They kiss for the first time in the bunker’s kitchen. Dean shuffles up wearily beside Cas in front of the coffee pot, and mumbles, “Morning.” His hand doesn’t reach the cabinet pull before Cas taps his shoulder and slides him a mug, already filled, and Dean thinks nothing of leaning over that extra inch.
They kiss for the first time during a stakeout, huddled together because the engine makes too much noise to let the car idle, and it’s not forty degrees tonight. Cas’s breath is warm against his cheek and when he whispers Dean’s name, it comes out like fog that Dean chases to its source.
They kiss for the first time on the hood of the Impala, watching the stars, while Sam politely looks away; inside a locked bathroom door, gauze covering the worst of Dean’s injuries and a bruise blooming on Castiel’s jaw; lying on a motel bed, Netflix forgotten on the laptop between them.
Their first kiss is in Maine, in Michigan, in Kansas, in California; in a greasy spoon over breakfast and broken down on the side of a highway. The kiss is tender and frightened and heated and chaste; long and lingering, and over too fast.
So many times, Dean has imagined kissing him. They could have a second, a third, a lifetime, if he could get past the first.