story was quite clear

Cas looked at Dean, indignant. “Do you truly believe I could spend so much time with you and not recognize Led Zeppelin lyrics?”

Dean laughed. “I had to try! You're impossible. I'm about ready to admit defeat.” Something flashed in Cas's eyes--fear? longing?--and Dean threw up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I'll keep trying.” Cas softened.

*****

A few days later, scrawled on an index card, leaning against the coffee pot:

We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

Dean heard the soft intake of breath as he entered the kitchen. “Maya Angelou,” breathed Cas. He turned, saw Dean, smiled. “You know the name of the poem?”

Dean laughed. “Touched by an Angel. I couldn't resist.”

“I'm no angel,” Cas said, all seriousness. “Not anymore.”

“Cas. You will always be my angel.”

*****

It had been two weeks. Dean was often lost in thought, spacing out in the middle of conversations. Cas was glad there was a lull on; Dean was too distracted to hunt.

When Cas awoke on the morning of the fifteenth day their bed was cold and empty. Stretching, his hand brushed against something on Dean’s pillow. He grabbed at the slip of paper, expecting poetry. Instead he read, in Dean’s handwriting:

Morning, Sunshine. I made breakfast. And coffee.

Puzzled, Cas got out of bed. He pulled one of Dean’s Led Zeppelin t-shirts on over his worn flannel pants and headed for the kitchen. Since when did Dean leave him a note to tell him to come to breakfast? He always went to the kitchen when he woke up. That’s where the coffee was.

Dean sat at the kitchen table, looking...nervous? Cas sat down next to him, smiling at both Dean and the steaming mug of coffee waiting for him. Dean returned his smile, somewhat nervously, looked pointedly down at the table, then back up into Cas’s sleepy blue eyes.

In front of Cas, next to the coffee, another poem waited. This one was typed neatly on heavy paper, not scribbled on whatever was handy.

I think of you--

as stars fall,

a flash

of grace,

across a

silent

sky.

Miles roll by,

black road,

nothing

behind, blue

ahead--

you asleep,

dreaming

of me, or another

sunrise.

For a moment, Cas was speechless. And then he was confused. He felt his customary head-tilt and puzzled expression settle onto his features as he frantically searched through all the poetry he’d ever read. “This is...this is beautiful, Dean.” He stared deep into green eyes, seeing the love they’ve held for so long. “This is the best one yet. It’s perfect. And you win. I’ve never read this one. I have no idea who wrote it.”

All of Dean’s nervousness disappeared in an instant. “Turn it over,” he said with a grin.

On the back, in Dean’s scribbled handwriting, Cas read:

For my angel

-DW-

#lirael writes #destiel #destiel fanfic #this was way harder to write than it should have been #lindsay is awesome and got me through it #and for some reason the spacing is kind of off #but i'm too tired to try to fix it #maybe tomorrow

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