Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean will never forget the very first time he felt Cas’ Grace inside him. 

Granted, he doesn’t remember how it happened. Or even when specifically. But he remembers the feeling. The liquid cool surge racing through him to the very place where he was hurting and the Grace just. Healing him - as simple as that. 

He remembers the heady rush of sensations which lingered, tingling on the surface of his freshly healed skin. Like the burn after a wax. Except… y’know. Nicer. Not that Dean waxes. 

Once, Lisa slapped a wax strip on his leg while they were messing around. He’d told her it couldn’t be that painful ‘cause she barely winced the whole time she was doing it. She was used to it, she’d said, and bet him he wouldn’t be able to deal with it. The pain, that is. And yeah, it fucking hurt. She’d swiped it off him, pulling his leg hairs off at the root with it, and a smooth, landing-strip of bare skin was left behind on his shin. How the fuck do women do this all the time? He’d thought, but not actually said out loud. ‘Cause, yeah. He’s not a pussy. Not like he hadn’t had worse pain before. It was a shock though. He won’t deny it. 

Anyway, Cas’ Grace had felt kind of like that. Aftershocks of pain but somehow - nice? Point is, it was good. More than good. Tantalising. Surprising. And at the time, he’d been so focused on the fact that his wound was gone in two seconds flat that he hadn’t dwelled on it until way, way later. And by then he’d forgotten the basics of what had actually led to Cas healing him but the point of the issue itself… 

It was a fine, focused point. Dean often caught himself lying awake wondering when or even if he’d get to experience it again (Cas’ Grace. Not the waxing). 

Turns out it was more. Way more. 

And every time was, like, better than the last somehow. The Grace penetrated deeper and harder and just fucking better each and every time Cas healed him. Like a really intense massage but without the oil and grease and awkward, shirtless silences. Or the happy endings. Not that Dean’s had many of those. Once, actually, and he hadn’t even asked for it. She just went ahead and - yeah. 

Damn, the Grace was good. Better than a massage or a happy ending or the slide of ice-cold beer down his throat after a long, hard day. 

Dean’s no poet, but if he could wax lyrical about the way Cas’ Grace felt coursing through his veins and straight to that place where everything hurts and then suddenly doesn’t and instead is replaced with this brief, but oh, so glorious tingle of - something? Well… he probably wouldn’t wax lyrical about it because poetry’s embarrassing as shit as it is and he’ll hold onto that until the day he actually for-real dies but it’s - it’s good. Yeah. Better than good. 

And then Cas died. 

And that sucked. For so many reasons. The Grace being the least of them, but a constant, selfish thought in Dean’s head nonetheless.

The sluggish time in between Cas being stuck in the Empty and Jack pulling him the hell outta there is a blur to Dean. There was a whole lot of whiskey. A whole lot of… not talking. To Sam. To Claire. To anyone. Some really fucking bad nights where he considered just drinking and drinking until he -

Yeah. Until he didn’t wake up, basically. Dean isn’t particularly proud of the night Sam found him semi-conscious and crying on the bathroom floor of the bunker, two empty bottles next to him, covered in tears and snot and his own vomit probably. Not that Dean remembers much of it at all. Sam, thankfully, didn’t go into the gory details. He just made sure to keep a strict hawk-eye watch over Dean’s every waking motion during the following weeks. The bottles of liquor he bought mysteriously disappeared when Dean didn’t have an eye on them for more than a second and the only place Dean could go and get blackout was at one of the local bars in the next town over. And it wasn't long before they caught on and 86'd him too. 

There were hunts. A few. Not as many as before. Dean’s pretty sure Sam deliberately kept a few potential cases away from him because he was scared he would “do something reckless” to which Dean could only reply, “our job is reckless, Sammy. That ain’t an excuse and you damn well know it.” 

Claire came with them sometimes, and Dean had the sneaking suspicion Sam had asked her to be another pair of eyes because Dean had been so careless lately. He’d accumulated more scars in those couple of months than he had in the last couple of years. The only hunt which really sticks out to Dean is that whole deal with the vampires when he got slammed onto a rebar and impaled right through his back. Instead of letting him slip into sweet, sweet oblivion, Sam went and got a med kit and an ambulance. Dean’s last waning thought before passing out on that rusty-ass nail had been:

Shit. I could really do with a nice dose of Cas’ Grace right now. Just to experience it. One last time. And then he’d felt guilty for thinking of the Grace instead of - y’know - Cas who was dead and had spent his last moments confessing his supposed love for Dean and all of this was pretty fucking typical really because Dean realised he was gonna die with guilt, guilt, guilt, and that was all he got at the end of a long, hard slog at life and then he’d just.

Woken up. 

Cas was returned topside a short time after Dean was discharged from hospital. And yeah, Sam and Claire were mad at him but they were both very deliberately Not Talking About It. So, yeah. Maybe Cas’ return came at a time when the vibes were pretty fuckin' dismal but damn if Dean cared. 

Or Sam, for that matter. Because it wasn’t just Cas who’d come back, but Eileen too. Dean’s pretty sure they weren’t the only ones Jack had managed to resurrect, but the rest is all white noise to Dean. The last few months kinda just faded into insignificance, and Dean was content to never mention it again if the others didn't. 

Not only was Cas back, but he was back at full-power. His wings were restored. All his Grace. All the good (better than good) stuff. Trenchcoat, messed up hair and all. 

And, yeah, Dean knows now when Cas is all Angel because he has this… look. It’s distinctive. Nostalgic, almost. Detached in a way that most people aren’t, but simultaneously more attentive and attuned to the world than anyone else is. Dean knows, because it was exactly how Cas had been when they first met. Not that he was any less Cas when he was human but.

Well, it’s a thing. Like two separate people in Dean’s mind, almost. Besides, Dean hates thinking about when Cas was human because he’d treated him like fucking shit and he knows that but it’s - it’s fine now 'cause Cas is back for good and so far - in the month he’s been back - he hasn’t left them for any significant amount of time or voiced any plans to head out and start a new life without them.  

Cas is back, and so is his Grace, and they’re not talking. 

Truth is, Dean is going insane. When Cas had shown up on the doorstep of the bunker like it was any old Thursday afternoon, Dean physically had to pinch himself. He’d dreamt this before. On the better nights. The ones where the whiskey lulled him into that perfect place where his dreams felt real enough that, just for a moment, he could pretend he was nearly happy. Well, not happy but... content? Yeah. Content. 

It wasn’t a dream. 

Cas had blinked in surprise at Dean, looking as taken-aback to see him as Dean was and Dean had just kind of thrown himself at the angel and somehow they’d ended up kneeling on the ground, embracing, knees knocking together. He thinks there might’ve been some tears. There was a wet patch on the shoulder of Cas’ trenchcoat when they’d let each other go and Dean’s hoodie (the one he lives in these days. The thing is soft and washed to within an inch of his life and the Metallica logo on the back is faded beyond legibility but it’s huge and black and all encompassing) had definitely been damp around the neck where Cas had buried his face into him.  

Then they’d just kind of - stared into each other’s eyes for a long time. Dean’s not sure how long. All he knows is he kept thinking, you’re real. You’re alive. Cas. Cas. Cas. On repeat until Sam bolted up the stairs and found them like that. 

Unbeknownst to them at that moment, Eileen had spawned in the kitchen of all places and the reunion between her and Sam was nothing short of cinematic. There were more tears. Dean vaguely recalls making a huge pot of coffee - hands shaking - and them all gathering around the map table to just talk and catch up and cry a little more and stare at one another in blissful disbelief. Jack deigned to visit them from his upstairs duties to explain and - yes, reassure, because Dean was still a little convinced this was a djinn dream - that Eileen and Cas really were back for good. He was swift to arrive and swift to leave, saying there was still so much to be getting on with before announcing, heartbreakingly sincere, that he was sorry he hadn't been able to bring them back sooner. Apparently negotiating with the Empty wasn't a two-working-days kinda deal. 

Dean was so overcome with joy and pure fucking relief that he’d forgotten to be angry with Jack for leaving them and refusing to answer Dean's prayers. Hell, he’d forgotten to be angry with Cas for leaving him. For dying. For making him so damn close to following him into oblivion. All those things still nag at Dean a whole month later but it’s not been the right time to - talk. Yet.

See, Dean knows this better than anyone, there’s a lot of tedious life admin you gotta do when you come back from the dead. Not that Cas had many of the IDs or fake birth certificates to sort out or anything like that, but there were a lot of people in their lives now who deserved to know about his and Eileen’s return. So for the past month that’s pretty much all they’ve been doing. Driving cross-country and reuniting with everyone who thought they were gone forever. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many tears. 

So, yeah. They’re not talking and Dean is definitely going insane. Going? Gone. He was gone even before Cas came back. 

Dean drives them everywhere for a whole month and eats burgers and pancakes at diners with Sam and Eileen and Cas and stays in motels and has his own room because Cas (helpfully) reminds him - he doesn’t sleep. So he leaves Dean alone at night and returns in the morning.

Dean’s pretty sure he sits in Baby all night and reads the books he somehow keeps managing to find and get through in, like, a day, which is actually fine ‘cause some of the motels are dodgy as all hell and Dean feels better knowing Baby’s safe under Cas’ guard. 

It’s not a routine, exactly. They travel too much for that. But it’s a kind of - rhythm they’ve got down. They drive. They eat. They find the many people who adore Cas and Eileen. There’s hugs and comically huge dinners and sometimes they stay the night at a friend’s house and sometimes they don’t and they definitely. Do. Not. Talk. 

Until they (sort of) do, which is right after they get back from their month-long Reunion Road Trip. Truth is, Dean's frickin’ tired. Between the driving, the barely-sleeping, the heartfelt embracing and the unending think cycle he's stuck in, he's just about used up all his energy. He can't wait for some peace and quiet in the comfort of his room with its three-foot-thick concrete walls and unintentional rug trail of unwashed t-shirts and flannels. Sue him, he had other shit to be doing. So when he gets back, he flops forward onto his bed and squishes his face into his pillow, expecting sleep to come.

It doesn't. 

Dean winds up lying awake. Head whirring, thoughts screaming, until the early hours. 

Defeated, he hauls on his old Metallica hoodie and pads, barefoot, to the kitchen. He ran outta clean socks a while ago. 

Thank all that is blessed that Eileen had the bright idea of picking up groceries before they got back, because now there's a nice pack of bacon waiting for Dean in the fridge, and it doesn't take long for him to spritz some oil into a pan and get a couple of strips sizzling, his tired eyes drifting and blurring over the golden, greasy meat as it cooks.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean jumps and grabs onto the counter.

“Wear a bell, Cas.” He snipes before remembering that this isn't five years ago and Cas was dead and now he's here and - oh, yeah. They're not talking. 

He hauls in a breath on a sharp inhale and faces Castiel in the kitchen. 

He's not wearing his trenchcoat. He's down to just his suit jacket. Tie loose around the undone top couple of buttons of his collar and there's a paperback hanging open in his hand. Lit only by the extractor fan lamp, his features squint at Dean in high, stark contrast. He's narrowing his eyes at Dean like he always fucking does. Actually… he hasn't done it in a while. Not since - yeah. Before. Is it weird that Dean’s missed it? He huffs out a short laugh and rubs the back of his head. 

“Shit, Cas, I - uh. Not sleeping. Hence the”- he gestures at the pan with his spatula. It's not exactly an apology. More a garble of words in no particular order but Cas seems to accept it. 

He nods. “I understand.” Then he looks down at his shoes and his eyes just sort of… stay there. 

The bacon goes “shaaaa” in the pan. If Dean concentrates hard enough, it sounds like rain. But it isn't. And this is awkward, isn't it? Shit, he should say something. He should -

“What're you reading?” Internally, he smacks himself. In the real world, he waits for Cas to answer like he hasn't just dorked out an awkward as fuck question. 

“The Bell Jar.” Says Cas, flipping the cover a little in Dean's direction for him to see. Dean pretends to be interested in the flowery, powder-blue illustrations. 

“Ah. Right. Is it - good?” 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

“It's reflective.” Cas muses. “The themes and leaps the story takes are somewhat relatable to my own situation in some ways. Much of the content is dated, in today's world. Regardless, I find the words… comforting.” His mouth twitches upwards into an almost-smile as he takes in what must be Dean's blank expression. ‘Cause he's not really sure what to say to that. “Would you like to read it?”

“Uh, sure but you're”-

“I've read it seven times, Dean. Here.” He hands out the book and Dean just - takes it. He holds it, still staring at Cas. For lack of anywhere better to put it, he tucks it into the kangaroo-pouch pocket on the front of his hoodie. It sticks out - a small but bulky rectangle in the front. It looks fucking stupid. He's fucking stupid. He can't even remember the last time he read something that wasn't research or - worse - some shitty skin mag from the gas station. 

“Thanks.” He says. And then, because he's a big boy and also, as he's established, insane now, he goes on to mutter: “Actually, Cas, I wanted to”-

Unfortunately, Cas chooses the exact same moment to say:

“Dean, we need to talk.” 

Their voices overlap. They lock eyes. Dean coughs. “You first, man.” 

Cas sighs. His shoulders drop just enough that Dean can read the out-breath.

“We need to talk, Dean.” He's looking somewhere around Dean's knees again as he speaks, and without the book in his hands his arms hang by his sides. His frown is deeper than ever and his jaw twitches under the stubble which Dean hasn't seen grown out since purgatory. He vaguely wonders when Cas finds the time to shave, or whether he just uses his mojo to do it or -

“You have to know that when I confessed my love for you, I didn't expect to return.”

Oh. Yeah. Talking. Fuck. 

“Uh huh.” Dean says dumbly, spinning the spatula in his hands as his insides squirm with discomfort. He doesn't want this. They were doing fine before. With the not talking thing. It was fine. They were comfortable - kind of. 

Cas meets his eyes again. Searching. Scrutinising. Looking hard and intense and blue. Blue blue blue, Dean’s insomnia-riddled brain helpfully supplies. 

“I am in love with you, Dean. Having my Grace restored has not altered that.” He waits. Dean says nothing. Can't, actually. He's not sure he has a tongue right now. “I was reluctant to talk about this with you on the road. There was… so much. So many people. It didn't feel”-

“Cas, it's uh - it's good, man. It's cool.”

Cas blinks. “What?”

“It's alright.” Dean says, his mouth taking over where his brain has failed. “Listen, man you're - you're back now and it's okay. We can forget about it and just carry on like before and, yeah. I'm not gonna, like, freak out or anything, okay? You're my - we've known each other for a long time. We've died and come back more times than we can count and I'd be really keen for that not to happen again so we can just - yeah. Carry on. It's fine.” 

It's silent for a long time. Except for the sizzling. Dean turns back to the stove. Shit. Bacon's getting a little crispy. He shuts off the gas and pushes the bacon around the pan, not really doing anything and definitely not hungry anymore. There's maybe a few minutes of this. Dean thinks Cas must surely have gone. Conversation over. Right? Then he makes the mistake of turning around and sees that Cas is still standing there, exactly as before. Right. The guy watched mountains form for millennia, a few minutes of weird silence won't mean anything to him.

“Did you, uh… did you get all that?” Dean asks. 

Cas takes a step forward. Then another. 

“I just told you - again - that I am in love with you. I have non-platonic feelings for you. And you're content to carry on a relationship with me?”

Dean’s heart thuds against his ribs. It's kind of loud actually. He hopes Cas can't hear it. Probably can. Magic ears and shit. 

“Relation”- He coughs on bacon-scented air. Clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. We’re friends, Cas. We've been through enough shit that I - I don't wanna lose that.” Fuck. Shit. This is why Dean had been avoiding this talk for so long. ‘Cause now Cas is gonna leave again and he could - what if he dies again and Dean doesn't find out until, like, years after his death when some distant friend or - heaven forbid - Claire tells him he passed away on some dumb hunt or he -

“You… don't want to lose that?” Cas echoes. 

“O-of course not. I care about you, man.” 

“But you don't reciprocate my feelings.” It isn't a question. 

Dean looks away. The blue is so - just there. Too intense. Too much. He feels - a lot of things. All at once. He can't make sense of them. Not with Cas’ blue eyes and his lack of sleep and the bacon lazily sizzling as it cools and the whole past decade and a bit hanging over their goddamn heads. 

“No, Cas. You know I'm not”- No. Don't say that word. Can't say it. “I don't swing that way.” 

It comes back to him then - the image he sees etched onto his eyelids every time he shuts his eyes. Cas’ blue ones (so fucking blue) swimming with tears and that broken, face-splitting smile as he declares he loves Dean and he's happy. He can't fucking bear to see Cas cry like that again so he just. He keeps talking. 

“But listen, man, i-if I was, you know I'd - fuck, I dunno. I- I care about you and if I did swing that way you know you're the only guy I'd ever - I mean, I know I have kind of a track record of fuckin' around with - people - and I'm not saying I don't but.” He short circuits. Squeezes his eyes shut. Plants a hand over his face and scrubs it. “What I'm… what I'm trying to say, Cas, is I… would. If I could. You - deserve to be happy. I know before you got taken to the Empty that you said you were but - but that's just because you've never known anything else. Cas, y-you deserve to be loved. Properly, man. With someone who can - someone else who's - y'know. That. You can stop me any time, buddy, or I'm just gonna keep going.” 

Cas isn't crying. Thank fuck. But he does tilt his head curiously to the side as he regards Dean.

“You would… if you could.” He repeats. He's doing that a lot. Echoing. And it makes Dean wince, hearing the way those words sound. Then he says, “You don't love me.” 

“You're family, man.” It's as close to an answer as Dean can possibly get without saying yes, because it's not yes but it's not no. “We - I need you.” 

Cas takes another step and if he gets any closer he'll be all up in Dean's business (personal space much?) so Dean does the only thing he can and backs away. Which is really stupid because there's nowhere else to go, so he ends up planting his hand, palm down, on the burning hot stove. 

He yelps and snatches his hand back, quickly inspecting the rapidly reddening skin.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He spits, holding his searing palm close to his chest and squeezing his eyes closed. His heart is pummelling. From the pain. From the talk. Right now he's not sure which is worse. And it's about to become clear - all crashing down on his head - as Cas extracts Dean's wrist from where he's clutching it against himself and presses two fingers to his scorching palm. 

There's a moment of sharp pain, and then -

Grace. 

It's been so long. So, torturously long since Dean felt this - this cool, soft, slipping sliding ice-white-shining liquid grace seeping into his skin - that he's almost forgotten what it felt like. 

Dean closes his eyes as this time - and every other time - come pouring back to him like long lost friends. The aching, too-brief high of having Cas’ Grace live inside his body for a short while. Fuck, it's good. It's so damn good. Dean sucks in a huge breath and holds it as the feeling fades. He tries to keep it. Grasp it. 

It leaves. It always leaves. 

When he opens his eyes, Cas is staring at him, his eyes wide and oh, so fucking blue. 

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, sounding more uncertain than Dean has ever heard him. 

“Fuck, no, Cas. No. No, you - you healed me.” He laughs - the euphoria of having Cas’ Grace, however briefly, pushing the sound up and out of his throat. “Thanks. That hurt like a son of a bitch but you - yeah. Thanks, man.” 

He might be going overboard, he thinks. With the gratitude. He's never really thanked Cas for healing him before, has he? No wonder Cas finds it weird. Before he can say anything else, Dean reaches out (with the healed, tingling hand) and claps Cas on the shoulder. Solid and unmoving muscle beneath his palm. 

“You know, I - I'm actually really tired now, dude. I, uh. I gotta hit the hay, Cas but you - thanks. For the book and the… talking. It helped. Night, man.” 

On his way out of the kitchen, bacon long forgotten, Dean hears the quiet,

“Goodnight, Dean.” 

He sleeps. He sleeps really fucking good. 

Chapter Text

Sam yells at Dean the next morning for leaving out a pan of greasy, cold bacon which has been out too long for anyone to eat. But Dean - Dean genuinely can’t bring himself to care. He had the best sleep of his life, and when they gather around the breakfast table that morning to talk about the “next steps” (what is this, a mother’s meeting?) he finds he’s not really listening to a word anyone’s saying. He’s thinking about last night. If he concentrates, he swears his palm is still tingling a little. Remembering Cas’ Grace. He looks at Cas, and Cas is watching him. Eyes very slightly narrowed, his coffee mug brought halfway to his lips. Paused.

Dean raises a brow: what? 

Cas shakes his head. Reintegrates himself into the conversation. 

Sam’s saying something about establishing a clearer hunter’s network, especially now that everyone who’s left has settled in their respective bases. They got enough of them spread around the country now that between all of ‘em, the monsters left don’t stand much of a chance operating unnoticed. 

Eileen’s quick to agree, and she and Sam begin drawing up plans on setting up outposts around the country - external signal towers and med-sites fully equipped to be able to support a hunter in a pinch (but inconspicuous enough that the average person might just mistake it for a telephone pole). He says they’ll be able to connect their phones via a unique code or something only available to hunters within the network and blah, blah, it all sounds very techy and clever.

“Hey,” He laughs, “What about geocaching?” Eileen, Sam and Cas look at him blankly. “Y’know, those guys who go around checking every urban nook and cranny for like - treasure? It’s kind of like a huge easter egg hunt. You guys have really never heard of it?” 

“No, but now I want in.” Says Eileen. 

“It’s a whole thing,” Dean explains, “Anyway my point is, some of these guys come across one of our towers and find all the med supplies and shit - they might think it’s a geocache and just go ahead and take it.” 

“Then I suggest we set up other protective wards around the sites to keep prying eyes at bay.” Says Cas. 

“But then we’ll have to teach every hunter how to break the sigils. It won’t be simple anymore.” Eileen supplies, and the three of them go on to discuss this new dilemma about whether it’s worth leaving the sites unprotected or not and once again - blah, blah, blah. Dean is a little too distracted for this conversation this morning, so he goes to the fridge and starts getting together the ingredients for omelettes. Food. He can do that. Cook for people. Yeah. Then maybe Sam will forgive him for the bacon incident. 

He sprinkles in enough rabbit food to keep his little brother satisfied and enough salt and butter to round out his own needs. He makes enough for Cas even though the guy says he doesn’t need to eat, and is rewarded with a few moments of happy silence when everyone - including the angel - tucks into breakfast. 

Cas sighs around a mouthful of egg and smiles around it at Dean before swallowing. 

“I have missed your cooking.” He tells him earnestly. 

Dean feels his face prickle a little and manages a snicker in response. “Yeah, well, someone has to take on housewife duties while you dorks are busy planning.” 

Sam raises an eyebrow. Eileen guffaws and Dean’s face gets hotter. 

“Fuck off, you know what I mean.” He snaps, and glances up to find Cas’ eyes fond and on him and blue - like last night. I am in love with you. I have non-platonic feelings for you. Clear as day, the low spoken gravelly (re)confession rings in Dean’s ears as he recognises the other man’s expression for what it is. This whole love thing he’s got going on - Dean wants to ask when it started. Why it started. Why the fuck are you in love with me? He wants to burst out as he scrapes his plate clean and hurries to the sink to wash up. But he doesn’t. Obviously. Everyone is here and even if they weren’t - it’s a can of worms he’s not too keen on reopening. He said everything he needed to say last night. He cares about Cas. They’re best friends. He doesn’t want him to leave. He would if he could and that’s it. How much clearer could he possibly be? 

He's startled by another pair of hands taking the plate he's currently washing out of his hands. 

“You cooked.” Cas rumbles. “You're not supposed to clean.”

Dean shrugs, “Everyone else was busy.” He mutters. 

Cas doesn’t move. Presses against his side by the sink, all unselfconscious angel and inexplicable heat through layers and layers of clothes. He knows Cas doesn’t get cold - he has his own temperature regulation system or whatever but sometimes Dean feels hot just looking at him. All those clothes, man. He wants to tell him to peel off the coat. Relax a little. Roll up his sleeves. Roll up his… 

Cas has rolled up his sleeves. The trenchcoat remains on, and it should look so, so dumb. But it doesn’t. ‘Cause it’s Cas, obviously, in full angel mode so he’s kind of effortlessly cool no matter what. Thick, white suds clod up around Cas’ fingers as he takes over the dishes from Dean and he’s wet up to his wrists. He works slowly. Methodically. Soaping up the sponge and squeezing out the lather to rub over the ceramic in smooth, wide circles. Dean inhales hard and gets the hell out of the way. If Cas wants to do the dishes, fine. Dean isn't gonna stop him. 

The conversation at the table has dissolved from focused planning to twirling pens and nonsense banter so Dean slinks off to the bathroom to shower. 

It's not until he's under the hot spray that he thinks, fuck. Cas is gonna think I'm freaking out. He'd only left the kitchen so fast ‘cause the angel seemed so damn keen to take over the dishes. Who's he to look a gift horse in the mouth? 

Besides, after last night… it's like the air around Cas kind of - 

Vibrates. Like there’s a magnetic force around him, drawing Dean in. Washing dishes should not look so fucking hypnotising. Castiel, Domestic Goddess of the Lord. 

Dean snorts at the thought, inhaling a good amount of hot water in the process and busies himself with scrubbing off quickly and efficiently as he tries not to cough his guts up. That’s right. Wash. Scrub. Exfoliate. Get between the toes. Motel military style. 

He tries to ignore the waning tingling in his palm as he goes, letting the pressurised drops smack against his skin until it stings. When he's done, he dries himself down and loosely ties his towel around his waist. 

When he gets to his bedroom he stops. Looks around. It’s a fucking shit tip. Clothes everywhere. He curses under his breath. Goes for the drawers. There's a couple of odd socks rattling around. A flannel. No jeans. No t-shirts. No underwear. 

He's known in the back of his mind for weeks (months) that he needs to get on top of it. But that was before the road trip. And before the road trip he'd not really had time ‘cause Cas and Eileen were back and then they'd just sort of - jetted off and - shit. 

Cas clears his throat from the doorway. Internally, Dean startles. Externally, he glares, half bent over with a clutch of dirty socks, towels, shirts and underwear hanging from his arms. 

“I take it you haven't done any laundry since I died.” Cas comments, dry as dust.

“Low blow comin’ from the guy who only owns one outfit.” Dean's bad knee pops as he hauls himself upright and throws his floordrobe onto the bed. He needs to change the sheets anyway. Dean hopes Cas hasn't spotted the stacked, unwashed bowls under his bed or the odd discarded spoon or fork kicked into the corner. So what? Cereal is a great midnight snack when you're all outta whiskey and there's no energy left for cooking. 

Huffing and damp, Dean looks at Cas. Watches him watching him. Blinks, and sees the angel's face splitting into a smile, tears welling. I love you, Dean. Celestial, black, evil goo coming up to claim him. The usual, then. He'll never get that damn picture out from behind his eyelids. 

Right now, Cas is squinting at him, standing in the doorway of his room with his arms by his sides, head cocked to the side. 

Dean knows that look. “What, Cas?”

Cas takes one cautious step inside. “Are you alright, Dean?” 

Dean’s palm twitches. “I will be when I have some goddamn clothes to wear.” He whirls around the room, deliberately not looking at Cas as he just kind of stands there. Watching. 

Eventually, Dean can't take it. “You gonna help or what?” 

Cas moves into the room and drags Dean's already overflowing laundry basket from its designated corner. Lugging it behind him as if it weighs nothing more than a shoe. Dean follows Cas to the laundry room in heavy silence. A wrench twists in that special spot in his gut. Guilt. He shouldn't have snapped at Cas. He shouldn't have let his laundry pile up for months on end. He also shouldn't have let Rhonda Hurley stick a pair of pink panties on him twenty years ago leaving him with an awkward fixation which now remains between him and his internet search history. He shouldn't, technically, be alive. But here they all are. Whoop-de-fuckin’-do. Dean's life is dictated by shoulds and shouldn't have's. Maybe if he just did the right thing in the first place for once - said the right thing… 

They get to the laundry room and Cas begins dutifully unloading Dean’s clothes into a washer, trenchcoat tails getting caught in the midst of it.

“Cas, I - I was just being a jerk. You don’t need to help. It’s cool.”

His moist skin sharpens in the cool, exposed air, and he tugs the towel a little tighter around his waist. 

“I want to help.” Cas replies simply, banging the washing machine shut and turning it on. “It isn't a burden, Dean.”

“But it's”-

Cas rolls his eyes then. A full body movement. Sarcastic bastard. “Don't be ridiculous, Dean, it's only”-

“Fuck”- Dean rushes to the washing machine and tries to wrench it open, remembering too late. The fucking auto-lock is already on, though. It's too fuckin' late. 

He curses over and over, fumbling with the machine and hitting it as though that will make it open.

“What? What?” Cas demands beside him, increasingly panicked. 

“I-I forgot to take the book you gave me out of my hoodie. Shit, man, I didn't think I'm sorry.” Dean stresses, standing straight and carding both hands through wet hair.

Without so much as a glance at him, Cas touches the machine with two fingers and it stops. The door unlocks with a soft click, and he reaches inside and pulls out Dean's sopping wet hoodie. The book is a misshapen lump in the front pocket, and when he pulls it out it's dripping. 

Cas holds the sopping pages at arm's length and, with a small flick of his wrist, mojo's it dry. He hands it back to Dean wordlessly.

Gaping a little, Dean can only think: sorta a waste of Grace if you ask me. 

Cas’ eyes narrow at him. “You think I shouldn't have used my powers for this?” 

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it again. Points a finger at Cas because he knows it pisses him off. Patronises him or some shit.

“Remember when you promised me you'd stay out of my head? That isn't null and void just ‘cause you went and died again, angel.” Dean says, his tone dark. 

“I am not in your head.” Cas enunciates pointedly, swatting Dean’s finger out of his face. “But sometimes your thoughts are so loud I can't help but get an inkling of what you're feeling.” 

Dean bites back a retort. Because, well. There's not much he can do about his loud thoughts, is there? 

“Point stands. Just - can you, like, not listen or something?” 

“If you were standing in a corridor full of rooms and someone started shouting from behind a locked door, would you be able to simply” - and he uses air quotes for this one - “‘not listen’?” 

Dean huffs and stuffs the wet hoodie back inside the machine, slamming the door closed and resuming the cycle. 

“Whatever, smartass.” There’s no heat behind it. There can’t be, because Dean feels a little too exposed with his loud thoughts and his feelings and, yeah, his frickin’ nipples just out here on display. He puts the dry book on top of the machine and stares at it. Resenting it. 

Cas steps closer, “I wanted to ask you…” He hesitates. 

Dean turns to him, “Yeah?” His voice comes out a little raspy. He coughs into his hand. 

“Your demeanour changed rather drastically last night.” He begins, watching Dean’s expression as he speaks. Dean keeps it deliberately neutral and pretends not to know what Cas is talking about. Cas raises a brow. “After I healed your hand, you - you were very quick to leave. I didn’t go too far, did I? I realised I never asked your permission to heal you. I should have.”

Oh, boy, if only you knew. Dean checks himself as Cas’ expression flickers. Another loud thought probably. 

“No, man. Of course you didn’t hurt me.” He adds in a small laugh for good measure. “I was just, yeah, was pretty tired is all.” 

Cas nods, and though his expression doesn’t change he seems to accept this for now. 

He leaves Dean alone to wait for the washing machine to do its thing. Dean doesn’t leave the laundry room the whole time because he genuinely can’t stand the idea of Sam or Eileen running into him like this. Then he’d have to explain his whole laundry debacle and that would lead to more questions about his room and his mental state and shit. It just isn’t worth it. He passes the time by reading the Bell Jar. Cas’ mojo did a real good job there. None of the ink has bled and the pages are straight and fresh. Even the spine has to be re-cracked. Good as new. Just like his hand… 

He makes the conscious effort to not think about it and gets to reading and, fuck. Dean’s three pages in and struggling with the fact he doesn’t know what half the words even mean. He gets to googling, and if nothing else at least his pretty limited vocabulary will thank him for it. He’s read some Vonnegut. Some Steinbeck. Kerouac. He used to steal books from the library for Sam and sneak them into his duffel when John wasn’t around, and sue him if he read some of them himself. But this is, like, a whole different ball game. 

Dean’s feeling pretty dumb already and wondering why the hell Cas thought he’d be up to reading something like this when the washing machine pings at him and he realises he’s twenty pages in. Hm. That went fast. He puts it on a dry cycle and cracks his neck, hopping back up to sit on the machine. It’s not great as seating goes and his back definitely won’t thank him for it later, but that’s future Dean’s problem. For now, he thumbs the book back open and reads. 

*

Dean reads and cleans over the next few days. He guts out his room and gets halfway through the book. He makes a point of doing everyone’s laundry. He cleans the bathroom. The kitchen. Dusts all the shelves in the library. Steams the couch in the Dean Cave. On the third day, he gets to the part in the book where Esther gets sent to a mental hospital and thinks about Cas. Was this what he meant when he said he related to aspects of the book? The idea makes Dean uncomfortable. Cas wasn’t in a mental hospital because he was genuinely crazy, though, it was just… angel shit. Supernatural shit. All the usual kinds of shit that happened to them over the years. It wasn’t through any fault or flaw of his own. 

Then, after Dean is done cleaning the oven, he gets to the part where Esther tries to kill herself and has to stop reading altogether for a while. 

He doesn’t know why the book is making him angry. He isn’t particularly enjoying it, to be perfectly honest. It’s the kind of thing John would immediately call girly and wrong for a man like Dean to read - just from the cover alone. There are flowers on the damn thing. But that’s not the only reason Dean’s upset. He just keeps thinking of Cas relating to it. What, so he was suicidal, too? 

Actually, that isn’t so hard to believe. The guy all but threw himself into the Empty. And he was - actually, genuinely - happy to do it as well. Happy ‘cause he confessed to Dean. What’s the fucking point in confessing your so-called undying love if you’re just gonna kill yourself after?

Dean shoves the book in the drawer and cleans all the guns in the armoury. It takes him nearly the whole day. 

He keeps himself busy and out of Cas’ way, but it isn’t long before he starts to get antsy. On day four he’s nearly run out of things to do, so he goes to the garage and sets about changing the catalytic converter on the Thunderbird he’s had his eye on fixing up for a while. 

She’s in nearly perfect condition, so there isn’t much to clean up, but he takes his time anyway, letting the oil and grease seep into his skin and calm him down. He’s been rushing around and cleaning the bunker with the stress levels of someone being hunted for sport. He blames Cas for giving him that damn depressing book. 

Apparently his thoughts are a little too loud because the angel himself comes into the garage while Dean is still working. 

He treads carefully, as if not to disturb him, and sits on an upturned pallet. Dean’s already heard the click of his shoes and all it takes is a peak from underneath the car to see where Cas has placed himself. Not inconspicuously enough so that he’ll startle Dean when he emerges from under the car but not so forward as to sit directly near him. 

“Hey, Cas.” Dean says anyway.

“Hello, Dean.” Comes the answering greeting, his timbre low and echoing in the garage. Unobtrusive but always there. Just under Dean’s skin. His palm has stopped tingling. He misses it. He chews his lip, debating whether to talk about it - the book. He’s not sure he wants to know how Cas relates to Esther. What about himself he sees as so broken as to find an affinity with the messed up scenarios Sylvia Plath so greatly wrote out in detail. 

“Sam is making dinner this evening.” Cas tells him, “I came to warn you.”

Dean chokes out a half-laugh half-groan. “Thanks for the head’s up, man.” He wonders if Cas will leave now. He’s delivered his message. He’s done all he needed to do on a perfunctory level and that’s - they should leave it at that. Knowing what he knows about Cas’ feelings, Dean doesn’t want to force him to spend an unnecessary amount of time with him. It can’t be… pleasant. Being in love. Knowing it isn’t returned.

Dean swallows hard. His palms sweat a little under the wrench and at this point he’s just procrastinating. He’s done. If the bolts are any tighter they’ll never come off. He fiddles around with them anyway while Cas sits on the pallet, another paperback inexplicably appearing in his hands. 

Dean watches him from the safety of the Thunderbird’s underbelly. His hands - large and capable and gentler than Dean’s have ever had the privilege of being - turning the pages as he reads. Full of Grace. Some of it for him. 

The selfish voice in the back of Dean’s mind wants all of it. Wants and wants and wants. He clenches the wrench around his recently healed palm and closes his eyes in an attempt to dull the traitorous voice. It isn’t mine to take, he thinks. But Cas - Cas gives it so freely. And isn’t it, like, limitless now? He knows Jack returned him at full juice. He said as much himself. He’s got his wings back. His fuckin’ wings! And now there’s no Lucifer or Chuck or end of the world or anything so is it really that bad if Dean wants just a little bit of it for himself? 

Dean decides - well, he doesn’t decide much. He turns his brain off and lets instinct take over as he slides out from under the Thunderbird - just a tad too slow - and goes to sit up before he’s fully out from under the car. 

His forehead hits the sharp, metal edge with a dull smack, and Cas is on his feet immediately.

Fuck, it hurts. A lot. More than he’d really prepared for, but the moment Cas’ hands are on him makes it all worth it.

“Dean.” He says, concern imbued in the easy way he says his name. 

“Shit. M’an idiot.” Dean slurs, not even having to fake the dizziness or the double vision. 

Cas shakes his head and exhales hard, his breath ghosting over Dean’s face. Ozone. The scent has returned tenfold now Cas has all his Grace back. It’s intoxicating. Ozone and - something else. Something sweet. He can't place it.

“Let me.” Cas says, and presses two firm, deft fingers lightly against Dean’s forehead. 

This time, the Grace goes through all of him. Like a waterfall sluicing deliciously over his skull and down his throat and through his veins, pumping into every organ with quick, sublime action. It stays longer than it had with his palm, and Dean hears himself let out a small, gratified moan as the sensation he’s been chasing ever since that first time is returned to him even more potently than the last. 

Cas cups the back of Dean’s neck as he heals him, the flat of his palm warm and secure and the perfect accompaniment to this Grace-fuelled bliss. 

Fuck, Dean thinks - and he must think it loudly because Cas makes a small, choked off noise in the back of his throat and removes his fingers from Dean’s forehead. Dean mourns the loss, but silently thanks every saint living and dead that he has enough of his wits left not to beg for them back. 

“Dean?”

“Uh huh.” Dean nods, his eyes still closed. “Much better, Cas… thanks.” 

He opens his eyes, and Cas’ face is unreadable. There’s a smattering of colour climbing from under his jaw and up and up. His hand is still cupping Dean’s neck, his thumb tracing small circles right where his hair has started to grow a little too long. Dean is so satisfied, he can’t bring himself to pull away even though he knows he should. It’s too close. Intimate in a way they’re generally - not. 

Cas’ eyes are searching. Blue and blue on blue. “You’re sure?” 

“Do I sound not sure?” Dean says with a laugh. He can’t help it. It makes no sense. He doesn’t care. He feels lighter than he has since -

Ever.

Cas’ Grace is a goddamn dream come true. 

Finally, Cas releases him and stands, offering a hand to Dean. He takes it, his legs wobbling as he follows him upright, knee popping, and accepts Cas’ hand on the small of his back too. He steps away from Dean when he’s sure he can stand on his own and sweeps him over with his gaze. There’s a bite of tension in his jaw as he surveys him. 

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour.” Cas tells him stiffly, before swishing off and leaving Dean alone in the garage, his head swimming with Grace. He thinks, distantly, he’d been angry before. Wound up about something. All of that’s gone.

*

The next time Dean gets a taste of Cas’ Grace is two days later when he’s washing up after dinner. He’s actually talking to Sam at the sink and they’re debating the ending of The Sopranos when it happens. 

Again, it’s not exactly an accident. Dean is wiping a cooking knife clean, the blade side turned away from his hand as it always is, but he uses the excuse of being distracted by the debate to turn the knife over in his hand and swipe it across the join between his thumb and forefinger, slicing open the thin, fragile stretch of skin there.

He drops the knife and almost immediately the sink is decorated with fat drops of blood. 

Sam steps back from him, “Shit, dude. How did you - ?”

Cas is there before Sam’s finished his sentence, strong fingers wrapping around Dean’s wrist and pulling his hand towards his face to inspect the damage. He tuts - like he’s a mom or something - and fixes Dean with a disapproving glare. 

“Really, Dean? Can’t you be more careful?” He snaps, but Dean hardly hears him because there’s Grace pouring from Cas’ hand and straight to the throbbing sting between his fingers, the webbing knitting itself back together in front of his eyes. He sighs and lets his eyes flutter shut as Grace courses through his hand, then his arm, stopping still somewhere right around his heart. It’s pleasant and warm and fizzing in a way that makes his mind go blank. 

Cas drops Dean’s hand and glares at him. Dean claps him on the shoulder.

“Good thing we got you, huh, buddy? That woulda’ been a bitch to stitch up.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and walks off, muttering something about Cas not being a walking pharmacy. 

If Cas hears, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He goes right on staring at Dean in that unnervingly intense way. 

“What?” Dean throws his arms up in surrender, giddy with the afterglow of Grace in his veins. “So I’m clumsy, okay? I’m getting older!” 

“Your coordination has never been this lacking before.” Cas observes, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve had three ‘accidents’ in a week.” 

“Never thought I’d say this,” Eileen interjects from where she’s been watching the conversation with interest at the table, “but you’re worse than your brother lately, and he’s always knocking his head in doorways. I’ve been trying to get him to wear a helmet for weeks now. He’s too freakishly tall for this place. Men of Letters were small guys.” She grins, winking at Sam, who’s gone from being exasperated with Dean to fake-exasperated with his girlfriend.

Grateful for the distraction, Dean laughs and throws a smirk Cas’ way, triumphant when the angel’s eyes soften a little at the corners and some of the tension slips from his shoulders. Some. Not all. Dean isn’t blind. And he doesn’t miss the way Cas’ eyes track him across the room over the course of the evening, flitting to him more often than not when they all settle in the Dean Cave to watch Game of Thrones. 

*

The next time is, as they say, the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

It happens on a hunt. Garth called them the night before to let them know there’s a case in Denver. It’s a paint-by-numbers salt and burn by the sounds of it, but they’re the closest to it. Dean, raring with a mania that’s begun to manifest the longer he goes without hunting, is quick to accept. They decide to all go even though, really, they could handle it with just the two of them. Turns out they’re all jittery to ease back into hunting. The peace has been a little disturbing so, yeah. Fuck it. They’ll do a salt and burn. Make an outing of it if they can. 

It’s an ice-rink this time. Employees have been noticing equipment going missing. A couple of notable and out of the ordinary accidents occurring during clean-up duty - the kind which definitely don’t comply with health and safety measures - and no one can find a culprit. There’re a couple of employees who’ve sworn they’ve seen a figure dancing on the ice at night, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. Dean and Sam suit up to interview the locals while Cas and Eileen check out the building, and it all seems simple enough until it isn’t. 

Because it’s never simple, and it turns out they didn’t burn everything when they lit up the body. Heather Mulvaney’s murderer killed her on the ice, and some of her blood is still trapped inside the rink. Molecules, Sam says, probably something forensic clean-up missed, and it’s been years since then so they need to start a fire and melt the whole frickin’ rink down. 

What should’ve been a two-day job turns into a whole week deal as they try and figure out a way to get away with this without committing full on arson. The answer, three of them decide, is Cas. 

“No.” Says Dean immediately. They’re in a diner opposite the less-than-nice-but-not-quite-shitty motel they’ve opted for this time, nursing a late lunch and coming up with a plan for tonight. 

Everyone looks at him. 

“No?” Says Sam, glancing around the table like he’s missed something. “What do you mean, no?” 

Dean struggles. “Come on, guys - Cas isn’t - he’s not just some atomic bomb we get to set off whenever we feel like it."

Cas scowls. “Dean, I can melt the ice and eviscerate Heather Mulvaney’s blood quickly and efficiently by revealing a modicum of my true form. It will not be difficult and I don’t mind.”

“I do!” Dean argues, “You’re not some tool, you - you’re an angel. You’re meant for, like, better shit than this.”

Everyone is frowning at him now, and yeah. He can see why. He sounds crazy. Dean’s never had a problem with Cas utilising his powers for them in the past. He’s encouraged it plenty, and for good reason. When the guy’s all souped up like this he’s a beast. A ghost of this tier won’t stand a chance if he just - goes for it. 

Cas ducks his chin and finds Dean’s eyes when he refuses to meet them, breathing hard at the slightly sticky surface of the table. 

“This is a hunt, Dean. We may save some lives if we do this efficiently. If you’re concerned about me using up all my Grace”-

“I never said that”-

“Then you have nothing to worry about.” Cas continues right over Dean. “I am not as mortal as I was before Jack pulled me out of the Empty. I know it is difficult for you - all of you - to fully grasp it, but my Grace is stronger than it has ever been. I would like to help, Dean. I would like to hunt with you all.” His mouth lifts up at the corner. "Even if you still think I suck at hunting." 

Dean doesn’t like how soft his voice has gone. A course, lilting rasp which won’t be heard by anyone outside their booth. 

“We’re happy to have you, Cas.” Eileen says in answer to Dean’s long-suffering silence. “We wouldn’t ask you to do this if there was an easier or, you know, more legal way.” 

Cas smiles at her and signs back while saying, “I know. Thank you.” 

And it’s decided. Just like that. And Dean wants to argue but can’t think of a reasonable excuse to. It just doesn’t feel right anymore. Like Cas shouldn’t have to - put himself on display like this, which is absolutely fucking ludicrous ‘cause what the hell, this isn’t a beauty pageant. It’s a hunt. But it’s - it’s his Grace. It’s literally holy and sacred and the essence of actual perfection and he’s gonna use it to melt a frickin’ ice rink. 

Dean hates himself as they make their way over to the rink and ignores the concerned glances being thrown his way. Ignores the silent looks Sam and Eileen exchange when Dean does little more than grumble in response to a question. Ignores Cas. He’s pissed. He has no right to be but he is, and it’s exactly that attitude that nearly gets him ganked. 

Dean volunteers to keep watch at the back exit of the rink, near where all the shoes and skates are stored. Mostly because he wants to be alone while they do this. Armed with bags of salt stashed in every pocket and an iron wrench, he knows he's well prepared for any ghosties to show up. Should be, anyway. So when Heather Mulvaney's maimed, grey apparition appears by the shoe stacks he really has no excuse for not reacting quickly enough. 

She advances on him, her skate raised, blade side up, and jams it into his chest. At that the same time, Cas’ Voice (angel voice, but like, intelligible) blares out from the rink:

CLOSE YOUR EYES. 

Dean's already there. He's slumped on the cold, rubber floor, blood pooling hot and sluggish around him. His eyelids light up as Cas’ true form peaks out and obliterates the ice beneath him. Distantly, Dean hears Heather Mulvaney's fading scream as she burns. He bleeds and bleeds and bleeds, consciousness slipping fast, his vision going black at the edges. 

I swear to God - to Jack - Cas if you don't get over here and heal me fast I'm gonna die on you again. 

It's the loudest thought he can manage. Maybe it's not enough, he's gonna die. He thinks his lung is punctured, if the slow, rattling breaths hacking out of him are anything to go by. 

When Cas gets to him, kneeling in the blood without a care for the scarlet stains blooming in his trenchcoat tails, Dean almost thinks it's too late.

The first trickle of Grace is explorative. Inquisitive. Threading through his veins to the source of the injury like a caress. Then it explodes. 

The wound heals fast. His bleeding stops immediately, but he's already lost pints of the stuff so his awareness isn't exactly on top form as he experiences what might be the most intense flood of Grace yet.

It's life saving in more ways than one. Dean feels his head clear and fill with golden-blue light. It's better than - fuck, it's better than an orgasm. The way it trembles through him, lighting up every nerve and spreading from his head to the tips of his toes. 

Dean knows he makes some kind of noise. Feels the shape of Cas’ name in his mouth as the angel heals. But he doesn't care. Can't. It's the Grace. It's the blood he's lost. Whatever the reason, he does. Not. Care. He's gonna be riding this high for days. 

So, yeah, he doesn't really register when Cas hauls him upright and slams him against a shoe rack by his collar, his eyes alien and alight with that same golden blue. Dean thinks he laughs. Drunk. But Cas isn't laughing. He's seething. 

“You were nearly dead.” He hisses in Dean's face. Spitting. Warm and close. Not even inches apart at this point. 

“Yeah…” Dean slurs, “Y'saved me, Cas. Again. Angel. My angel.” 

Cas’ face flickers. His expression conflicts and his vice-grip on Dean’s collar tightens into fists. 

“I know what you're doing, Dean.” Is all he says before there's a flap of wings and everything goes dark. 

Chapter Text

Dean can't count the amount of times he's been tied up in his life on his fingers and toes combined. He doesn't have enough. Point is, it's a lot. And this time is - it's one of the more surprising ones, yeah.

He doesn't know where Cas got the rope. Dean's pretty sure he pulled it from the pocket dimension he's got going on up his sleeve. Either that or he pulled it out his ass. 

Regardless, Dean's trussed up like a thanksgiving day turkey, his wrists taut above his head, bound tightly to the headboard. 

They definitely aren't in the same motel they've being staying in for the hunt. Wherever Cas has whisked him off to, it's a lot swankier and, he's assuming, quieter, ‘cause Dean's not exactly gone along with this without a struggle. 

The sheets under him look and feel clean. Silky. The headboard he's tied to is kinda nice as well. Dark, carved wood. The walls are a rich, emerald green. Not that Dean's had much forethought to appreciate the interior. He's a little busy trying every trick he knows to squirm out of the ropes but whatever knots Cas has used, Dean certainly isn't familiar with them. He's bound tight and well. A little too well.

“You done this before, Cas?” Dean grits out. The high he was riding from Cas’ Grace died just about the minute he realised Cas had bound him and wasn't about to let him go any time soon.

“Yes.” Cas bites out. Pacing. He's fucking pacing. Not looking at Dean. Fingers tapping his chin. A deep frown carved into his features. 

Dean grunts to get his attention and wiggles as if he's in great discomfort. Truthfully, the ropes don't hurt. Not unless he actively pulls and rubs his wrists against them. Despite doing what he's doing, Cas has been disturbingly gentle with Dean. 

“Well, it'd be real nice if you could let me go right about”-

Cas’ attention snaps to him, then, and he marches over to the bed, murder written in his eyes. 

Dean actually cringes away from him. Just a little.

“No. No. ” He jabs a finger at Dean, leaning down to get all up in his face. “You are not going anywhere. You'll only hurt yourself again.” 

“What are you…?” 

“Don't play ignorant with me, Dean.” Cas’ voice is dripping with derision. “I cottoned on to what you were doing right around the time you pulled that trick with the knife but I - I couldn't prove it until tonight. You let Heather Mulvaney's ghost stab you in the chest. You let yourself get hurt on purpose. Correct?” 

Dean gapes at him, thinking shit shit shit shit shit. Cas is never going to give him his Grace again. The idea of that absolutely terrifies him. He thinks of what he'll say. How he's gonna spin this. Comes up blank. 

“Cas… I”- 

Cas holds up a finger and Dean hears his mouth clack shut. Cas isn't looking at him again, instead staring off at a point on the bedspread near Dean’s ankles. 

“Sam is praying to me. I need to go and - explain.” 

The rope creaks as Dean tries to fling out an arm to stop Cas from leaving. 

“Cas, you - you can't tell him what I've - please don't. Fuck, please don't, Cas.” 

Cas stares down at Dean, tilting his head. 

“I won't tell him about you hurting yourself, Dean. It'll only upset him. I will come up with… something.” He clears his throat. “Stay here.” 

There's a flap of wings, a haughty breeze, and the fucker is gone. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.” Dean says into the relative silence. 

He cranes his neck to examine the arched window on his right. It's a pretty window, but the outside is black. He has no idea where he is. He hits his head against the headboard. Once. Twice. Keeps going until it stings. The fucked up thing is, he already feels the pull of emptiness inside him where Cas’ Grace should be. His chest, in particular, aches right now. He can't just blast him full of Grace like that and then deny him forever. He fucking can't. 

Panic claws at his abdomen. His heart bounces from his throat to his stomach the longer Cas is gone. 

It should be easy. Dean has spent more hours tied up than anyone has any right to. But Cas did this to him. He's been fuckin’ kidnapped by Cas. It wouldn't be the first time he's hurt him, but before it was - they were different. Cas was different. He wasn't in love with him then. Was he? Would it make a difference if he was? Maybe, Dean thinks, Cas doesn't even really understand what “being in love” means. He's not exactly human. Has been, sure. But that doesn't mean - anything.

It doesn't mean anything. 

It shouldn't. 

Fuck.

Dean's straining to get free before he fully realises what he's doing. The thick, solid ropes burn against his wrists. Chafing and damaging and turning them red and raw in the time it takes for Cas to return. 

When he does, he comes right back over to Dean, scanning him from head to toe without a word. 

He swallows hard when he sees the state of Dean's wrists. 

“Why are you doing this.” He says emphatically, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

“What did Sam say?” Dean fires right back. “Is he alright? What'd you tell him?” You dick, he tactfully doesn't add.

Cas gives a great sigh, like it's taking everything in him not to shake Dean apart and briefly closes his eyes to answer. 

“Sam and Eileen are fine. They were worried about you. I told them we need to talk somewhere private.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, sure. Some talk. Pretty sure I can do that with my hands free, Cas.” 

“I didn't want to do this, Dean.” Christ, he actually sounds like he means it. “You gave me no choice.”

“Any excuse to get me in bed, huh?” Dean jokes weakly. Mistake. Cas launches forward, hands braced either side of Dean. His backwards tie dangles loosely over his throat. It's ticklish. His trenchcoat drapes over Dean's knees. 

“Do not make light of this situation, Dean. You have no idea what you're putting me through.”

“What I'm putting you through?” Dean has to laugh. “Fuck off, Cas. C'mon. Let me go.” Or better yet, heal me. 

Cas’ eyes widen above him, darting from Dean's eyes to his wrists. 

“I can't let you go.” His voice is a shredded whisper. “I can't allow you to keep hurting yourself.” 

Dean twists his wrists in the rope, just to make a point. 

“Dean.” 

“What, Cas? Not gonna heal me?” He may have gone a little overboard. There's a warmth trickling down his wrists and making its way down to his forearm. Cas’ eyes fix on it and narrow. Bracing over Dean with one hand, he reaches over with the other and draws a firm line through the blood. His finger comes away shining. He draws away from Dean, expression conflicted as he stares down at the blood on his finger, before closing it into a fist and pressing his knuckles to his mouth. 

His eyes flick to Dean. “I'll get the med kit.” He announces and turns his back on him.

What?

“What?! Cas, no. There's no need, just mojo me clean, man”-

“So you can do it again and again?” Cas throws over his shoulder. “I don't think so.”

“Cas, this isn't - I don't want to hurt myself, I'm not that fucked up.” 

Cas levels him with a look. “No? So why does it keep happening?”

Fucking don't say it. Don't. Dean slams his mouth shut. He can't admit to it. It's too. Well. It's fucking weird, is what it is. He's never heard anyone else mention anything about an angel's Grace feeling the way it does for him. Either they're keeping it secret like him or he's just - got a problem. A big one. 

There's a thick stripe of moonlight slicing Cas’ features in half from where he now stands at the end of the bed, facing Dean. He cuts an intimidating figure. There's a curl of - something - not quite fear, not quite awe in Dean's abdomen at the sight of him. Watching him like this, completely at his damn mercy, the entire history of their rocky friendship stretched out between them. Dean could be honest right now. He could. But could he bear to see the look on Cas’ face if he admits it? Admits how fucking good it feels to have his Grace inside of him? 

But could he bear to not experience the Grace again? 

Talk about a rock and a hard place. 

Cas gives another minute tilt of his head.

“You keep thinking about my Grace.” He observes, but he doesn't sound freaked out (yet). Just curious. 

“Uh… yeah.” 

Cas takes a step towards him. “Dean, if you hurting yourself is due to any other reason besides your sub-par opinion of your own existence, I'd like to know about it.”

Dean grits his teeth. Focuses on the pain snaking around his wrists and the unfortunate lump forming on the back of his head. 

“S'just ‘cause of your… your Grace. Feels good.” He mutters, so low that anyone without supersonic hearing would never catch it. Cas does. Obviously. 

Cas squints at him. Takes another step. 

“You've been hurting yourself just to experience my Grace?” He asks softly. Fuck, why isn't he shouting? It was easier when he was mad. 

Dean gives a one shouldered shrug, glaring determinedly at the bedspread which is now spotted with the blood seeping from his jeans and t-shirt. ‘Cause that's what he does. Taints everything nice with blood. Even Cas. 

Cas’ walk towards him is slow. Deliberate. He grips the headboard above Dean and leans down close. 

“Dean. If you wanted to feel my Grace inside you, why didn't you just ask for it?”

Dean shivers. He doesn't mean to. He immediately feels his muscles retract and curl up in shame. 

“Don't - don't say it like that.” He grunts. 

“Like what?” 

“Like it's - like I”- 

Cas’ eyes are on him so hard. Dean doesn't know how else to describe it. They roam over him. Every inch. The term undressing with his eyes has never felt so damn relevant. 

Dean closes his eyes as the first wisp of Grace passes down his fingertips and wraps itself like a cool bandage around his chafed wrists. He gasps and bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut. It's patient. Resolute. Cas isn't giving him everything, not by a longshot, and he knows it. 

“C-c'mon, man, hurry up just - heal me already.” He manages. 

Cas draws his hand away from Dean's bound wrists and surveys him with new cognisance. He's not smiling, but his eyes are bright with the Grace he's holding back from Dean. 

The pain is still there, he hasn't healed him fully. But alongside it is that all consuming warmth, caressing and gentle. 

“You… like how it feels. My Grace. You enjoy it.” Cas breathes like a secret. 

“The more I give you…” - he presses his index finger - the one dipped in Dean's blood - to Dean's throat. All of a sudden Dean can taste it. Sunshine. Sweet, damp dew. Electricity and petrichor and every perfect tasting thing he can think of. Even scents and tastes he doesn't fully recognise, dredged up from his subconscious. He moans. Like a fucking virgin on her wedding night. Can't help it, actually, ‘cause it feels really fucking good. He's waiting for Cas to draw away. Waiting for the disgust. It doesn't happen. When Cas speaks next, his voice is fucking gravel. Gritty like he's never heard. “...the better it feels.” Oh right, yeah. He was halfway through a sentence. Dean already forgot the first half. The Grace takes over. Imbuing him with light and warmth and other mingling sensations he can't even name. Cas removes his fingers and even though some of the Grace is still there, dwelling under the flutter of his throat, he wants them back immediately.

“More… please, Cas…” 

Shit. It's like his entire sense of self-control has gone out the window. He's fucked. He's thoroughly fucking fucked and he can't even bring himself to care when Cas’ hand caresses his face and allows yet more Grace to pour in. 

“Oh, Dean.” He carves the lamentation between them like a prayer. “I wish you'd told me this is what you wanted. If I'd known, I would have”- Cas’ throat moves as he struggles with his words. His voice is so full of love, Dean can't bear it. But he also can't bring himself to move away. Y'know, ‘cause he's a fucking coward and this is so good he could cry. Cas rubs his thumb across Dean's cheekbone, the slow trickle of Grace keeping him on the precipice of barely-aware and a total whiteout. 

They stay like this for - shit, Dean doesn't know. A while. Eventually, Cas moves his hand away from Dean's face and looks away from him, glancing at the ropes holding him with a tightness in his jaw.

“I apologise for being so rough with you. I'm never quite as - emotionally coordinated as usual after leaving my vessel, however briefly.”  

It takes Dean a few moments to process this and remember what they were doing before. The hunt. The ice rink. Right. 

“Oh, when you - yeah.” He chokes out. “Yeah. S'fine, Cas. But you can untie me now.” 

Cas hesitates, searching Dean's face. 

“Do you promise not to hurt yourself anymore?” 

Dean sucks in a rattling breath. “Yeah, if you”- He breaks off. He can't make Cas promise that. It's not - this isn't right. Okay, sure, it feels right, but it's also… so fucking intimate and his body hasn't caught up with his brain yet because it's giving all sorts of crazy responses to the way Cas is gazing at him right now. Inspecting every inch of him. 

“If I what, Dean?” 

Dean breathes harshly through his nose. Strains against his bonds. “Make it so… nothing hurts.” 

Cas swallows again, his Adam's apple moving low in his throat as he drops another octave lower.

“You want my Grace. Don't you, Dean?”

Dean closes his eyes and pretends it’s not him who answers, “Yes.” 

Shit. He's got a fucking boner. Shit. It's dark, so maybe Cas hasn't - won't notice - 

Cas puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, fingers splayed. Right over the mark where he fucking gripped him tight and all that. He's not gripping him now. Just laying it there, letting the power of his Grace hover over the site. 

“Tell me how it feels.” Dean's never heard such a forceful command said so quietly before. 

“Like - like the best thing ever. In me. Like I'm - like I'm... good.” 

Dean can hear Cas’ frown, even though he doesn't open his eyes. “You are good, Dean. Don't you remember? You changed me.” 

He might have had a coherent reply if Cas didn’t choose that moment to move his hand from Dean’s shoulder to his collarbone. He trails his fingers further down, right to his sternum. The Grace finds an easy home in Dean’s chest. Seems to like it the most there actually. It burns in the hearth of his ribcage, warming him everywhere. 

When Dean next opens his eyes and glances down at himself (‘cause he might pass away if he looks at Cas) he’s clean. All the blood is gone as if it was never there.

“I can't stand seeing you in pain.” Cas murmurs, sweeping his hand across Dean's chest like it's not making him insane. “I want you to feel good, Dean. All the time. You deserve to feel good.” Well, fuck if that ain't true. But he's in no position to argue. Not with Cas’ hand doing magical things to his body and his mind. 

“Mm. Yeah, man, this - this feels good. Great, actually.” He's panting. It's hard to speak while Cas’ hand is moving like that. Either Cas is blind or he's ignoring Dean's obvious boner on purpose. It twitches in his jeans, and so help him if he doesn't just arch his back a little bit into it. His blood is rapidly migrating south and there's fuck all he can do about it. Can't adjust himself to hide it. Can't cover it with his hands. It's just out there. Waving like a flag, erasing any plausible deniability Dean might've clutched onto about the exact sort of good this feels like. It's not his fault his body can't tell the difference between this and sex. Or at least the tantalising buildup to it. When Cas’ hand begins to drift lower, Dean has to hold his breath. He's gonna do it. He's gonna fucking touch my dick. He's gonna get me off. 

He doesn't. His fingers skate over Dean's hips, sending shocks of electric Grace across his abdomen. 

“Cas.” Dean says, and he doesn't know if it's permission or a warning. Cas’ eyes are glowing as he controls the steady flow of Grace. Now that he knows what he's doing - what it's doing to Dean - he’s holding the reins over where it goes. Or doesn't. Some of it lurks on the surface of Dean's skin. Hovering. Teasing. The rest sinks deep into his muscles and massages his nerves until they're popping and writhing and arching with want. When Cas’ hand moves down towards Dean's thighs, his fingers curving to accommodate the shape of him, Dean thinks he's going to die. He's harder than he's ever been in his life and Cas hasn't even touched - has barely even gone near the thick, aching bulge in his jeans. His legs are shaking with it. It's so much and so little. It's perfect torture. 

Dean makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat when Cas brings the tips of his fingers down towards his knee and sharply back up again, centimetres from his groin. 

Dean's dick throbs in his jeans, and he sees the moment Cas sees it. Watches his blue-gold eyes fix there, his mouth slightly parted and shining where he must have wet it with his tongue. I wish I'd seen that, Dean's (un)helpful inner monologue provides. 

Cas looks at him and then, in what can only be called an obscene fashion, wets his lower lip with his tongue. Exactly as Dean had pictured. 

Dean's outbreath is like a punch to his lungs, and he doesn't think he's imagining the tiny smirk curling Cas’ lips. 

“Would you like me to untie you now, Dean?” It's like he's - doing it with his voice. Sex. It's - it's fucking dripping with it. If such a thing is possible. It must be, because Dean's cock responds in equal measure, painful with how hard it's straining to come (ha) free. 

The thing is, untying him would get rid of the pleasure-burn in his wrists which is just about keeping him from collapsing into insanity. So if that goes, Dean's pretty sure he'd slip into some dream-like state and he needs to be aware enough to be able to stop this when it goes too far. He will stop this. So he says,

“N-no.” Okay, maybe it's more of a “Ngh” but Cas understands. 

He hums, Grace-filled gaze returning to its point of origin. Dean finds he doesn't have the mental willpower to make his boner go down. As soon as he starts thinking of all the grossest and most un-sexy things he can, Cas will move his hand. Add a little pressure on Dean's thigh. And his thoughts are just gone. 

“Y-you’re - doing this - o-on - purpose.” It’s a medical miracle Dean’s able to utter that sentence. 

Cas angles his face towards him while he presses his entire palm into the join between Dean’s hip and his leg. 

“Of course. I told you, I want you to feel good.” 

Dean grips the ropes holding him. Pulling. Squeezing. C'mon, man, use your fuckin’ brain. 

What he means to say is:

“Listen, Cas, buddy - I - I think this might be getting a little inappropriate. Don't get me wrong, this feels amazing. But we both know where this is heading and it's not a good idea.” 

What he actually says is:

“Mm. Yeah.” 

There's already a wet spot of pre-come forming on his jeans. Dean keens his hips. Tilts right up into the pressure. And then Cas is hovering his hand above him - waiting - eyes on Dean with such undeniable want, it's - well, it doesn't help the boner situation.

“Can I?” Cas asks, his voice fucking filthy. 

“Y-ye….ah.” 

And then it's just there. Cas’ hand. On his dick. Cas’ Grace. In his dick. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, fuck.” 

Cas moves his hand in two broad, firm strokes and the noise Dean makes - if it was any other man who heard it, he'd kill him. 

But it's Cas, and the pressure only builds as he moves and squeezes and pulls, lingering ever so slightly over the head. Through his fucking jeans. It shouldn't feel this good. 

Dean should have come by now. He's on the precipice. Been there before Cas even touched him. But it's - it's like he's blocked. 

Fucking Grace. 

Dean Winchester does not beg. He laughs in the face of pure evil. Grins at agony incarnate. Spent forty years in hell getting tortured and torturing in return, so surely it's not him who utters the sentence:

“C'mon, man, just let me - let me - fuck, please. Please, Cas. Please just end it.” 

The pressure is gone. The Grace leaves and Dean whines, biting his lip so hard he can taste blood. He bucks his hips into thin air, gasping with the need for release.

The weight on the mattress shifts as Cas gets onto the bed and straddles himself over Dean's legs. He (tightly) grips Dean's tilting hips and slams them down so he can't move. Can't even find a little bit of respite from the building pressure. 

“Cas, you - fuck. ” 

Dean can't fight him off. He kicks up against the back of Cas’ knees. He may as well be a solid iron wall. 

“You can come if you promise me you will never hurt yourself deliberately again.” Cas says, practically growling out every word. 

Dean groans. “Cas, I already”- 

“I need to know you mean it. Look at me, Dean. No, at me. I want you to look.” 

Dean does. Cas’ eyes are no longer glowing, but they're no less intense in the dim moonlight. Glassy and heavy lidded, he makes Dean hold his gaze with nothing more than a command. 

“I want you to say: I promise I won't hurt myself again, Castiel.” 

Jesus fuck. 

“Promise I won't, Cas.” Dean mumbles, chin digging into his chest.

Cas narrows his eyes. “No. Those weren't the words, Dean. You know what they are. If you want this to be over, say it.” 

The bastard lets the barest sliver of Grace lick along Dean's dick - just teasing around the tip. 

Dean gives a dry sob when he can't drag his hips up into it.

“Say. It.” 

Dean's mouth is dry and he might be crying when he speaks next. 

“I… Promise I won't hurt myself again… Castiel.” 

Cas’ fingers tighten hard enough to bruise his hip bones, and he closes his eyes at Dean's words, the small sound of pleasure he lets out enough to make another bead of precome leak out and make its mark. 

He releases Dean's hip with one hand on an inhale, which he uses to stroke right back onto Dean's dick and roughly jerk him through his jeans. The Grace comes back tenfold, and it would have taken way less to send him flying over the edge.

Dean tips his head back, mouth open, voice stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat as he comes in his pants like a fucking teenager. Cas holds him through it, gently squeezing as his dick throbs and jerks and comes for far longer than he usual. In the midst of the almost unbearable pleasure, Dean knows. It's the Grace - syphoning out every drop and pushing it out of him in relentless spurts. 

An age later, Dean can only pathetically twitch as the last drops eek themselves out. He’s oversensitive and the pressure of his jeans against his spent dick is too much to bear. His legs shake uncontrollably. He's fucking wet down there with come. Soaked through. And there's a huge, dark patch on his jeans to prove it. Tears he doesn't remember shedding dry on his face as he slowly comes down from maybe the best orgasm of his life, and Cas hadn't even - technically - touched him once. 

He closes his eyes as he breathes through the aftermath. 

Dean should be exhausted, but he’s fuckin’ alive. His body thrums, veins pulsing. It’s like he’s had six shots of coffee but without the crash-out and the shakes later. 

He opens his eyes when the ropes around his wrists loosen and fall away. He groans when he lowers his arms, the stretch and burn fading away when Cas brushes his hand over Dean’s bicep.

“Thanks.” He manages, grimacing at the unruly squelch in his jeans when he sits up. Fuckin’ post-nut clarity, man. This one might be the death of him. He leans forward and draws his knees up to his elbows despite the uncomfortable wetness in his pants. 

“I should - take you back to your car.” Says Cas. 

“Mhm.” 

“Sam and Eileen were leaving already. I told them we’d catch up with them at the bunker.”

“Right. Kind of a long drive, you sure you don’t wanna”-? 

“The drive will be good for you, Dean.” 

So good. It felt so good. He’s not thinking about the drive. 

Dean stands on legs made of jelly. When he turns back to Cas, the ropes have disappeared. So has the blood on his trenchcoat and on the nice bedspread. 

They look at one another. Dean has no fucking clue what to say. There are bees in his head. Buzzing. It’s kind of pleasant. No real thoughts. Just - noise. And the vague sensation that this might be awkward. 

Cas steps forward, touches Dean on the shoulder, and with no warning zaps them back outside the motel next to Baby. 

“Fuck, dude, a head’s up would’a been appreciated.” 

Dean straightens up as his stomach churns from the flight. At least Cas also had the decency to mojo Dean clean. No evidence of their - what can he even call that? - illicit activities remain. Y’know, besides the weird tension which has wedged itself between them like the world’s fattest elephant. 

Cas is standing beside Baby, avoiding Dean’s eyes, which he only really does if something is up. 

“I have to go now, Dean.” 

The buzz in his head dies. 

“Go? Go where, Cas?” 

Cas reaches out (with the same finger he’d drawn through Dean’s blood) and traces along the roof of the Impala. 

“Jack has been asking for my assistance for a few days. I wanted to wait until the hunt was over before going to him. There’s some - administrative duties in heaven which need taking care of.” 

“Dude, what the fuck?” There it is again. An intrusive curl of panic scraping the inside of his gut. Mingling with Grace. Cas’ Grace. “When were you planning on telling us you were leaving?”

Stay. Please, stay. Don’t leave me again, Cas. 

Cas finally looks at him. “It won’t be for long, Dean. You can call on me whenever you want. Whenever you’d like” - his eyes flick down the length of Dean’s body, and fuck if that doesn’t have a little blood dancing southward again - “whenever you would like… more.” 

More what? Grace? Nearly-handjobs? He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t dare. He swallows back the lump in his throat containing the fear that Cas won’t ever come back. The fear that Dean has scared him off with this. The Grace thing. He blames Cas for the almost-handjob. That had been - it just happened. Or did it? Maybe Cas’ Grace works kind of like a djinn dream and that part hadn’t actually been real. Just something his fucked up mind provided him with thanks to all the holy shit running through his veins. Reminding him that he’s meant for hell, not heaven. Yeah. Could be that. 

He shrugs. “Right. Sure.” Opens the driver side door and climbs inside. Cas doesn’t get in. ‘Cause he’s leaving. Right. “You better come when I call, Cas. ‘M serious, man. You pull a disappearing act again and I’m killing myself and dragging your ass back from heaven myself.” 

Cas’ posture tightens. “You promised you wouldn’t”-

Dean rolls his eyes. “Kidding. Just don’t pull any shit. And, uh. Say hi to Jack for me I guess.” 

Cas nods. The shadows splitting him into pieces. “I will. Goodbye, Dean.” 

“...Bye, Cas.” 

Dean puts Baby in drive and swings out of the parking lot, cranking up the music as he goes. He sings Led Zeppelin’s greatest hits at the top of his lungs as he drives through dark, empty roads, and he’s sure the drive back to the bunker is shorter than the way there. The pleasant, mind-numbing buzz slowly returns as he drives, and all Dean can think about is how much more colourful the world is with Cas’ Grace in it. 

Chapter Text

“You’re fighting, already?"

Dean sighs and puts his head in his hands on top of the map table. “Would ya lay off, Sammy?” 

Sam points his pen at him. Another stuck comically behind his ear. 

“No, Dean, I will not lay off. Cas has hardly been back - what - not even two months? And you've already managed to send him packing”- 

“I told you, he has some heaven shit to take care of or whatever.” 

“But he didn't tell us anything.”

“I know.” 

Dean is dog tired. It's the second day since the - thing with Cas happened, and Sam's finally clocked that Cas isn't in the bunker anymore. They'd all been so exhausted after their long week in Denver that they spent much of the next day in their prospective beds, only emerging to the kitchen for snatches of food when they could bring themselves to haul their asses out there. They’re not in their twenties anymore, and their stamina isn’t what it was before, y’know, the whole god thing. This hunt marked an official end to their happy break, and it’s taken some getting used to. 

Dean slept for nearly fourteen hours straight when he got back. He didn't dream. The light fuzz in his head remained a pleasant constant for the better part of the day, but he was sorry to wake up this morning and find it painfully, glaringly gone. 

If anything, his head actually aches a little. He pops an aspirin during his interrogation from Sam and hefts his hood up. The Metallica hoodie has returned for the foreseeable. It's actually clean now which makes a nice change. All his clothes are. And his room. And the kitchen and everywhere else, so he has fuck all to do except help Sam and Eileen plot locations for their outpost project. 

All things considered, it should be a fun - if not all-consuming - task. Dean’s already volunteered to do a lot of the manual labour needed to actually build the damn things, whereas Sam and Eileen have put themselves forward to scout out potential locations. This is the kind of project which could take years. It’s good. It really is. And they can still hunt while they do it. But Dean finds he isn’t in any sort of mood to think about it while Sam points out possible locations on his laptop alongside a document outlining the various sigils and spells they’ll need to bypass planning permission laws. Eileen has been a whiz on the accessibility front, pointing out that the potential hunters - injured or not - may not have the use of their hands or speech, so they’ll have to create access points to the towers which can account for either. 

“What if they can’t use their hands or speak?” Dean pipes up from beneath his hoodie, slowly sipping his coffee and waiting for the aspirin to kick in. 

Eileen considers this. “Then they might be fucked.” She frowns at the laptop and chews the tip of her pen. “I’ll think about it. Gimme some time.” 

The hidden med-kits and other potentially life-saving supplies should be placed at seat-height, just in case any wheelchair users need it. Dean’s about to argue who the fuck is hunting in a wheelchair when he thinks of Bobby and experiences a wrenching twist in his gut. Bobby was a badass. Wheelchair and all. It doesn’t fucking matter. A hunter is a hunter, it doesn't matter what kind of physical state they’re in. 

The conversation continues on like this for some time, and Sam is making such big googly eyes at Eileen every time she comes up with an idea that Dean has to rub his eyes and glare into his coffee. It's never bothered him before, but right now it’s just - annoying. 

The sound of both their voices grate on him, and it’s not long before he excuses himself. 

He doesn’t have much to do except chill. He could clean Baby again but he doesn’t wanna overdo it. He put some wax on her before the hunt and if she gets any cleaner, his reflection will be telling him premonitions. 

So he goes to his room and decides to finish the damn Bell Jar. If Cas likes it, it must have some worth. Truth is, it’s damn depressing. And then it’s… weird. There’s a gay moment. Esther’s friend, Joan, makes a pass at her and she’s, like, disgusted by it. Is this why Cas relates to the book? Does he think Dean is Joan? Is this what he was trying to tell him by getting him to read it? 

Dean finishes the book and he’s - confused. And horny. Not ‘cause of the book, but ‘cause of - he keeps thinking about it. The stupid fucking over-the-jeans Grace handjob. Grace job. Ha. Except, no. Cas’ hands were involved, so it definitely tips into gay territory. Dean might be a little hesitant in some areas but he can admit that much. Not like it would be his first gay moment. There was the dubious shit he got up to when he was in hell and fucking Alastair and all those bathroom-stall handjobs he gave for a few extra dollars when they ran out of food. When Sam was too young to start hustling pool but Dean was just about old enough to know the most efficient ways of making a quick buck. But that was years ago. All of it. And it’s not like he’d enjoyed it. And anyway, Cas doesn’t know about that stuff so why would he compare Dean to Joan? Cas doesn’t know he’s repulsed by it, he just thinks he’s straight. Which, yeah. He is. 

It’s the damn Grace. 

“Cas, you son of a bitch.” Dean mutters into the empty din of his very clean room. He slams the Bell Jar into his drawer underneath his socks and directs a glare at it. Stupid fucking book making him think about stupid fucking gay shit. As if he wasn’t thinking about it enough. 

He lasts a whole ‘nother day before calling Cas. And it’s not because he actually means to, but because he wakes up in a cold-sweat that night with the vaguest impression that the bunker door is wide and open and gaping and there’s no note and Cas’ room is empty. 

“Cas?” He says into the darkness, barely awake. “Cas?” 

He yanks the cord on his bedside lamp just as a soft whumph sounds next to his bed and there’s Cas. Like he’d been in the room the whole time. Staring down at Dean in his sweat-stained t-shirt, bags under his eyes and blankets kicked to the end of the bed in a tangle of sheets and pillows. 

“Dean. What happened?” 

Dean flops back onto his bed, his breath knocked out of him. A fucking nightmare - he can’t think of a more lame reason to get Cas over here and, given how he looks right now, can’t think of a better excuse that’ll convince him something actually happened. 

“Dreamed you were gone again.” Dean mumbles, throwing his arm over his face so Cas can’t see the dried tear marks there. “Gone, gone. Not just - y’know… gone like you are right now. Were. You know what I mean.” 

“I’m here, Dean.” Comes the soft reply. “Whether I’m in heaven, another continent or the etheric plane, I will always hear you. I will always come for you.” 

Why’d you make an exception for me?

You’re different.

Always such huge words with Cas. Words which hold so much weight. Words had never meant much to Dean before. 

Hm.  

Okay that's not totally true. 

It was either too much or too little with words before. John’s “I’ll be right back” generally meant “the next few days or even weeks” and Sam’s “I’m telling the truth, Dean” usually meant whatever had preceded that had been a fucking lie. But that was - before. They’re good now. Now they exchange words like - like they don’t mean much. But with Cas it’s always been… this. Huge. Deal-breaking, earth-shattering, apocalypse-starting words. 

Dean’s exhale shakes. Traitorous lungs. “Y’gotta understand, man. What it was like. I’d lost everyone. And then you. S’too much. Dreamed about it all the time before.” 

There’s a silence where maybe Cas has left. Decided (rightly) that he’s not sticking around for Dean’s shit. It was a nightmare. He doesn’t need to be coddled to sleep. 

Dean removes his arm from his face and isn’t the least bit surprised to see Cas still there, blurry around the edges in the soft lamp light, watching Dean with an intense and troubled expression. 

“You didn’t lose everyone. You still had Sam and Claire and Jody and a hundred other people who would do anything for you.” 

Dean doesn’t even know what time it is. It’s either too late or too early to be talking about this shit. But the fear is still there. The gaping emptiness from his dream - his old reality - haunting him and making his chest tight. 

“But I didn’t have you, Cas. You were gone.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. 

Cas nods and glances down at his shoes. His lip twitches. “If our track records are anything to go by then you shouldn’t have expected me to stay dead for long.” 

Dean huffs a laugh despite himself and snags a pillow to thwack Cas with. “Alright, fuck you.” 

Cas’ answering smile is small and soft and fond. It hurts Dean’s eyes. Not literally. More like, it hurts his brain. Makes his insides feel like blended bananas in a not so pleasant mushy way. 

“I didn’t mean to call you.” Dean says, “Was just panicking - in my dream. Wasn’t real.” 

Cas’ smile fades a little. “Just because it was a dream, doesn't mean it wasn’t real.” He looks at the door, then back at Dean. Like he’s considering leaving. Dean can’t explain it, but he really doesn’t fucking want him to leave. It would make the dream feel real. “Are you afraid to go back to sleep?” 

Dean feels like a child when he thinks yes, he is afraid to go back to sleep, because if he has to experience a world without Cas in it again - awake or not - he’s gonna fuckin’ lose it. 

“Nah.” He says instead and waves Cas off, “This is a walk in the park compared to most of my nightmares. Try getting chased by a Chupacabra while you’re naked in a South Dakota Target and the entire cast of BayWatch is lookin’ atcha. That’s a nightmare.”

Cas huffs a short laugh and wrinkles his nose. “I am very lucky I don’t experience dreams the way humans do.” 

Something about his phrasing gives Dean pause. “But you do? Dream, I mean?” 

Cas hesitates. Considers this. Considers Dean. “Cognitively? No. But we… have ways of passing through time which might be likened to a subliminal state, yes.” 

Dean nods slowly. “Right. Well, uh, you feel free to go back to your subliminal state. I’m gonna try and get some shut eye before sunrise.”

Dean punches his pillow and tries to ignore the sweat pooling in his collarbone and behind his knees where his sweatpants rolled up around them in the night like fuckin’ pantaloons. Like some court jester shit. There’s no way in hell he’s going back to sleep now. He’s gonna get up and shower is what he’s gonna do, and then he’ll stick on some Gunsmoke or Breaking Bad or something. But Cas doesn’t need to know that. 

“I can stay.” Cas offers. “Watch over you. Make sure you're not plagued by more nightmares.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “We talked about this, Cas. Don't stand over me while I sleep. It's creepy.” 

Cas squints. “Fine. But you… don't want anything else from me?” 

Huh. Now that's a different question. 

Dean shrugs one shoulder. The image of nonchalance. “I dunno, man. S'cool. I mean, I wouldn't say no to a little Grace to get me all relaxed and sleepy but - woah"- 

Cas’ fingers against Dean's forehead are an unexpected but welcome surprise. The Grace crashes over him in a rush, flooding down and through him as Dean's pores and veins and capillaries open for it. Wide and wanting. Fuck, he hadn't realised how much he'd needed this. 

He laughs, euphoric, and closes his eyes.

“Goddamn, Cas… you've really been holding out on me.” 

The press of Cas’ index and middle finger is removed from Dean's forehead and the flow stops abruptly, but the glow is already there. Warm and fuzzy and thrumming in Dean's head and his chest and stomach. Like three fuckin’ chakra points or whatever. Just shining inside him. Feeding him joy and comfortable pleasure. Rare, sacred comfort. It feels too damn nice to say out loud. Reminds him of when he was four and his mom hugged him from behind while she lifted him up to the stove to show him the pancakes she was making. Reminds him of the first time John let him and Sam swim in a motel pool on their own, the freedom and the sun and the overly chlorinated water lapping at his back while he earned a bunch more freckles. Reminds him of his first taste of a good drink and the day John gave him the keys to Baby and the first time he saw Cas laugh. That last one sticks.

“I've given you no more than I usually have.” Cas informs Dean, his pitch dropping. 

“Really? Feels… potent.” Says Dean, the words easy and whiskey-slick in his mouth. 

There's a feather-light brush of fingers across his brow and another small surge of Grace. Dean sighs happily. 

“Perhaps it is more potent.” Cas murmurs, and there's a rustle as he moves around the other side of Dean's bed and sits down. The back of Cas’ knuckles press against Dean's forearm. Warm and solid. “Maybe it is different since Jack brought me back. I've never felt as powerful as I do now. The well of Grace available to me has certainly been… generous.” 

“Yeah, it has.” Dean agrees enthusiastically as Grace bleeds from Cas’ hand and into Dean's arm, saturating his muscles with starlight and strength. 

His body is relaxed where it was restless before. His clothes are dry, free from cold nightmare sweat, and the sheets underneath him are clean and soft. The only distraction from this otherwise perfect scenario is Dean’s dick, which twitched to life the moment he felt Cas’ Grace inside him. It's fucking Pavlovian. Like it remembers what happened the last time the Grace was - there. But that was a one off. A fluke. They - Cas - just got carried away. The guy has pretty limited experiences with sex and, damn, he was just trying to - to do everything he could to make Dean feel good, is all. It all just got a little confused in the moment. Easily done. Easily fixed. This time, Dean won't let things get too far. Not that they will. Definitely not. Cas isn't gonna - he's probably already forgotten about it. Otherwise he would have said something by now. Would've wanted to “talk” because Cas is in love with him and this ain't right. Not if Dean doesn't - if he isn't gonna, y'know, reciprocate. Which he isn't. He definitely can't. A handjob is a handjob, man, it doesn't matter who's doing it. It's always gonna feel good. But feelings? Being in love? 

Dean tries to imagine him and Cas walking in an autumn park, side by side, making cow eyes at each other all Harry Met Sally style and nearly dies. There's no way. He's not made for that life. 

Down boy, Dean thinks determinedly as his dick refuses to get the message. It’s standing at half-mast in his sweats, plain as day, responding to the Grace as keenly as the rest of Dean's body is. Does Grace double up as fuckin’ angel viagra or what? And the worst thing is, it feels good. He wants to wrap a hand around himself and jerk off right there and then. Doesn't care if Cas sees or not. But that's - that's fucked. He can't do that. The Grace is warping his perception of right and wrong, he decides. It's brought everything down to that primitive, base, want. It's not his fault. Not his doing. His fingers twitch by his side as the need to - relieve the pressure - mounts. And he can't ignore it any longer. 

“Y-you gotta stop, man.” Dean manages around gritted teeth. 

“Why? You like it.” Cas says, and strokes slowly along Dean's forearm to his wrist. Dean shivers from the nape of his neck right down to his ankles and is mortified to look down and see his dick tenting his pants. Standing right up to attention. Motherfucker. 

Cas isn’t looking at it but he’s - he’s seen it, right? 

“That’s the problem.” Dean tries to snap. It comes out as a soft exhale while the Grace judders from his arm to his sternum and down to his abdomen, pooling enticingly at the base of his spine. 

“How can that be a problem?” Cas asks, ever so sincere. “Shouldn’t we always strive to feel good?” 

“I-I dunno, man. Don’t think you’re in any position to preach about feelin’ good when you - you”-

“When I what, Dean?” 

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. The oxygen helps him think. Sort of. “You got a bad habit of gettin’ hurt, Cas.” 

“I have hurt for the sake of mankind. I have hurt for you. Never because I enjoy it directly. But self-sacrifice can feel good, Dean. You know that better than anyone. Martyrdom is a selfish pursuit in the end.” 

He knows Cas is fucking with him. Trying to get him to admit to - something. Using the heat of the moment and the Grace to pry into the inner workings of Dean’s fucked up mind. He squeezes his eyes shut. Clenches his hands into fists until his nails make small, red crescents on his palms. Cas’ hand has stilled on his shoulder. Dean wants to tell him to move it. He mourns the loss of pressure against his skin. 

“It’s not. S’not selfish.” He replies, resisting the urge to grab Cas’ hand and wrap it around his dick. Put him out of his misery and get him off like he did last time. What’s the same mistake made twice? There’s a phrase about a fool and shame but Dean can’t put it together in his head right now. Doesn’t know if it’s even relevant to this situation. Whatever. He’s a fool. This is shameful. But he doesn’t want it to stop.  

“No?” Cas leans in as if he can’t quite make out Dean’s expression in the soft lamp light. Dean knows the bastard can see perfectly well in the dark. He’s made a point of saying it often enough. 

“No. It didn’t feel good when I - when I had to do a bunch of shit to put food on the table. For Sammy. That didn’t feel good, Cas. Neither did dying. Again and again and again.” Cas says nothing. He watches Dean struggle and squirm around the obvious bulge in his pants like he’s observing a specimen under a microscope. And because he’s in this mood - because the Grace is loosening his tongue and making him all sorts of okay with talking because they’re doing that now, apparently, he continues. “But y’know what did feel good, Cas? Hurting people. Torturing them. Getting to dole a little bit of what I’d had done to me onto them.” Shit, there it is. He’s only ever admitted that to Sammy. Cas knows he can torture. Has seen him do it. But doesn’t know he’s - he’s like that. Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t care ‘cause his expression doesn’t flicker a notch. 

“Would you like to hurt me, Dean?” Cas asks in a low timbre which melts over him like butter in a pan. It takes Dean apart a little bit when he reaches out and strokes his forehead as if he’s pushing hair back from his face. There’s Grace with it, too. A beautiful, brief beam. Dean forces his eyes to stay open. Sacrifices the last of his sobriety to answer,

“Sometimes. Yeah. Wanna hurt you like you’ve hurt me.” 

Cas leans closer, his too-blue eyes penetrating Dean’s. “So do it.” 

Dean would laugh at the idea if there wasn’t more Grace being funnelled into his system at that exact moment. ‘Cause he can’t. Like, literally can’t. He could’ve - has - when Cas was weaker. Human. They’ve beaten the shit out of each other before now. Used words like poison and slept as comfortably on those nights as they had any other. But now? Yeah, no. The guy would have him on his ass in a second flat. Less, if he wanted. He had Dean tied up and begging the other night and that’s - if that ain’t proof that Dean’s powerless from here on in, he doesn’t know what is. As if reading his mind (which he might be), Cas shakes his head, his eyes softening until they’re sad and also fond somehow and there’s a frown around his mouth.

“You’re the only person alive or dead who could hurt me now, Dean. You have no idea how much power you hold over me.”

Dean must be feeling brave, ‘cause he says, “‘Cause you love me, right?” It’s a barb. A low blow. But the Grace is moving thick and sluggish and strong through his veins and every nerve in his body is holding out for Cas. Waiting for him to snap and do something. Wield his heavenly power or whatever. Dean sure as hell can’t do anything to fight him off in this state. 

Cas nods. “Yes. Because I love you.” 

The knife gets turned right around and plunged into Dean instead. Mission failed. Oh yeah, ‘cause Cas doesn’t care that Dean knows he loves him. Seems not to give a fuck how Dean could use that against him. Maybe he wants to be hurt. Wouldn’t be fuckin’ surprised if his martyr speech was anything to go by. 

Dean feels his lips curl. A scoff rising in his chest. Before he can spend it, Cas reaches out and touches the hollow of his throat, filling it with Grace. And suddenly Dean is choked with pleasure and has no choice but to groan and let his eyes flutter shut. 

“Before you mock me, remember you’ve been on your knees for me, Dean.” 

Dean’s treacherous cock jumps at the possessive tone in Cas’ voice right as he thinks, 

What? When? 

Right. The crypt. I need you. Huh. And he had needed Cas. It’s true. Every day since. Couldn’t have beaten god without him. Somehow he feels like that isn’t the detail Cas is focusing on right now though. 

Then Cas’ hands are moving again and he’s shifting and straddling the vee of Dean’s legs, gazing down at him spread out and helpless as Grace courses relentlessly through his body. Dean slams his eyes shut again. Can’t watch this. It’s as good as admitting that he likes it if he does. 

Cas runs both maddeningly deft hands over Dean’s ribcage, his fingers pressing over each one with unmistakable reverence. He doesn’t flinch when Dean’s own hands fly to his wrists and yank, his nails biting into his skin. They don’t leave an impression. Not even a little bit. And they don’t stop Cas’ hands travelling over his torso, either. The sheer veracity of just how powerless he is under Cas - how weak he is in comparison - has his dick throbbing harder in his pants. And Cas is placed just so it touches the back of his solid thigh. Yeah, he definitely felt that. 

“You enjoy being pinned beneath me, don’t you?” Cas breathes, hands coming up to caress Dean’s throat. Then his jaw. Then all the way back down to the slight soft swell of his belly where Dean’s diet and lack of exercise have started to build a home. 

“Mmm.” Is all Dean can manage as Cas’ hands massage him with Grace. He’s on that wonderful precipice between sober enough to see what’s happening and drunk enough on Grace to not really care. All he cares about is how good this feels. His entire world has become Cas’ hands and Cas’ voice and Cas’ Grace. 

Cas runs his fingers along Dean’s ribs again. “When I carved these sigils into your bones, I felt that I was defiling something perfect.” He rumbles, his voice an oiled, polished engine in Dean’s ears. “When I put you back together, molecule by molecule… I think that was the first time I understood how God must have felt. Creating you. Envisioning you. None of that compared to getting to know you, Dean. The you I couldn’t touch. Couldn’t alter. You were a marvel. I had never known anything as intimately as I’d known you, even before you ever laid eyes on me. When I close my eyes, I can map out every perfect arrangement of your body better than I can my own. So do not think me false when I say I know exactly how to take you apart.” 

Oh, fuck. He can’t take this. These fucking huge, cosmic, monumental words. Dean’s ears aren’t made for that shit. He’s on fire from his chest to his hairline as Cas’ insane approbations clamour in his head.

Cas traces the short dips of skin either side of his hip bones poking out from between his pants and his t-shirt. Small, mirror motions. Tiny circles which send volts hurtling right from the point of contact and straight to his cock. Then he digs his fingers into Dean’s hips. Hard. Hard enough to bruise. 

Dean bites back a yelp of pain as Grace floods down to release him from it. But Cas is strong as fuck so the pain never really goes away and god, it’s perfect. 

His cock is as hard as steel and pressing insistently up against the back of Cas’ leg where he’s holding himself above Dean. Massaging and gripping and feeding him Grace. 

“What do you want, Dean?” Cas asks, his voice an echo in a world of white-hot pleasure. 

“Want you to stop fucking talking.” Dean grits out, still not over the last pile of words Cas spoon fed him. He can’t take more. Knows Cas’ll try. He just can’t. He wants the burn instead. This pleasure-pain.

Cas hums above him, low and guttural and Dean feels his hips buck up into Cas’ touch, feels his dick scrape along the back of Cas’ thighs and whines. He’s holding onto Cas’ wrists for dear life. He’ll fall if he lets go. There’s a glowing pool of pleasure beneath him and he’ll sink right into it. 

Cas exhales in response and shifts down until he’s sitting on his haunches over Dean’s knees, leaning low enough that he could touch the tip of his tenting dick with his chin if he went down just another inch. Taking Dean’s hands with him, he slides his palms down over his waistband and wraps both hands completely around his erection, dragging the fabric over and down him torturously slow. Dean’s moan breaks in half in his throat. He doesn’t dare to let go of Cas’ wrists. If he does, he - he doesn’t know what Cas will do. 

Not that he’s holding back. Not even a little. He applies a firmer pressure to Dean’s cock than he would ever give himself, and it has his orgasm building towards a peak before it’s even properly begun. There’s not even Grace in his dick this time. It’s just everywhere else. 

“C-Cas, you gotta”- The gasped, barely legible words escape. Cas releases his dick. It springs in his sweats and there’s both relief and horror in the next second when Cas moves away. But it’s not to leave. 

Instead, he pries Dean’s vice-grip from his wrists and smooths his palms against the bed and, without a word, tugs down the waistband of Dean’s sweats, exposing his dick to the cool, bunker air. Dean sucks in a sharp inhale and attempts to move ‘cause what the hell, his dick is right next to Cas’ face, but Cas is straddling his legs and holding down his hands and the most he can do is sit half-upright in surprise, gaping down at the impossible scene before him. His sweatpants are tucked just under his balls, giving his dick even more momentum to stand rigid and upright. 

Cas’ eyes are glowing. Blue-gold. Sunset on the pacific. His chapped lips are slightly parted, mere fucking centimetres from the ruddy tip of Dean’s cockhead. Eyeing him up like a meal. 

Dean can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t pull away. Isn’t sure he would if he could. Decides it’s better that way. He doesn’t need to know. He’s powerless. Entirely at the mercy of the angel kneeling over him with dark lust bruising the shadows under his gleaming eyes. 

There’s a pulse of Grace shooting up from Dean’s wrists and right up his spine, and he lets himself lie back with a sated moan as his dick twitches, already leaking a pearly bead of pre-come at the heady sensation. 

Dean bites hard on his bottom lip as more sounds threaten to spill. He exposes his throat, pushing his head back hard against his pillow as Cas runs his hands down Dean’s flanks, his breath hot and steady against his cock. 

There’s a second where Dean’s thoughts swirl and coagulate to form just one coherent sentence: He’s gonna suck me off. 

But it's Cas, so it's not quite as perfunctory as that. No, the bastard flicks out his tongue and barely touches the tip with a flash of burning, wet heat. He does this once more. Twice. Immune to the desperate little thrusts Dean's hips make with every torturous flick of his tongue. 

Then, just when Dean is about to beg him to either stop or take him already, he licks up the entire length of the underside of his cock, pausing at the bundle of nerves under his frenulum to swirl his tongue in a delicious, hot press. 

“Ffffffuck.” Dean is hardly aware of his own voice as it's drawn from him in a rasp. He licks again, tracing the vein, his tongue huge and flat and sensational as Dean's body lights on fire. He can't separate the pleasure of the Grace from the rest anymore. It all begins to merge in the bowl of Dean's brain, completely taking over until his grasp on the English language is completely gone and the only thing he can do is whine as Cas laves over dick with just his tongue, all the while sending rapid shocks of Grace through him with every stroke of his huge hands against his sides. 

Dean is lost and helpless and oh, so alive. He's never felt this good. Ever. 

Cas takes Dean's dick into his mouth in earnest then, sucking down his entire length in one, smooth slide like he does this on the daily. 

“Oh God - oh, fuck - Cas - Cas - Cas- ” 

He's so close and it's been - what? Ten seconds? A minute? 

Dean can count on one hand the number of times he's been deepthroated. This time is - it's like nothing else. Cas takes him in like his mouth was made for it. He matches every sharp thrust of Dean's hips with his own excruciating rhythm, sliding and sucking and flicking his tongue with mathematical fucking precision. He was right. He knows exactly how to take Dean apart.

It's only when Dean feels his cock slide impossibly further into Cas’ throat that he thinks: Shit, what if I'm hurting him? And makes the fatal mistake of opening his eyes and looking. He's not prepared for the sight. It's - it puts some of the dirtiest porn Dean's ever watched to shame. 

Cas’ pink, spit-slick lips are wrapped perfectly around the considerable girth of Dean's cock, his head bobbing up and down as he pulls him in further, deeper, the scruff on his face scraping the sensitive skin between his dick and his thighs, his nose burying into the cluster of hair with every downward motion. But that's not the worst of it. Cas’ eyes are on him. Watching with burning, lazer-point intensity. Two, blue, shining points fixing shamelessly on Dean's face as he watches him crumble to pieces under his ministrations. 

Dean is nearly overwhelmed with the urge to reach out and card his hands through Cas’ mussed hair. To curl his fingers into it and hold him there. To fuck up into his throat and touch Cas’ face and feel his own length pressed up against the inside of his cheek. 

Yeah, no. That would be crossing a line. 

He fists his hands into the sheets instead and throws his head back in a silent shout as Cas’ throat convulses around his dick. A sliver of pre-come escapes the seal of his lips and it takes the remaining modicum of Dean's sanity not to spill everything he has into his throat. 

“Jesus fuck, Cas - how-” 

In lieu of words, Cas hums low and deep around his cock, the vibrations sending delicious sparks along the length of Dean's entire body. The fucker doesn't need to breathe. That's why he's so good at this. The realisation only pushes Dean further over the brink, and it isn't long until there's a familiar heat building at the base of his spine. The pressure in his balls is just about all the warning he gets before he comes so fucking hard, the first jet leaving him so violently it's borderline painful as his abdominal muscles clench and his bites into his own lip hard enough to taste copper. 

He arches his back as one of the most powerful orgasms he's ever had rips through him, half-expecting Cas to pull off and spit. He'd be well within his rights to. It's like last time - he can't stop coming. Comes more than he ever has in his goddamn life, shooting spurt after spurt down Cas’ beautiful throat until he thinks he's gonna pass out. 

Cas takes it though, sucking out every drop like it's the only thing keeping him alive until Dean is so oversensitive he has to push himself back into the mattress so he can slip out of Cas’ mouth. 

Dean doesn't have the energy to scramble away. Doesn't have the energy to lift his head and watch Cas extract himself from between Dean's legs. Doesn't even have the willpower to yank his sweats back up and cover himself. He's spent. Gone. 

Chuck couldn't kill him, but this might. 

For a moment, the only sounds in his bedroom are the trenchcoat trailing off the mattress with a rustle as Cas stands up and Dean's harsh, labouring breaths. His dick is cold. Spit-wet. That's Cas’ spit. Cas just gave him the best blowjob he's ever had in his life. 

“Do you think you'll be able to sleep now?” 

Dean doesn't think he's imagining the lilt of dry amusement in Cas’ tone.

“Uh. Yeah.” He manages, only opening his eyes to pitch forward and haul up his pants. Like last time, he puts his head in his hands as the tremors of his orgasm vibrate under his skin, coupled with the pleasant swirl of Grace reaching everywhere it possibly can.  

“Goddammit, Cas.” He mutters. Presses his palms into his eyelids until he sees stars. 

There's an uncertain pause. 

“Was the fellatio not satisfactory, Dean?”

Dean snorts. Can't help it. Who talks like that? But when he looks up, he sees a smirk tugging the corners of Cas’ lips. 

“Shut up, asshole.” He smacks Cas’ arm with no weight behind it. Shocked to feel himself smiling. “Just - you gotta warn a guy before you go all angel pornstar on him.” He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth. Angel pornstar? 

Cas’ brow quirks. “I didn't warn you because you said you wanted me to “stop fucking talking.”” The air quotes do nothing to stop the whiplash from hearing Cas curse like that without so much as batting an eye. 

Dean stares at him. He probably looks so dumb right now. Tangled in his sheets, pants loose, a sheen of post-orgasmic sweat coating every surface of his body. Cas, in contrast, is unfairly unruffled. His tie is backwards and his hair always looks like that but you'd have to look real close to notice the shine on his usually dry lips. Dean wants to lick it. Add to it.  What if it tastes like his dick? He shakes his head. He’s worse than Cas. Fucking depraved. 

Dean nods once. “Point taken. But you - you still”- He flails. 

“Did you not enjoy it?” 

“I - no, I - obviously”- 

“Do you want more?” Cas takes a step towards him and Dean actually throws his hands up. 

“Fuck - no, man! You tryna kill me?” 

Cas tilts his head. Squints. “No. I'm trying to bring you pleasure.”  

He really doesn't know what he's doing, does he? Or he does. And he's fucking with Dean big time. He's just so damn sincere. It really is that simple for him with his straight up ‘I'm in love with you' s and his ‘I want to make you feel good 's. He doesn’t get how fucking complicated this is. Should be. People don’t just - do this. They're not all: “Hey, man, thanks for the head. See you on Friday for pizza.” Cas seems to think they are. That this is perfectly normal and not a totally new and weird and insane development. 

It’s probably the Grace. When it’s flooding through Dean like that, he doesn't give a damn how complicated it is. And Cas has it in him all the time. It’s probably addled whatever shred of human-ness was left. All that stuff he learned on earth about common decency and social etiquette and shit. Why the fuck would he care when he’s got that stuff in his system 24/7?

Dean exhales hard. “I… it's fine, Cas. It's fine. You… you helped me. After my nightmare. Thanks. For the Grace and the - whatever.” 

“You're welcome. Did you finish the book I lent you?” 

Jesus Christ. Five minutes ago Cas had his lips circled around Dean's cock and was sucking him dry and now he wants to talk about literature? 

“Uh. Yeah.” Dean waits. Cas says nothing. “It kinda sucked, man.” 

“Sucked how?” 

“Not to rain on your parade - I know it's your favourite and all - but it was just… eh. Yeah. Weird. Sad as hell. I dunno, man. Not my flavour.” 

He waits for the disappointment. Cas is just frowning at him. 

“What makes you think it's my favourite?” 

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Dude, you said you read it seven times.”

“I've read many books multiple times. Some a lot more than seven. I’ve read The Lord of the Rings  twenty-eight times.”

“But you said you - like - relate and shit.”

“Yes. To aspects. I also find the humanity and the circumstances of its writer fairly interesting. But it is not my favourite book, Dean.” 

“Then why the hell did you wanna give it to me?”

Cas seems so genuinely confused that it's almost cute. The snark is gone. The self-assuredness. This is the version of Cas which makes him think five minutes ago must have been an elaborate hallucination. This guy isn't - whatever that was. This guy watches nature documentaries and reads poetry and shit. 

Dean's missed this guy. It's like a smack in the face. 

“Because you seemed interested.” Cas answers, oblivious to Dean's screwy train of thought. “I thought you - were interested.” 

Dean slams his palm against his forehead.

“Cas, buddy, I was being awkward.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“‘Cause of the - the whole ‘no talking’ thing we were doing? After you got back?” 

“Oh, no, Dean.” Cas says emphatically. “That was all you. I'd been trying to talk to you for the entire month but you made it very clear you weren't ready for my company.” 

Dean feels his expression twitch. “What, so it's my fault?” 

“I never implied you were at fault,” Cas points out gently, “only that you weren't ready.”

Dean huffs, offended. Despite the fact it's the truth. 

“Well, I knocked it out of the park when we did talk, didn’t I?” 

Cas rolls his eyes heavenward. Hands in his pockets. Looming over Dean. It should be unnatural. Weird for them to talk like this. But it’s Cas. This is just… the Cas way. 

“Ah, yes. When you - what was it again? Right. You would if you could.” Cas deadpans. 

Dean swallows hard, deliberately ignoring the state of his bed. And the heavy, sated softness between his thighs. 

“Yeah. And I meant it, man.” He valiantly does not choke on his words. “Still do. Seriously.” The look Cas offers him is unreadable. “What? You want it in writing?”

Cas glances away from him. “That won’t be necessary, Dean. I’ve enjoyed our chat but I really should get back to heaven now. I said I wouldn’t be gone for long.” 

Dean’s stomach swoops painfully. “Ah, right. Sure.” He scrubs the back of his head and tries to imagine what the next few hours are gonna look like. He definitely won’t be sleeping. “Don’t be a stranger though, Cas. It was real nice having you back here for a while. You should come watch a movie with us sometime. All of us.” 

Cas’ eyes aren't glowing anymore. Haven't been for a while. But the force of them on Dean is no less penetrating. 

“I will. Goodnight, Dean.” 

“Night, Cas.” 

And if the shower Dean takes right after has him hard and jerking desperately into his fist as the remaining Grace pools low and hot in his abdomen, then that’s no one’s business but his. 

Chapter Text

That same morning, Dean goes on a run with Sam. 

He hasn't slept since the - yeah. It was five-thirty by the time Cas left, and when Dean's done with his shower it's almost six. 

He spots Sam quietly leaving his bedroom, ugly grey headband shoved up onto his forehead as he rubs his eyes with one hand and holds his running shoes with the other. He sees Dean in the hallway and grinds to a halt. 

“I'm not awake yet, am I?” 

Dean punches him in the arm. Grins. “Look alive, Samantha, I'm coming with. Just lemme dig out an old pair of shorts and I'll be right there.”

Sam's expression is carefully blank. “You're. Coming on a run with me.” 

“Yeah, man - wait a sec.” 

Incredibly, Sam does. Dean finds a holey old Guns N’ Roses shirt in the bottom of his drawers and a pair of cut up sweatpants which he haphazardly fashioned into shorts last summer and hurries out to meet Sam. He wrestles on the only pair of sneakers he's got while Sam laces up his own fancy looking shoes. They've got neon crosses on the sides and curvy gel soles. Real techy. Dean's are good old fashioned rubber and cracked leather. He thinks maybe he should get himself a pair like Sam's if he's gonna do this running thing. When's the last time he treated himself to new stuff anyway? Anything that wasn’t thrifted or snagged off the rack at Target in a hurry? Dean doesn't remember the last time he made an effort with his appearance. Knows he used to. Somewhere along the way stopped caring.  

Sam lets Dean follow him with no argument - just the occasional suspicious glance - but it becomes quickly apparent that this isn't the walk in the park he thought it would be. 

Fifteen minutes later, he's doubled over at the side of the road, clutching a burning stitch in his side and he's pretty sure he's gonna hurl. 

Sam jogs on the spot while he waits for Dean, grimacing at the yak noise Dean makes as he spits onto the sidewalk. 

“Okay, first of all: ew. Second of all, you gotta build up to this shit, Dean. I told you to fall behind. Take it at your own pace.” 

Dean straightens up, determined not to wheeze. 

“And watch my little brother overtake me?” He huffs, his grin morphing into a grimace while his legs tremble. “Ain't no way, man.” 

“If you're serious about this you need to consider making some lifestyle changes.” Sam calls out as Dean hobbles towards him. 

“Like what? I'm the picture of good health.” 

Sam's answering look is skeptical as he starts up running again, leaving Dean no choice but to follow. “So, no more beers before and after dinner? No more burgers every other day? Not to mention the pizzas and the tacos and”-

“Enough, Sammy!” Dean snaps, forcing his knees up beyond a pathetic amble. “You leave my burgers alone. And hey, you drink beers too.”

“Nowhere near as much as yo-ou!” Sam throws over his shoulder in a sing-song voice and Dean could seriously sock him in the jaw. If only he could catch up. 

He doesn't last the whole run. That's a given. The stitch in his side takes over as soon as he dares to slow down again and he makes himself alternate between running and walking as he makes his way back to the bunker, leaving Sam to finish his route. 

So, running sucks. And he has to shower again. This time there's not a boner in sight. His muscles feel raw and abused and if it wasn't for the Grace lingering in his body, he's sure he’d have keeled over long before now. 

He resigns himself to making breakfast for himself, Sam and Eileen, grumbling when he goes back to the fridge to throw some spinach into the egg concoction. It's a sorta-scrambled-sorta-folded-omelette thing he used to make for Sam back when it was just them, a single motel room and a camping stove. Back then he'd used tinned sausage and corn to balance out the egg. Now he's stepped up his game a little and he throws in some real meat, pepper and the nasty green stuff Sam insists is good for muscle growth. 

Sam returns to find Dean whistling along to Riders on the Storm playing from his phone as he sets the table. 

“Someone recovered quick.” He observes, scraping back a chair and helping himself to a plate. “You're in… weirdly high spirits. Somethin’ happen?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Does something need to happen for me to be in a good mood?”

“Uh, usually. Yeah. Not to mention the run. What brought that on?” 

Dean gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Eh. Last hunt made me realise I'm not exactly in shape like I used to be. Should probably exercise more.” 

“Uh huh.” Says Sam doubtfully, fork half-way raised to his mouth as he watches Dean hover around the table adding salt and pepper shakers and even a glass of OJ at each place setting. “Is this about Cas?” 

Dean nearly drops the steaming pan. A squidgy piece of spinach slithers onto the table. He forces himself to continue doling out his own serving with little more than a sharp look in Sam's direction. 

“What does Cas have to do with anything?” 

“Well, you know, he's… not here.” 

Dean snorts. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Oh, by the way did you also know we beat Chuck? Yeah, yeah. And Jack is God now, too, not sure if you were aware. Oh! And Lucifer's dead. And while we're at it”-

A piece of egg flies across the table, narrowly missing Dean's nose. 

“Hey!” Dean points his spatula at Sam. “I'll stand for a lot of shit. Wasted food ain't one of ‘em. Eat your goddamn breakfast, Sammy.”

“Yes, mom.” 

They bicker for a few more minutes, but Sam doesn't mention Cas again. Thank fuck. Eileen joins fifteen minutes later, scooping the lukewarm egg concoction into her mouth with delighted enthusiasm. She and Sam sign across the table, reminding Dean he needs to get in on this ASL stuff if he wants to know what the hell they're talking about half the time. She doesn't ask him about his good mood or why he's up so early. Figures Sam must have secret-signed some shit to her already. Yeah. He really needs to learn ASL. And more than just the basics he's been scraping by with. 

Dean gets up from the table and groans on automatic as he waits for his knee to click. He stops mid-stretch. ‘Cause there’s no crunch. No awkward shifting of his kneecap. Frowning, he flexes his knee, swinging his lower leg back and forth. 

“Huh.” 

Eileen and Sam watch him, exchanging a glance. 

“What?” Asks Sam. “You manage to fuck up your knee even more out there?” 

It’s the Grace. Cas healed his knee without him even realising. Shit. 

“Uh, yeah.” He lies. “It’s crackin’ up a storm in here. I’m gonna go lay down for a while and let it, y’know, do its thing. See ya.” 

“I told him to stretch.” He hears Sam complain as he leaves. Dean breaks into a run as soon as he’s clear of the kitchen. Feels like he’s flying. His knee’s not been right since he was twenty-eight. It’s been fuckin’ years since he could run without a lopsided hitch in his gait. He’d been so focused on keeping up with Sam this morning (not to mention suppressing the urge to vomit) that he hadn’t noticed. Despite the exercise-induced aches and pains sitting in his muscles, his joints feel well-oiled. Smoother than they have in eons. 

It’s great.

…

Until it’s not.

 It doesn’t last. ‘Cause nothing great ever does.

The next night, they have Claire and Kaia over for chicken enchiladas. Dean spares a minute to pray to Jack and invite him, but all he gets in response is a flicker from his bedside lamp. If the kid was coming, he’d say something. No luck this time. Dean tries not to be relieved. Jack’s last visit was a flying one. He’d been perfectly neutral with Dean. There were no hugs like before, no fun quips or offers to hang. Dean figured the kid was busy. Now he gets the distinct impression he’s being avoided. 

God’s avoiding him. 

Yeah. Sounds about right. 

He shrugs it off and gets started on dinner while they wait for Claire and Kaia to arrive. He can’t say what’s bugging him but something is. It’s not Jack’s meagre reply (or lack thereof). It’s not that they’re having guests for the first time in months. It’s - something internal. Physically. Like the slow build of dread in his gut, chilling his blood and making his shoulders tense. He plays it off well during dinner, he thinks. If anyone notices he’s a little off, they don’t say anything. 

He does notice Claire’s eyes on him, though. Scrutinising a little in that extra-observant way she’s probably picked up from Cas. And, y’know. Hunting. Like she’s waiting for him to crack. For the weakness to show. 

When their plates are empty and their stomachs are full enough to burst, Claire sits back with a loud groan and pats her belly. 

“Food baby.” She announces, sneaking a smirk at Kaia who rolls her eyes and laughs.

“Food baby?” Dean repeats with uninhibited disgust. “That’s fucking gross.” 

Claire smacks his arm. “It’s a compliment, old man. It’s like - I’m pregnant with your food. It’s so good I could give birth to it and eat it again.” 

Eileen nearly spits out her drink as she guffaws. Both at the obscene image and Dean’s answering look of absolute horror. 

“You’re nasty, kid.” Dean says with feeling, shaking his head as some of the dread gets compressed under all the (admittedly fucking great) food. 

“Learned from the best.” Claire quips, her sideways smile not doing quite enough to hide the edge in her gaze. Yeah. She’s still watching him. Dean doesn’t know how to tell her she doesn’t have to anymore. Not now that Cas is back. Not now the world is actually put to rights and everything’s back to how it should be. 

So he doesn't. He says nothing and reigns innocent. Plays the dumb, borderline alcoholic mid-life-crisis hunter he's meant to be. He loudly muses about buying a motorbike (classic Harley Davidson, obvs), eliciting a groan from everyone around the table. He flicks peanuts at Claire and signs all the swear-words he knows in ASL across the table at Eileen. All in all, it's a great night. Should be. There's still that lingering sensation of apprehension clenched tightly in the pit of his stomach, upsetting the enchiladas. And the spell is officially broken when Kaia innocently asks:

“Hey, where's Cas tonight?” 

The pit unfolds itself a little, sending cold fingers running up and down Dean's spine. 

“Err…” Says Sam. And then looks at Dean. Traitor. 

“Doin’ some heaven stuff. I dunno.” Dean shrugs, swiping his bottle and taking a big glug to mask the nerves which have decided to bubble to the surface of his skin. 

“Heaven stuff?” Claire asks, quirking a brow. “Well, he didn't tell me.”

“Us neither.” Sam sighs. “He only told Dean.” 

Claire squints. And damn if that ain't a familiar expression. She points at Dean with the hand holding her bottle. 

“You two fall out again?” She accuses. Scarily like Jody. The girl's a sponge. 

Dean throws his hands up. “Why does everyone keep saying that?! No. We didn't fall out. I spoke to him the other night, actually. He's fine.” Shit shit shit. 

Sam frowns at him. “You did? Why didn't you say anything?” 

Four pairs of eyeballs fix on Dean around the table, and the lurch in his stomach is enough to have the nausea returning. 

“It was quick. Just wanted to check up on ‘im. No biggie, man, jeez.”

His bottle's empty. He gets up and moves to the fridge to get another. The silence is weird and loaded when he comes back with a fresh beer, condensation sweating on it. Wetting his fingertips as he tips back an icy mouthful. 

Claire has her phone out and she's texting furiously. 

“What're you doing?” Dean asks before he can help himself. 

“Asking Cas if you guys fell out.”

“But I already said-!”

Claire snorts. “Like I trust you. You're such a man about this shit.”

It shouldn't be an insult, but Claire makes it sound like one. 

“Yeah? Cas is a man too so I guess you can't trust him either.”

She and Kaia share a look. “Eh.” Says Claire. 

“What the hell d'you mean “eh” ?” 

Claire rolls her eyes like Dean is a little kid bothering her with obvious fucking questions. 

“I mean, eh, Cas isn't really a man man, though, is he? His vessel is one but he's not, like, a man. Y'know?” 

Dean looks around the table for help, ‘cause Claire just said the most confusing bunch of words he's ever heard. No one's helping him or disagreeing and it's like he's slipped into a dimension where he's the only sane person in the room. 

“No.” Says Dean. “I don’t know.” 

“Figures.” Claire responds, and goes right back to texting Cas. When Dean looks up, Eileen has her fist around a grin and Sam’s pinching the bridge of his nose. Kaia gives him a sympathetic grimace, and Dean honestly doesn’t know what the hell he did to deserve any of this treatment. 

They drop the subject. Technically. But it’s still in the room. Just goes unsaid. Dean isn’t sure what’s worse. He nearly asks what Cas’ response is when Claire’s phone buzzes but he hauls in the instinct and polishes off another beer instead. He's not gonna be the one to bring it up. 

He takes himself off to the Dean Cave to set up a movie while Sam and Claire get on dish duty. They decide on The Truman Show. It’s a good movie. An old favourite. But Dean doesn’t really concentrate while they’re watching. He thinks about Claire’s weird insinuations and Kaia’s sympathetic glances and the hovering sensation in his gut. By the end of the movie, he’s exhausted, but it takes him way too long to get to sleep that night. And when he does, it’s one of those ‘blink and you miss it’ type’a sleeps. 

He gets out of bed the next morning all sweat and dense fog. His limbs ache more than they did yesterday after his shitty attempt at running, and his knee’s back to clicking away every time he stands up or bends. He tries to complete a laundry load and has to take a nap between the wash and dry cycle. When he finally makes it to the map table at around eleven, Claire, Kaia, Sam and Eileen are gathered around a laptop. 

“Hey, sleepyhead!” Claire waves him over. “Come check this out. Hunt opportunity in Indiana. You down?”

Dean grunts and shuffles over to the coffee machine, pissed to find coffee granules all over the counter. 

“Fuckin’ animals.” He mutters. But no one hears him. Or they don't care. So he makes himself a bucket-sized coffee (making sure to bang every cupboard door and sigh as loudly as he can while he wipes up their mess) and blearily makes his way over to the table. 

The prospective hunt in question sounds like a Wendigo. A few trail-hikers missing in Clifty Falls. All the usual signs are there. It's simple. Easy. Just like the last hunt (was meant to be). Dean’s nearly disappointed, but he shrugs and agrees to go anyway. What the hell else is he here for? 

They start packing all the shit they’ll need for the road. Dean half-heartedly checks the guns and hauls a five kg bag of salt up the stairs (just in case). By the time they’re ready to go, he’s worked up a cold, clammy sweat and his hands slip around the steering wheel. Sam climbs in the passenger seat and does a double take.

“You look a little pasty, man. Maybe you should let me drive.”

Dean grunts. “M’fine. Didn’t sleep much.” 

Sam doesn’t argue. Maybe it's something in his tone. But Dean doesn’t miss the lingering look he gives him while he pulls out of the path and shoves Baby into drive with a touch more force than necessary. Eileen’s POS hatchback follows behind with Claire and Kaia. Dean almost wishes Sam had squished into the car with them. He could do with the alone time. 

There’s an unpleasant cramp in his gut by the time they make it to the first motel that night, and his sleep then is no better than the previous night's. The thin mattress and scratchy linty sheets don't help. 

Dean wakes up the next morning filled with a singular, unpleasant knowledge: I'm gonna throw up. 

He bolts to the bathroom and hangs over the toilet as bile rises in his throat, heart hammering, sick dread churning in his belly. 

He drops to his knees when the contents of his stomach refuse to shift and waits. And waits. 

“Uh… Dean?” 

Sam hovers in the doorway. Uncertain. 

Dean swallows hard. Forces himself to breathe. 

“Enchiladas.” He manages. 

“Is that code for something?” 

“Enchiladas.” Dean repeats emphatically. “I fucked ‘em, dude. Prob'ly the chicken… ugh.” He groans and braves standing while the rolling in his gut calms a little. “Should warn the others…” 

“That was, like, the other night though.” Sam points out. “If we were gonna get poisoned it would have happened already. Right?” 

Dean shrugs and grips the edge of the sink, reluctant to meet his own face in the mirror. He already knows he looks like crap. Can feel the sweat beading on his forehead. Across his top lip. He runs the tap and shoves his toothbrush under it, hoping the minty paste will quash his nausea. 

“How should I know?” He says around a mouthful of minty foam. “Bacteria and germs and shit - there's tons, right? Could be just. That. From the - chicken. Prob'ly undercooked or I dunno...”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Maybe. I'll text the others and see how they're doing. Let me know if you need anything, man. Gonna go get us some breakfast. Drink water.”

Sam's voice becomes more distant as he moves about the room. 

Claire, Kaia and Eileen are sharing a room. They only had the option of one twin room and a double with an extra cot. It made sense for the girls to stay together and for Sam and Dean to share the twin - like the good old days, they'd joked. Nothing about this felt good. Old, sure. The furniture's old. The weird, faded sheets are old. 

Dean's old. 

He dares to meet his own gaze in the mirror. Laugh lines crinkle the corners of his eyes around dark, bruise-like circles. He's pale, too. Makes the lines look stark and dark. Gaunt. Drawn. Maybe this is just how it's gonna be from now on. Until he stops hunting. Or dies on one. The more likely outcome, let’s be fuckin’ real. 

Dean shakes his head and splashes cold water over his face as the morbid thoughts take over. When Sam returns ten minutes later, Dean's dressed and shoving the last of his shit into his duffle. The smell of fresh pastries wafts over from the bag in Sam’s hand. Should be delicious. Should get his mouth watering. It turns Dean’s stomach instead. 

He doesn’t eat (but he does drink water), and they meet the others in the parking lot. 

The hunt itself is whack. 

It’s not a Wendigo that took the trail hikers. It’s a Loup-Garou. He’s never fought one of the fuckers before. Dad had. Once. Before they were even born according to his beat up journal. And by the time they figure out how to kill the motherfucker, Sam’s been injured pretty bad. 

There’s nothing left of the trail-hikers ‘sides bloodied scraps of their clothes and bits of gore hanging off pegs shoved into the wood cabin’s walls. 

One good old decapitation and a couple of broken ribs later, the Loup-Garou's dead. And Sam’s unconscious. Claire and Kaia are hunched over him, pushing him into the recovery position. Assessing the damage. He was brained against a wall. Slashed across the neck. Missed the artery, but there's still blood oozing from the wound. More pouring from a cut on Sam's head. But - head wounds bleed the most. So it's. It looks worse than it is. 

Dean falls to his knees beside them, the sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs too brutal to allow him to crouch. 

“Is he - is he”-

“He’s fine.” Claire barks. “I mean, there’s a pulse. There’s - we should call Cas.”

Yeah. Fuck. They should call Cas. 

Either he prayed without realising or one of the others did ‘cause Cas is there in an instant, the faint brush of air and rustle of wings like music to Dean’s ears as he joins them next to Sam’s unconscious form and presses his huge, flat palm over his forehead without a word. 

Dean looks away as the bright-blue shine of Grace pulses into his brother’s body. Knows he’s grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. It’s not just his ribs. It’s his fuckin’ head. Pounding. His stomach’s in knots. Has been all day. He’s gonna keel over any second, and the electric buzz of Grace frazzles in the air. Like a molecule of water on a parched man’s tongue. 

Dean isn’t sure when or how he ends up covering Cas’ hand with his own. Sam’s long hair, matted with blood, ghosts over his knuckles. It snaps him out of it. Makes him realise what he’s doing. 

Removing his hand requires some will. His last shred of it, actually. He feels Cas’ sunrise-powered glare on his face and mumbles something about wanting to check. Wanting to make sure his - his little brother is okay.

The stab of guilt which follows is insurmountable. Dean sits against the wall while Sam comes to. He's alive. He's fine. But he's lost a lot of blood. Cas can do pretty much anything. But he can't replenish blood. Fuckin’ typical. 

Claire and Kaia offer to drive him to the hospital. Cas’ teleportation could be too taxing on him in this state. It's better to drive. Yeah. Makes sense. 

They don't offer for Cas to come with. 

Oh. There's no room in the hatchback. Right. He could fly to them - meet them at the hospital. But they don't ask him to do that either. They all just haul Sam out of the cabin and back towards the forest where Eileen's standing guard, waiting. She's got no idea. 

Everyone's forgotten about Dean. 

He hears the scuffle outside. The wet slap and squelch of boots in mud. The harsh drag of Sam's moose legs, struggling. 

Dean sits alone in the cold, wet quiet. Rotten wood and the stink of old, dead meat sinks into his skin. He wears it like he wears his dad's old leather jacket. Hunched around his shoulders. Protective and stinking of threat and the aftermath of violence. There is violence here. Inside him. Inside this room. He's right where he belongs. Part of the decor. 

Dean's breaths rattle in his chest. He's wheezing. Doesn't know if it's from the injuries or whatever the fuck else is going on in there. He thinks about Cas. About the Grace moving from inside of him and into - Sam.

Dean swallows hard. Wants the taste of it back in his mouth. In his body. Wants the hurt to stop. Selfishly, wants Cas to take it away from him and keep it locked away where nothing can touch it. He's still thinking about the Grace when Cas comes back alone. 

“Dean.” He says, his voice a distant thunder in the darkness. He's reaching out. There's a dark smudge of blood on his sleeve. Sam's blood. Not Dean's. It should be Dean's blood. He's the only one allowed to - 

And then they're somewhere else. 

Dean blinks into the new darkness. A fresh and crisp darkness - lighter than the dank and heavy gloom of the cabin in Clifty Falls. 

He's standing up, braced by Cas’ firm, hard body behind him. There are two arms wrapped around his shoulders. Cas’ breath in his ear. 

Dean blinks as his sight adjusts to this new place. It's a place he's been before. The swanky place with the green walls and nice sheets and huge, oak bed where last time - god, last time Cas had him trussed up nice and tight against that pretty frame.

“Cas, what-?”

He doesn't get any further. A sharp, almost violent burst of Grace rips through him. Head to fucking toe. He lurches with the sensation - overstimulated. Flood lights in the Mariana trench. Every nerve on fire, his back arching as a grunt forces its way through his gritted teeth. 

“Sorry,” Cas apologises softly in his ear. “You had a fever. You were in a lot of pain, you”-

Dean is sobbing. He's not sure when it started. He only becomes aware of the shake in his shoulders and his body heaving under Cas’ arms as the Grace calms inside him. Dims to something pleasant and undemanding. Easing sluggishly through his veins with an easy, safe familiarity. It's like being held from the inside. Embraced by a pure ray of sunshine. He weeps, helpless against it, and allows himself to be manoeuvred by Cas until they're facing each other. 

“You're crying.” Cas observes pointlessly, doing that tilty-head squinty-thing which makes Dean feel like he's under a microscope. 

Shame, exhaustion, violence - drained. Gone. He’s floating. A thing made of instinct. So he doesn't know why his eyes are still burning. Why he doesn't make it stop. Throw an arm over his face to hide it. Why the bitter creature inside him is collapsing with despair. Why Cas’ face darkens, his eyes glowing - embers in a furnace. 

Capable hands cup Dean's jaw. Swipe away the tears clinging to his chin. For a dizzying moment he thinks Cas is gonna kiss him. 

He leans forward but there's no kiss. There's -

Cas licks a clean stripe from the rough, stubbly skin below his ear right up to the point of his cheekbone where the tears fall, before ducking his head to Dean's neck and working his tongue over his jugular and the hollow of his throat. 

It's fucking weird. Should be disgusting. The feel of Cas’ cooling spit on one side of his face. Should be fucking gross. 

Should be. 

Cas is lapping up his tears. Mouthing hot, wet, not-quite kisses under the bolt of his jaw. 

Dean isn't here. His body is. The Grace is holding him down. Tethering him against Cas’ solid warmth. Telling him he's safe. He brings his hands up to grip Cas’ shoulders. Hold on for dear life as Cas moves against him. Backs him into one of the bed-posts and rucks the bloodied, ripped shirt up to his neck. Hands roving everywhere. Anywhere.

“Fuck, Cas.” Dean says before he can stop it. Because he's not really here. 

Grace powers through him, stomping out doubt and hurt and pain. Just like he wanted.

Just like he wanted. 

Cas’ deft fingers roll over the peak of Dean's nipple, already hard under his touch. 

He gasps. Sharp and unintentional, and there's the rumble of Cas’ voice against his skin. Too low to hear. The lowest note on an organ. Vibrating. Felt, but not heard. 

“I wanted to heal you in there.” Cas speaks, his voice a pin in the canvas of pleasure stretching over every one of Dean's nerves. “But not - in front of”- 

“Yeah.” Dean agrees, breathless. “I-I know.” 

“Because you don't want them to know”- He emphasises, while Dean says,

“N-no. I know. It - it affects me different.” It's the first time either of them have acknowledged it. This. Difference. It doesn't make Cas pause. Even as Dean's stomach flips a little. Waits for him to question it. Question why Dean is so different. What's so broken in him that he needs Grace all the time? 

And he knows, now, that it is a need. It isn't a want anymore. He needs it. Like he needs air to breathe and water to drink. 

It wasn't like this before. Isn't like this with anyone else. Or Sam. Is it? Just now, was Sam-? This whole time, has Cas been taking Sam to this strange room too? Feeding him Grace? Getting him off? Shit, maybe Dean's late to the game. Maybe all this time - 

“It didn't feel like this for Sam.” Cas pulls away from Dean, one palm flat against his sternum, channelling power and brilliance. The other tracing circles around his nipple, wet with Cas’ spit. “Your thoughts are incredibly loud, Dean.” A smirk catches the corner of his mouth. Full, chapped lips pink with pressure. “Especially when you want my Grace.”

The brazen way he says it makes Dean's insides squirm. He's not supposed to say that. They're not supposed to talk about it. This thing they've got going on - this agreement - it’s - an unsaid thing. 

Dean threads his arms behind his back and grips the hard bed post behind him. Traces its carved ridges and filigree patterns. Gets a splinter under his nail. It's a small, irritating pain. Not gouging enough to distract. The post comes to a round, orb point. It digs into the small of his back like a fist against his kidneys. He punches back into it as he gazes at Cas. Waiting for him to continue doing - this. This thing they've started. 

Cas cradles the column of Dean's throat with one hand. He squeezes gently. He could strangle him. Snap his neck in the blink of an eye. His thumb caresses the crease of his jaw. 

“You have to know it's yours. It's all for you, Dean. For however long you want it.”

Dean's breath catches on a half-sob. He doesn't let this one out. Blinks the tears back. 

“I don't know why I felt - when you healed Sam”- 

Cas’ eyes flash. A solar flare in a bright blue sky. 

“Jealous?” 

Dean closes his eyes. It's fucked up. It's wrong. Cas saved them. Saved Sam. Dean has died for Sam. He'd do it again and again and again. But the Grace -

That's his. It's Dean's. All for you, Dean. 

His mouth fills with electric static, clean rain on his tongue, freshly cut grass and an open, summer sky. He tips his head back, throat bared to the angel. Supplication in its purest form. Cas doesn't know it (or maybe he does) but Dean is his right now. He has him - literally - in the palm of his hand. And he would do anything to hold onto this sensation of radiant Grace. 

Dean gives in. 

Gives in until Cas’ perfect, spit-slick mouth is latched over Dean's nipple. Until his hand is shoved down the front of another pair of ruined jeans, gripping the length of him through soft cotton. Until Dean is lying back on the bed, hands fisting in a stranger's sheets. Through the slats at the foot of the bed, he sees furniture in the shadows. Dust sheets thrown over the shape of a couch. Cardboard boxes in the corner. A bedside lamp on the floor trailing an unplugged wire.

Dean doesn't have the capacity to ask about it. His mouth is open in a silent scream, jaw locked, as Cas works his hand and his Grace around the base of Dean's dick. Pulling and teasing and squeezing with a complete lack of self-consciousness while he gives rapt attention to Dean's nipple with slow, swirling motions of his tongue. Too gentle, Dean thinks. He conveys this by curling a fist around Cas’ shoulder - handful of trenchcoat - and shoving. Cas’ teeth clamp down around him. Hard. A starburst of pain makes Dean writhe and Cas’ hand jerks him harder. Urgent, now - now that his release is building and building. A whirlpool of divine motion at the base of his spine. 

He comes with his blood on Cas’ tongue and his name on his lips.

Chapter Text

“I think… Cas, I think you should stay. I-if you can. I mean.” 

They're at the hospital. Dean insisted on returning to the cabin. To clean up, he says. Doesn't wanna leave the job half-done. Cas offers to do it. Says it's no trouble. It’ll only take a second. 

Dean doesn't know how to explain that having someone who didn't know the monster - didn’t watch the life eek out of it from a gaping hole in its neck - clean up what's left of the bodies in such a quick, clinical way feels like an injustice. 

Dean may not have known those trail-hikers, but people nearby did. Someone did. They had families somewhere and - they deserved to have their remains taken care of by someone who was - there. 

Dean is tired of looking at remains. Tired of scraping the congealed mix of dry blood and mud from his boots. A light smattering of ash hides the dark crimson stains. ‘Cause they burn the Loup-Garou. Rare creature of old. They watch it become dust. 

It takes about as much time as he expects. When he's done, he shoots a message to Claire. 

We're on our way. 

Sam's okay. Is the brief answer which comes minutes later. 

Driving's easy. With Cas’ Grace roaming his body; settling deep into his muscles and smoothing out the creaks and clicks in his joints, it’s the easiest thing in the world to hop into the driver's seat and take them to the hospital in silence. 

They don't speak. Don't joke around. 

Something's different. A line crossed. Sam nearly died. Dean acknowledged a weakness. It sits on the seat between them. Clogging and thick. 

Dean rolls down a window. The wind hustles rain-water from the thick brow of the forest lining the roadside. Pine-scented drops fly in from the highway. Sharp, cold, tiny needles punching holes in the grime. It's the closest he'll get to a shower for the next few hours. 

Claire was right. Sam is okay. A little paler than usual, but that’s to be expected. His blood’s seeping into the worm-eaten wood at an abandoned cabin in Clifty Falls instead of, y’know. In his body. 

Explaining to the nurses how he lost so much blood with no visible injuries proves to involve a lot of suspicious questions. Nose-bleeds aren’t usually this serious. So? He burst a blood vessel! Eileen argues the point valiantly enough that they drop it. The doctors insist on some scans and he'll be discharged in the morning. They get off lightly, all things considered. 

Dean sits with Cas in the waiting area outside Sam's ward while Claire, Kaia and Eileen go and get coffee. It's the first time they've been alone since the car and they haven't really talked yet. Dean doesn't particularly want to, but after this he's scared. So he asks. He asks the thing he's been wanting to ask since Cas left. He asks him to stay.

“Yes.” Cas says after an age. He's staring at his hands clasped between his knees, elbows resting on his thighs. “I can stay.” 

He offers no further consolation. Just stares. Winding his fingers together in a way that's painfully human. A habit he might have picked up from before. Or from Dean. 

“The stuff you were doing in heaven - for Jack - is it-?” 

“I've done almost all I can do. I will continue to assist him when he needs it, but for now - yes. It's stable.” 

Dean watches his mouth. The dry, untouched look of it. Recalls the sensation of those lips around the tendons in his neck. On his nipple. Laving over his ribs as he jacked him hard and fast - 

Cas’ eyes flick up to meet his.

Loud thoughts. Fuck. 

Dead puppies. Freddie Kruger. Dry old lettuce. Scratches in Baby's paint. 

Cas rolls his eyes heavenward - probably praying to Jack for Dean's sanity - but says nothing. Just leans back in his chair as they wait. 

Claire, Kaia and Eileen return with gritty, watery hospital coffee and monopoly. 

Much to the displeasure of the hospital staff, they set it up on the floor around the seats and sit in a little circle. Like it's kindergarten. They play for an hour but Cas doesn't really understand the rules and he keeps trying to steal money from the bank. Dean calls him a sneaky cheat and Cas calls him a conniving capitalist. The only one seriously playing is Eileen, so they decide she wins. Someone checks in on Sam every half an hour or so. Makes sure he isn't dying of boredom. He's asleep when Dean checks. The nurse says she’ll get him a blanket if he wants to stay by his bed. Dean’s spent too much time half-asleep by bedsides. He shuffles back to the waiting area. His half-drunk coffee’s gone cold but he drinks it anyway.

They could go back to the motel. All of them. Dean already knows he isn't gonna leave. Eileen drives back with Claire and Kaia and says she'll be back at six. Dean tells her not to worry about it and promises to text her when Sam gets discharged. 

Cas stays. Dean doesn't need to ask him to this time.

They move around a bit. Well, Dean does. He's restless. Makes use of his legs (while they're not clicking) and does a full circuit of the Phlebotomy unit. When he comes back to the waiting room, Cas has situated himself back into his hard plastic chair and he's pulled a ruffled looking paper-back from somewhere. He thinks back to their tryst in the weird, dark room. There'd been an electrifying moment when he thought he'd felt the hard press of Cas’ dick against his thigh (wanted to touch it - but Cas pulled back. And Dean - Dean couldn't ask. Couldn't say he wanted-). Now he's thinking it was probably just the spine of his book.

“Where'd you pull that from? Your ass?” Dean asks as he sits heavily beside Cas, drumming his fingers on his knees. Cas inclines his head towards the wall and goes right back to reading. Not so much as a glance upwards. 

There's a cheap pine bookcase about two feet high shoved into one corner. It's stuffed with battered old books. “Take one, leave one behind!” A cheery sign reads above it in a hurried scrawl. 

“What'd you leave?”

“Nothing.” Says Cas, “I'm going to return it.” 

Oh. 

Dean rethinks the bulge in Cas’ pants.

Right. 

It's 1984. An old copy. Back when they used to print goofy, over-the-top illustrations on the front. Those were Dean's favourite kind of books. Especially sci-fi ones. Especially when it'd show the protagonist - heavily muscled and over-illustrated, usually carrying some crazy looking weapon - a busty girl at his side. Boobs and ass drawn just the wrong side of tasteful. Determined, so-serious expressions etched onto their faces in that nameless, comic style. Maybe it does have a name and Dean just doesn't know it. Never bothered to learn more. Just admired from a distance. Ignorant of the details.

This one depicts the tower from the book. A big, blue eye situated over it. Unfeeling and hard. Big brother. 

Dean scoots closer and peeks at the page. Cas is already on chapter three. 

“How many times you read this one? Twelve?”

“Two.” Says Cas, folding the page over. He does it with care. Like this is a book someone treasures. Dean doesn't want to point out it probably hasn't been picked up since it was left here. The bookshelf has dust on it. Its corner is unlit. 

“Hm. I read it once when I was fourteen. Right before I dropped out.” Right before dad made me drop out. 

Cas spares him a look. “You can read with me if you like.”

Dean’s jaw strains around a yawn.  “Alright.” 

Their shoulders bump. Dean and Cas read, but Cas reads faster. Dean has to tell him to wait. He's not finished that bit yet. Cas waits for Dean to tell him when it's okay to turn the page. Even when the words become blurry and they dance and Dean has to read the same paragraph twice…

He wakes up with a full body twitch. His neck aches. His head is pressed against something warm and hard and solid. There's a strong hand bracing him - flat against his clavicle. Stopping him from tipping forward off his seat.

Dean blinks against harsh, fluorescent lights and lifts his head. It's heavy. The first thing he sees is a wet patch against Cas’ shoulder. If his coat was black, he wouldn't have this problem, he thinks. Why'd it have to be fuckin’ beige? 

“You fell asleep.” Cas rumbles. Quiet to the rest of the world. The only sound Dean hears.

“No I didn't.”

A quirked brow is the only response he gets. Dean sits up straight. Rubs his knuckles into his eyes. Cas is on chapter nine. He swears they were just on six. 

He glances back down at the wet patch on Cas’ shoulder. Wipes his mouth. The back of his hand comes away shiny. 

Cas turns another page. “You can pay for the dry cleaning.” 

“Pay for it yourself.” Says Dean. “Dick.”

“Ass.” 

Dean stares. Cas turns another page. Is he even reading? There's a shallow dimple at the side of his mouth. 

Son of a bitch, Dean thinks as loudly as he can. He checks out his surroundings. It's emptier than it was earlier. There are some stragglers. Pale faced denizens of waiting rooms. The same genre of dead eyes peeling back and forth between the reception and a phone screen or a lap. And Dean was - 

He was sleeping against Cas’ shoulder. Practically cuddled up to him. Drooling all over him. For all to see. Two nurses lounge at the reception. The one on the computer meets his eyes over the monitor as she types. Hazel eyes. Pretty. Dozy freckles decorating her full cheeks and wrinkle-free forehead. She smiles. It's friendly. Not the kind of smile he's used to from a pretty woman like that. 

She probably thinks - no, she definitely thinks him and Cas are - 

They all do. They know. Or think they know. 

Dean may as well have unzipped Cas’ fly and taken him in his mouth then and there. Would've been just as obvious. He avoids the woman's gaze. Hears another of the nurses giggle. Throw a glance their way. They're talking about it. They know. Dean wants to stand up and cut open his insides and arrange them on the reflective, sage floors and show them he's not - it's not like that. Even if it is, but that's a secret. A thing they don't talk about and a thing these people can't possibly know. It isn't - it's not -

“Dean.” 

Dean turns in the direction of the light touch. Two fingers on his forearm. No Grace. A polystyrene cup of water from the cooler held in Cas’ big hand. Toward Dean. For him. 

“Oh. Thanks, man.”

Dean takes the water from Cas and downs it in one, straight gulp. It's icy and he feels every drop slide down his throat and settle in his stomach. He crushes the empty cup in his hand. 

When did Cas even get up to get that? Dean doesn't know. Wasn't paying attention. 

“Winchesters?”

Winchesters. Plural.

“Yes?” Dean and Cas both answer the nurse at once. It's one of the chatty nurses by the reception desk. Not hazel eyes. This one is a little older. Wearing green crocs with bananas on them. Her name tag says Natalie.

“Your brother is ready to go. He's had his scans and his transfusion’s officially done. All clear.” She tells them both with a bright smile. Like this is good news. Like they didn't already know. 

“Thank you.” Cas says sincerely, in lieu of Dean's silence. “We'll take him home now.”

And they do. The drugs they give Sam make him lankier than usual. He flops his arms about and can’t arrange his big legs in the back of the Impala and it takes both Dean and Cas to arrange him into a comfortable position. He prattles in the backseat for nearly a whole hour.

Cas humours him. Talks back about Pineapple DNA or lipstick on monkeys or some shit. Then Sam says,

“Hey, Dean. You know you’re a DILF now?” 

“I’m a what?” 

Sam giggles like a kid. “You’re a DILF, Dean. You’re officially at DILFing age. You’re an old man.”

Dean chances a pleading look at Cas. 

The angel shrugs. “This isn’t any language I know.”

“Yeah, and you know all of ‘em.” 

“It was the nurse who said it, jeez.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Y’know, the - the kinda pretty one.” 

Dean thinks he might be talking about the one who offered him a blanket. He can’t really remember her face. 

“She called me a - a DILF?" 

Dean knows what DILF means. He has internet. Cas might not, but he - fuck’s sake. He knows. 

Sam presses his finger over his lips and goes, “Shhhh! I wasn’t meant’a tell you. She thought I was asleep. Was talking to another nurse. Anyway, I gave her your phone number. You’refuckin’welcome.” 

And he passes out. Snores like a drill. 

It takes ten minutes for Dean to release the breath he was holding. Another ten to look at Cas. 

Cas’ gaze is pointed out the window. Not the one beside him, the front one. So his profile, the sharp lines and shadows of it, is cast in stark relief against the soft orange street-lamps swishing by. Scanning his features in man-made light. Covering it in darkness. Then light. Then darkness. And he doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t blink. 

Not human. Right. 

Dean looks down, and 1984 is next to Cas on the seat, his thumb pressed into the folds of paper. Keeping the page. 

*

Cas is rough with Dean that night.

Dean is blinking awake in that special kind of darkness only the bunker can achieve. Blacker than pitch. A black hole. Void, empty darkness. 

He's aware of hands on him. On his shoulders. His exposed stomach. Pushing and pinning.

Dean fights. ‘Cause what the fuck is going on? Are they being attacked? He mentally runs through the sigils by the entrance. It's - they checked everything. Always do. Apocalypse or not, they're still wanted out there by every make and manner of monster. But the wards. It should be enough. So why - ? 

Then he hears it. That too low to hear vibration in the pit of his stomach. Cas’ voice. Bottom of the ocean low. 

“Stay down.” The command comes right as he's dosed with Grace. Dean moans as starlight dances through him, loud and abrasive in his sleep-rough throat. “And stay quiet. Unless you want the others to know. Unless you want to be taken”-

“Can't stomach a flight right now, angel.” Dean exhales. “Please - just”- 

There's no light except the merciless glow of Cas’ eyes. Two eerie blue-gold lights above him.

“Where did you…?” Dean mumbles, “I didn't”-

“You were calling for me.” Cas asserts. The Grace keeps coming. Pulsing. Drowning. Ecstasy in his veins. 

“Wasn’t.” Dean manages. A whisper. Head smashed into the pillow as his entire body arches off the mattress and into Cas’ demanding hands. 

“You wanted this.” Cas continues. “Wanted m - my Grace.” 

Dean knows he's tenting his pants. Doesn't remember getting hard. They're already wet with pre-come. The material damp and dragging uncomfortably over the sensitive skin of his cockhead. He was dreaming about this. Dreaming about Grace. About rough, firm hands on him. Cas heard it. Thought he was praying. 

“Shit, Cas, I'm sor”-

Cas slams his palm over Dean's mouth. It's a slap. A sharp noise amongst the frantic rustle of sheets and labouring breaths. It stings. And then it doesn't. 

“I want you.” Cas reminds him. “However much you will allow me to give, I will give it, Dean. If this pleases you, I…” 

Dean reaches out. He's half asleep. Drunk on Grace. He cards a hand through the dark mess of Cas’ hair. Pressing his thumb into his scalp. Massaging. Pulling. 

Cas sighs. A surprising sound in the absolute gloom surrounding them. High and breathy, it's a sound he - he didn't mean to make, Dean realises. There's a bird in his gut. Twisting. Flying. Writhing. Making his heart speed and slam uncomfortably against his ribs. He wants to hear that sound again. 

Cas wrenches his head out of his reach and snatches both of Dean's wrists, pins his hands above his head. Stretching him out. Elongating his ribs and the plane of his stomach until he's flat and exposed and bared to him. He's like putty under Cas. Moldable to his every whim. 

“What? Don't like a little head pat? You can pin me down however you like but I can't”-? 

“Shut up, Dean.” Cas growls. The noise goes right to Dean's dick. Nearly as powerful as the Grace. Fuck. 

“M'not used to giving nothing back, y'know.” He says, knowing he'd never say anything of the sort fully awake. But he's not. So it's fine. “M'a generous lover. I've been told.” 

Cas bites him. Clamps his teeth down on Dean's shoulder like - like some kind of fucking animal. It hurts but it's good. The kind of pain he's been craving. Cas licks the wound. Laves over it like a cat licking cream. Heals him with his tongue. The pain seeps away, replaced by Grace until there's nothing but a pleasant tingling in his deltoid. 

“I don't want to hear about your conquests.” Cas tells him, gnawing another soft bite into his collar bone. Trailing spit and warmth and Grace in his wake. 

Dean laughs. Low and hard in the back of his throat. 

“Oh, really, Cas? You don't wanna hear about the chick I fucked in Illinois last summer?” He can't resist the way Cas’ teeth bare against his skin at that. A snarl threatening further violence. A violence Dean wants. Needs. “About how we stayed awake for hours just goin’ at it, not a single word said between us? She screamed, though. Oh, yeah. Real loud. What was her name… hm… oh, that's right, it was Teres- ah!" 

Cas’ bite breaks the skin in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He latches on. Like a fuckin’ vampire. Biting and sucking and healing until the pain and pleasure blur into something incomprehensible and incomplete and it ends in Dean begging for more. 

He doesn't even feel the moment they take flight. Just distantly becomes aware of the texture of the sheets beneath him changing from rough, military-grade polyester to smooth, fuckin’ 500 thread count or something. Notices the sudden influx of blue-toned light from the high set of arched windows in the room. They’re back in that - swanky place. And it’s almost dawn. Not night at all. 

“You takin’ me to your sex dungeon, Cas, you little freak?” Dean huffs as Cas puts his lips back on his chest, hands still wrapped around Dean's wrists. 

“You wouldn't stop. Gave me no choice. Now are you going to shut up or do I have to gag you?” 

Dean gapes. Double-chins himself to gaze down at Cas as he peppers open-mouthed, wet kisses and filthy words against Dean's chest. The delicate slope of Cas’ nose is smeared with Dean’s blood. It's on his chin. Staining his lips dark.

“Why?” Dean can't resist pushing further, goading, even though he's whispering now. Even though he's - they're not at the bunker anymore, so it doesn't - this is neutral ground. “Who's gonna hear?” 

“No one.” Cas tells him plainly, straddling Dean's hips to lean above him and gaze down, cosmic eyes forming halos of light in the gloom. “There's no one around for miles.” 

He squeezes Dean's wrists harder. 

Dean's heart is a wild animal. Thrumming with adrenaline and the steady inflow of Grace coming from every point of contact between their bodies. 

There's no one around for miles. 

Cas frees one hand to swipe across the back of his mouth. Takes some of the blood away with him. 

“Why do you want me to hurt you?” He asks, digging his nails into Dean's wrist even as he says it. He’s doing a puppy-tilt. Narrowing his eyes at Dean with that unfiltered, genuine curiosity only he can do so well. 

“Feels good.” Dean murmurs back, hips arching up. Into Cas. “You know it does.” 

Cas’ eyes - the narrowing, glowing lights - become slits. “If you're referring to our conversation the other day”-

“I'm not a martyr, Cas.” Dean breathes. “Never was. Never will be. Now are you gonna do somethin’ or are you just gonna hold me down like a rabid dog?”

Cas’ face flickers in the dark. The shadows deepen. The light in his eyes dims. The Grace retreats. Mote by mote, drawn from Dean's body like - like his life-force is leaving him. Feels like he's gonna die. 

“Cas, what the”-? 

“I can take it back. I can take it right back, Dean. You should know that. You should treat me with respect. I know you’ve forgotten how, but I can remind you. Don’t think I won’t.” 

Cold, clammy fear grips Dean then. Tightening its fist around the bird in his chest. Strangling it. No, this isn't what he meant. Not what he wanted -  

“Dean?” An edge of concern. The Grace returns in increments. Like it was never gone. “I wasn't trying to - I'm not going to take it from you. Not really.” Cas’ voice rushes out of him. A barrage of holy fucking reassurance. 

“No, I” - Don’t fucking cry. Don't you dare fucking cry. “I know. I know, Cas.”

“You're afraid.”

“I'm not, just don't - please”- 

Cas’ grip on his wrists loosens. Dean could easily snatch his hands back. Doesn't dare. He closes his eyes. Wills his breathing to slow.

The Grace does it for him. Soothing in a way it - hasn't. Yet. Not just satisfying that baser part of him; the instinctual creature which has been reaching out and clawing for more - but comforting. Consoling. Pacifying. Reassuring him that it's - he's safe. It's gonna keep him safe. Cas is gonna keep him safe. He always does. 

Dean does cry. He knows he does, despite the way his brain and his body have separated. He can't stand this. It's gentle and slow and thoughtful in ways he's terrified of. He almost asks Cas to take it back. 

Almost. 

Cas cradles Dean's face in his huge, capable hands. Thumbs the tears away. 

“Oh, you are lovely, Dean.” He croons. Terrible, gentle words. No one has ever called Dean lovely before. Hot? Sure. Handsome, sexy - even gorgeous. He’s had that. He’ll take that. But lovely? It isn’t sharp enough. It blazes in his mind. Sets a fire deep in his belly. Hurts. And Cas doesn’t stop. “You are lovely and too precious to be afraid of me. I wasn't going to… I mean - it's yours. I told you before. It's all yours. I was just”- Cas stops. Confusion etching lines in his face. 

Dean hiccups. Hates the small, pathetic noise it makes as it leaves him. He lowers his arms over his face. Ignores the insistent way Cas pushes at him to stop hiding, but doesn’t force him to. 

“You weren't really gonna take it.” He says in a throaty voice. “You were just talking the big talk, man. I know. You - I pushed you.” 

“Yes. I… got carried away.” Cas agrees. There's a note of deliberation. An uncertainty which sets off alarm bells in Dean's head, but he's overwhelmed. With Grace. With a tangle of emotions too numerous to name. There's a husk of left-over fear filling his chest with nowhere to go. 

This is tenuous. A dangerous game they're playing and they - they've crossed too many lines. 

Too many to go back, but not enough to - continue. 

Dean doesn't know how to continue. Doesn't know how to want it. Doesn't want Cas to draw away and leave him high and dry but doesn't want him to - to pursue. ‘Cause what would that even look like anyway? 

They can’t have a relationship. They've established that. Dean’s not gay. Not in that way. He knows it’s normal for men to - to experience desire. With others. Men, that is. Instinctually. To want things that aren't actually - that don't mean -

He doesn't even know how to decipher it. It’s too complicated. What they have. What they don’t have.

But the Grace…

The Grace makes it simple. 

He can use that. He knows the Grace now. Likes the home it's built inside him. Enjoys how it guides his tongue when his head doesn't know what's up and what’s down. Appreciates its forwardness. Its transparent, uncomplicated way of letting Dean want. 

Of letting Dean not be - well - Dean for a little while. 

He can do that. He can be someone else. In this room. In this place. In Cas’ hands. 

“I need you to-” Dean swallows hard around the request. The words alien in his mouth. “I need you to tell me what to do.” 

Cas snaps out of his funk. His eyes, dark and Graceless now, rove over Dean in the saturnine, early dawn. 

“To do?” He echoes. Voice in the grave. Dirt and gravel piled onto one another. “Dean. You already know.”  

Cas grinds down on top of Dean. The friction burns. The thin material of his slacks coarse over Dean's semi-full dick. His blood returns south as the fear bleeds out of him. 

He does it again, pupils blown black and intense and everywhere. Dean groans. Bites down on his lip. His hands descend on Cas’ thick, solid thighs and he - 

He isn't Dean right now. He's a thing of instinct. Of Grace. Melding with the gloom until he's no more than the invisible sensations rushing through his body. 

Cas doesn't move. Doesn't apply any more pressure. Just lets Dean grind up into him, finding friction in the crevices of his body, his slacks pulled too tight over the places Dean thinks - Dean knows he could get in and touch. If Cas would just - 

Cas frees himself from Dean's insistent thrusts, swinging his legs out and over until he's standing beside the bed. Dean's legs hang over the side - tense and restless. 

“Cas…” He complains, silenced as Cas bends forward and presses his finger against Dean's lips. 

“I thought you wanted to be told what to do.” 

Dean nods. A puppet held aloft by a shining, blue-gold tether. 

“Stand up.” Says Cas. 

Dean does. Legs made of water. 

“There's a chair over in the far corner. Drag it to the centre of the room and sit.” 

The simple instruction clears through the fog, carrying with it an element of Grace all on its own which lets Dean float along in a body which doesn't feel quite like his right now.

The shapes loom in the dark. The lamp that was on the floor the last time Dean was here is nowhere to be seen. Dust sheets form figures of monsters crouching in the shadows. There's a chair near the biggest one. Simple, dark oak - it matches the bed. He drags it to the centre of the room and sits. Does as he's told. ‘Cause that’s what he’s good at. He looks at Cas. 

His arms are folded, one finger stroking the plush bow of his lower lip as he regards Dean from a too-far distance. Like Dean’s a problem who needs solving. 

Dean’s bare arms and shoulders bristle in the cool air. There’s a misused scent about the room. A vague impression that this place hasn’t been lived in for some time. Like a haunted joint out in the sticks, but (hopefully) without the ghosts. 

Dean starts to rethink his situation as the silence stretches on. A dark humiliation sets in. Gnaws at the edge of his teeth. The Grace ebbs - one precious iota at a time - and the hazy, blissful fog in Dean’s mind starts to become dangerously clear.

“What?” He finally barks at Cas. “I’m not some fuckin’”- 

Cas stalks towards him, closes the gap in three strides, and brushes his hands over the backs of Dean’s wrists. He’s yanked up straight. His arms thrust behind him as thick, soft binds wrap around his arms and bring them flush with the slats in the back of the chair. Restraining him. They’re on his ankles too. Holding him to the chair legs so if he tries to scoot away, he’ll go crashing down. 

“Fuck.” He breathes, relief coursing through him. The wrong reaction. Definitely. ‘Cause this shouldn’t feel - this shouldn’t be what he wants - 

“I’m not going to take it away from you.” Cas says slowly, peering down in a way that urges Dean to meet his eyes, “My Grace is yours.” A smirk ticks the corner of his mouth. “But I can make you work for it.” 

“You kinky sunuvabitch." Dean manages. It’s meant to sound like an insult. Sounds more. Encouraging. Works that way, if the dark flash in Cas’ eyes is anything to go by. 

True to his word, Dean spends the next - fuck, it feels close two hours - getting spoon-fed miniscule doses of Grace whilst Cas watches him. Watches his reactions. Trails his fingers over Dean’s chest, feather light across his nipples. Hard as fucking steel, exposed and oversensitive. He frees Dean’s swollen, aching cock from the confines of his damp, cotton underwear. But he doesn’t touch it. Just lets his eyes - glowing dimly with Grace - linger over it as it twitches and strains towards the hunched over swell of his stomach and glistens wetly in the brightening dawn. Dean’s nearly naked. Nearly. His underwear covers his ass and the waistband sits unceremoniously under his balls. Being naked would be less revealing, actually, and if it wasn’t for the Grace - 

Dean wouldn’t be caught dead like this. Not ever. He’s never been put on display like this. He feels like an exhibition. For Cas’ eyes only. Even fuckin’ Rhonda Hurley didn’t drag out her little fantasies this long. Cas is a different kind of freaky altogether. Even more ‘cause Dean can’t even tell if he’s into it in a - y’know - a sexy way. The guy’s still wearing his goddamn trenchcoat. The explicit difference between them only serves to make Dean squirm in his seat more as the Grace zaps straight to his dick. Like a phantom tongue. Hot and wet somehow even though there’s no - there’s no actual moisture. It moves up and down. Down and up. Slow and tantalising for brief, agonising seconds, before pulling away right as Dean gets to the brink. Again. 

“Fuck’s sake.” He grinds out, pushing his hips up. Restrained by the bonds and met with cool, empty air. He’s not gonna beg. Not gonna say please. If Cas gave him a bigger dose - he might. Yeah. His brains were scrambled on the stuff before. Making him babble and shit. But this is just enough to keep him alert and aware of every pang of want as Cas’ Grace teases his cock from base to tip like the best and most harrowing handjob of his life. 

“What?” Cas asks, looming above him. “What do you want, Dean? You have to ask if it’s Grace you want…” He leans forward, bracing himself on the arms of the chair. His tie swings in front of Dean’s eyes. A pendulum. 

“Want you to take your stupid fuckin’ coat off.” Dean mumbles. Surprising himself. And Cas, apparently too, ‘cause the angel draws back and regards him with something like suspicion. 

“What’s wrong with my coat?”

Dean groans and lets his head hang. He can’t believe they’re talking about this. His cock twitches mournfully below him. So hard and so ready that if Dean wasn’t restrained, he might be able to lean forward and take the tip into his own mouth. He’s never been able to do it before. He’s tried. More than once. Every guy does. But he’s also never ever been this fucking hard before. He’s sure all it would take is one touch - one lick across the slit - and he’d be gone. 

Dean makes himself sit up straight again and glare at the man who - who’s shucking off his coat before Dean’s even mustered up an answer. The beige monstrosity slides to the floor in a heap. And before Dean asks him to, (not that he was planning on - it was just a passing thought) Cas is unbuttoning his cuffs and shoving his shirt-sleeves up to his elbows, revealing thick, sinuous forearms. 

He quirks a brow in Dean’s direction. “Better?”

Dean’s mouth is dry. He nods. “Mhm.” 

“Now are you going to tell me what you really want?” 

He’s doing that thing again with his voice. Smothering it in honey and syrup. Burying it in the ground. Low and sweet and drawn out. He has to be doing it on purpose. Must have injected it with Grace or something. Holy soundwaves. Holy horny soundwaves. 

He’s standing with his weight more on one leg, gripping the ball-topped bedpost, head tilted. Waiting. Regarding. Somehow managing to look indifferent and interested all at once. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Dean is broken. So broken that he replies,

“Wanna come.” And then, dropping his head and whispering so low that only an Angel of the Lord could possibly hear him, “Wanna come with your Grace in me.” 

“Look at me, Dean.” It’s soft. But not kind. That’s what makes Dean look. Cas’ eyes are glowing again. “Ask me properly. I’ll give it to you. I promised I would. But ask me properly.” 

Dean’s lungs quiver on an inhale. His body is so hot and so cold all at once - he could be running a fever. 

“Please, Ca-Castiel. Let me come.” He closes his eyes on the last syllable, a chorus of shame ringing high and loud in his ears. If it wasn’t for the Grace, he thinks he’d die of it. Could still die, he thinks. After this, though. Because he needs this more. 

Cas takes a step towards him, his answering sigh carrying a pleased sound. “You are good, Dean. You are so, so good.” 

How can he be talking like this? So openly and so - unashamed? Praising him like - like he’s actually done something good? Cas’ hands find Dean’s face. Cup his jaw. A thumb works under his chin, tipping up his face so he’s forced to stare into the powerful, Grace-filled gaze of his angel. His angel. Fuck. Cas’ other thumb strokes Dean’s cheekbone. Gentle and loving. Everything Dean doesn’t deserve. They gaze at one another for a moment. Dean waits, and Cas - Cas just fucking ogles him like Dean’s the best fuckin’ thing he ever saw. 

It isn’t the first time he’s looked at Dean like this. Not by any means. Only the other times, Dean pretended not to notice. The other times, he flitted his gaze away whenever he caught him looking. The other times, Dean wasn’t tied to a chair underneath him begging to come. 

Dean’s knees scrape the inside of Cas’ legs as he stands over him, the mere contact of another person against him sending a bolt of unauthorised pleasure right to his groin. Right to his chest. Right to the pit of shame which sits in his belly, yawning and open, bared for Cas to see. 

Finally, just when he thinks Cas is going to draw away and deny him for another torturous hour, he speaks, and his eyes flash gold. 

“Of course you can come, Dean. Come for me. Now.”

And oh, fuck, Dean does.

Without a hand on him, Dean comes on Cas’ command. At the sound of his voice. At the sudden and glorious surge of Grace flooding through him from head to toe. The sound he makes is filthy, raw and guttural and he sees spots at the edge of his vision as he comes over and over again, painting his stomach and his thighs white. There’s even a hot splash on the underside of his chin. Dean’s too gone to care. 

The bonds Cas tied him with are soft, nothing like the rough ropes from before, but he strains so hard as his body locks up in pleasure that there’s a burn against his wrists and ankles. He squirms and pulses and twists until there isn’t a single drop of come left inside him. 

Cas removes his hands and the bonds fall from Dean’s limbs, untwisting like gossamer silk. The mess on his stomach and thighs (and yes, chin) disappears too, and he’s free to flop forward. 

He might’ve hit the deck, but Cas catches him, hands braced against Dean’s shoulders. Strong, tan forearms exposed and close enough that Dean could press his cheek against one. Rest his head and nuzzle his nose into Cas’ skin and breathe in the sweet, Ozone scent of him. 

He doesn’t. 

“Are you alright, Dean?” Cas rumbles above him. 

The scrape of sex is wiped from his voice. 

Dean nods. “Mhm. Thanks.” He musters the strength to hook his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers and tuck himself back in, hissing at the oversensitivity. Cas releases Dean as he comes back to his senses. Walks and picks his trenchcoat up off the floor, before wrapping it around himself and shoving his arms into the sleeves. 

Dean’s entire body hums when he stands. He knows his arms should ache from being restrained so long, but they don’t. His knee doesn’t creak. His perpetual caffeine headache is gone and he feels like he could run a marathon. It’s like standing in a cloud, and he’s unable to stop the slow grin spreading across his face as he inhales, drawing twice the amount of oxygen into his lungs as usual. Dean tips his head back and stretches, arching his back. Core tensing. 

When he opens his eyes, Cas is watching him. Stiller than the statues carved in his name. ‘Cause those must exist. Somewhere. Probably. He should get one, Dean thinks. He deserves one. 

They lock eyes, and Cas looks - unsure. Tongue-tied, maybe. Like he hadn’t just commanded Dean to come with his voice alone. 

“I’m kind of awake.” Dean admits, “Um. Wanna hit up a diner somewhere? Kinda hungry too.” 

Cas swallows. The movement of his throat is obvious and slow as his eyes rake over Dean. 

“You’re - you’re in rather a state of undress, Dean, I think”- 

“After I’m dressed, Cas.” 

Cas nods, high spots of colour decorating his cheeks. “Yes. Alright.”

Chapter Text

One day, Dean vows, he will stop eating burgers. And pizzas. And fast food. And the toxic orange cheese he drizzles over his nachos. Fuck it, he'll drink a smoothie once every couple days and adopt that so-called healthy lifestyle Sam's always banging on about. But not today.

Maybe it’s the Grace, but Dean can’t seem to stop eating. He shovels down a whole stack of syrup coated pancakes and a large portion of fries at the diner. There’s room for more afterward, but Cas is watching him with increasing - concern? Interest? Confusion? Dean’s not sure, but whatever the look on his face is, he decides it’s best to stop. If only for Cas’ (and his intestine’s) sake. 

The waitress - a blonde in her twenties with real fifties style curls gelled to her temples - comes over and leans against the booth, writing pad ready.

“Anythin’ else, sugar?” She asks Dean as he devours his last fry. 

“Uhh…” He deliberates, “Better not. Just a coffee and the check.” 

She tips her chin at Cas, inky dark eyes fixing on him a few seconds too long. 

“And what about your friend? You ain't eating, honey?” She drawls. 

Cas isn't looking at her. He's looking at Dean. Even when he politely says, 

“No, thank you.”

Dean thinks he hears her mutter “tough crowd” as she walks away, but he can't be sure.

And damn, she has no idea. 

Dean swallows down the last morsel of salty goodness and points at Cas. 

“Question.” 

Cas tilts his head. “Go on?” 

Dean's not nervous. But he maybe slightly regrets the volume and intensity with which he consumed his enormous breakfast, ‘cause his words feel a little acidic and there's a snarl of shame poking through the burger-pancake mix in his stomach. He doesn’t know why. He never knows why. 

“Well, it's like - Claire said somethin’... weird.” Cas waits for him. Doesn't interrupt. Dean wishes he would. “Uh, she seems to think you're, uh, not a - a man?” He laughs. Scrubs a hand through the too-long hairs on the back of his head. “Yeah. I dunno. Weird, right? But I was - I was confused ‘cause obviously you're a man - I think she was kiddin’ around”-

“Claire is right. I'm not a man, I'm an angel.” Cas deadpans, and Dean is reduced to gaping. Goldfish-like. Searching for words until he salvages a sentence to string together. 

“Well - no, I mean, obviously you're an angel, yeah - but - y-you're a man angel, you know? Like”- 

“No, Dean.” Cas is shaking his head. “My vessel is male. Maybe I was, temporarily, when I was human, but this”- he gestures to himself -“is not reflective of angel biology. My true form has no gender. In that regard, all angels are homogenous.” 

“But now you're…?” 

Cas is frowning. A deep, carved thing which makes Dean want to reach out and smooth out the lines between his brow. The scores on his forehead. Instead, he links his fingers together on the sticky formica which is probably older than he is. 

“I am an angel.” Cas finishes. A little slowly. Like Dean hit his head really hard and he’s testing him for concussion. “And therefore not really a man.”

A panicked thought hits Dean. Is this, like, a coming out? Dean sucks at this shit. If Sam was here, he'd know what to say. He'd know the words. Understand the lingo. Dean - doesn't.

He chews his lip and picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. 

“So, uh, like - i-is it still okay to call you Cas? I mean, of course I’ll still say Cas - ‘cause that's - that's your angel name a-and it's kinda girly anyway - not in a bad way though, obviously, so… I dunno. Does it bother you? That I. Think of you as a - a guy?” 

Cas leans forward. “Dean. Are you okay?”

Dean huffs. A burn of frustration in the pit of his gut makes him lean back and cross his arms. “Yes, Cas. I'm okay. Jeez, I - I'm just not good at this stuff, man.” 

“I don't understand what you mean by”- cue the finger quotes - “this stuff.” Cas says. “You know I'm an angel. This is not news. I am aware you see me as a male. Visually and in this plane of existence, I am perceived as such by most humans. It comes with possessing a vessel. Strange at first, but not so much once we get used to it. And believe me, Dean, I’m used to it.” There’s a touch of warmth in his blue eyes now. The ghost of a smile passing over his lips. Lips which, hours ago, were covered in Dean's blood. Dean's sweat. The salt-warm taste of his mortal skin. “I understand why this is difficult for a person like you, Dean.” 

Dean snaps to attention. Glares a little. “What's that supposed to mean?” 

Cas sighs. “Only that your performance of masculinity is so entrenched in who you are that you struggle to see outside of it. You yearn to see it in others. To participate in rituals which you think make you a man in the eyes of other, equally masculine men.” 

Dean doesn't pretend to understand what even half of that means. Just rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever. So you're - you're fine with me calling you a dude?”

Cas shrugs. “If it makes you comfortable.” 

“What makes me - Cas, it's you who's supposed to be comfortable! You gotta tell me if I - if I'm doing something wrong, or - !”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear and gently place Dean's coffee in front of him, the check tucked neatly underneath the mug. She glances between them. Takes in the heat running high on Dean's face and his crossed arms. 

“I take it you boys don't need anythin’ else?” 

“No, thanks.” Dean answers this time, posture dropping as he remembers they're in public. The diner's sparse. Not quite time for the breakfast rush yet. But there are people around. People who'll wonder who the fuck - what the fuck is going on if they overhear. Dean doesn't wanna be caught having this talk in a frickin' greasy spoon. He doesn't wanna be caught having it anywhere, but here feels especially just - yeah. Wrong. Dangerous. They don't know what typ'a guy could be listening in. Assuming the worst. Could easily be the wrong kind. The kinda guys his dad used to hang out with. Dean would hang around with. And he never thought about it when he was with them. They traded the word fag like it was any other curse. Didn't cross his damn mind. Why would it? The shit he did for cash at fifteen and seventeen and twenty-one has fuck all to do with anybody. And hell wasn't real. In that it wasn't here. In this dimension or whatever. So, yeah. He'd rather be having this talk anywhere else. 

“You absolutely sure there's nothing here you'd like, sweetheart?” The waitress croons at Cas. Really drawing out every word. Cas offers her a tight smile, gentleman - or, y'know - gentle -genderless-being that he is. 

“I'm sure. Thank you for your hospitality, Brenda.” 

Brenda stares at him a moment, perplexed, a faint, cotton blush staining her cheeks. She glances down at the nametag pinned to her blouse and laughs. Far too high. Dean decides her voice is grating. Irritating. Doesn't she know Cas is too old for her? 

“Alright, pumpkin. You just let me know.” She winks and saunters off. 

Dean shakes his head. Mutters: “What a pill.” But Cas has already turned to look out the window. He's not checking out her retreating back like Dean would have once if their positions were reversed. The thought of doing that now makes him inwardly grimace. Twenties. Too young. He likes ‘em older. Broader, his brain supplies. Solid and mature and - whatever. He doesn't really have a type. Never has. Never had the luxury. 

Before hell, he didn't mind if they cared. Grew a little attached. It was different after. Harder to watch them fall for the act. He tried with Lisa. Really, really tried. But she never really - couldn't ever - get it. To truly know Dean was to know an element of hell. He'd carved out his own corner there. Scratched it into his soul. Put it on reserve for when he inevitably ended up back there again. To know Dean was to know pain. Real pain. He vowed a long time ago to never let anyone get that close. They’d only get burned. Branded with the same hot iron that had stamped all over his insides. Cas had smoothed out the bumps. Glossed it over when he pieced him back together. But this shit is in his DNA. Indestructible pain. And pain demands a price. 

It takes another minute for either of them to speak. Dean watches tendrils of steam swirl up from his coffee and catch in the wan rays of morning light penetrating through the misty, condensed glass. He observes the blurry forms of cars passing by. Citizens of Lebanon off to their normal, everyday jobs. In another life, Dean might have been one of them. In another life, he might have been sitting in this diner with his wife and kid on a Saturday. He might've -

“My first human vessel was a woman.” Cas says suddenly, and Dean. Yeah. Dean short-circuits. 

When Cas looks at him, he's smiling for real. It's not the smile he showed the waitress. Nah, this one is wide and unreserved. Amused at Dean's expense but not in a way which makes him feel small or patronised. It's a smile just for him. 

“I could have been a woman when we met, Dean.” He continues. Disturbingly calm, given the weight of his words. “It would have made no difference to me. I don't care whether I'm seen as male or female. I'm not like you that way.” His eyes - how could they ever be anyone else's eyes? - pause on different aspects of Dean's face. Searching. Scrutinising. But never judging. “I do wonder, sometimes, what difference it would have made if I'd come to you in a female vessel.” He muses. “I wonder if this would have been easier.” 

Dean does not dare - not for a second - ask Cas to clarify what he means by “this.” 

He can be dense. Slow to the uptake at times. But he ain't that stupid. 

And the thing is, this isn't the first time this particular dilemma has been posed to him. Years ago, on the way back from a hunt, Sam had been the one to turn around and say - out of the blue - 

“D'you reckon you'd be into Cas if he possessed a girl instead of Jimmy?” 

Dean had nearly spat out the jerky he’d been methodically chewing as he watched the lines in the middle of the road get eaten up by Baby’s shiny, black hood. 

“What the hell you smokin’, man?”

Sam turned in his seat. Waving hands. Big, long arms getting right up in Dean’s space. “No, but think about it for a sec - just imagine, though. ‘Cause you two have this whole profound bond thing going on, yeah? You think it'd be different if he was a girl?” 

Dean shook his head, laughing in earnest. “We talkin’ old hag or hot smokin’ babe?”

“No, like - Cas. But as a woman. Y'know, just… girl-style. Heh. Trenchcoat and all.”  

And Dean had thought about it then. Tried to. And it had come as somewhat of a surprise for him to think - Shit. He'd be totally hot. Didn't help he pictured a slender, black-haired, blue-eyed beauty in nothin' but lingerie and thigh-high boots, trenchcoat tossed carelessly over the top. And then she'd go: "Hello, Dean" and wink, trenchcoat sliding down her shoulder. 

The mental image made Dean snort with laughter, 'cause that was just so not Cas, and he'd done anything but taken Sam's question seriously. 

“Dude, lay off the weed. Shit's makin’ you crazy.” 

Dean loved the weed joke in those days. He'd caught Sam with a joint once when he was seventeen. Right before he'd left for Stanford. Swore he'd only done it the one time, but for Dean it was a goldmine of jokes he plundered for the better part of a decade.

He can't really remember the rest of the conversation. But it rings as true then as it does now. ‘Cause Cas is, objectively, a hot guy. Right? Like, he just is. That's not gay to say. You'd have to be clinically dead not to notice. Aside from the tax account get-up, he's got the whole effortless muss goin' on with his hair, which is the perfect shade of dark-brown-nearly-black and makes those electrifying blue eyes stand out even more. His features are sharply cut but not in an obvious Patrick Swayze sort of way. He rocks a five o'clock shadow. And a six o'clock. And a full on, days old scruff, if Dean's being totally honest. His mouth smiles easily but it's like - like you have to earn the smile, y'know? Not just anyone gets to see that smile. Not the real one Dean knows and has committed to memory. Burned into his fuckin’ retinas.

Not to mention the fact the dude is jacked. Dean's seen him in states of undress before. It's nothing new. And it's a known fact that guys check each other out when they're exposed around each other. And, yeah. Cas is doing a great job of hiding some serious bulk and hard, trim lines under all those yards of trenchcoat.

And then there's the whole sad-puppy-hot thing he does sometimes where he just looks so innocent and clueless and downright cute that anyone facing the full force of it is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him up in a blanket and shove a hot cocoa in his stupidly long-fingered hands. Something about what those hands have done - the violence. The power. Kind of adds to the whole "I can't believe I'm takin' care of this guy" thing too. And that's just another paradox on its own. Dude's an enigma. But a hot enigma. Everyone knows that.

No wonder the waitress was checking him out. She fuckin’ should shoot her shot. Too old for her or not. Anyone would be so lucky.

And if he was a she? Well, that just about answers the question. Dean would be tapping that on the daily. And shit, Cas would let him. Man or woman, Cas would let him. 

“What if I was a woman?” Dean blurts. Waggles his eyebrows for good measure. “Huh? Imagine that.” 

And, without missing a beat, Cas replies,

“Then I'd love you just as much as I do now.”

Dean doesn't drink a drop of his coffee. He marches across the street and gets a haircut. Cas waits for him in the car. 

*

Cas makes Dean come nearly every day for the next few weeks. He uses his hands, his mouth and his Grace to wrack noises from Dean that he’s only ever heard in the filthiest porn available to him. Noises he was sure must be fake, ‘cause it could never feel that good. 

With Cas - with the Grace in him - it does. He almost always takes Dean to the room out in the middle of nowhere. Slowly, through the misty haze of pleasure and Grace, Dean notices things start to change. Just little things. 

A bedside table appears at some point. An antique thing with delicate spindly legs carved in spiral shapes. Then there's the smell of fresh paint, and the intense green colour of the walls is fresher. Brighter. The white panes outlining the tall, arched windows lose their cracks and cobwebs. 

Someone is taking care of this place, Dean thinks distantly in the afterglow of the best blowjob he’s ever had. He thinks that every time. It can’t get better than this. Somehow, it does. 

One time, Cas ties Dean to the chair again. Keeps him there for a whole two hours while he pulls up a chair of his own, two feet away, and reads. He hardly looks at Dean. Just rewards him with a smirk and a shot of Grace whenever he says Cas’ full name. 

“Castiel. Please.” 

Dean can’t count the amount of times he’s said those words recently. In that exact order. 

There are the rare times he doesn’t fly Dean to the weird swanky sex room. 

Like the time he appears while Dean’s showering and, without so much as removing his coat, steps under the hot spray and presses himself against Dean’s back, chasing away his sputterings of protest with a hand on his dick and his teeth on his shoulder. When it’s over, he steps out from under the shower, dark hair plastered to his head, clothes soaked and clinging to every line of his body, and shakes his head. The fucker’s bone dry in an instant. 

“Sam is making dinner again, Dean.” Is all he says when Dean gapes at him, grappling at the tiles for desperate purchase while his legs turn to jelly, “I thought you should be warned.”

And then he disappears. 

Sometimes they chat afterwards. About books. About the outpost project Sam and Eileen have been working on while Dean - sort of - participates in the more important aspects of the plan. Sometimes Cas talks to him about the biology of the cosmos, or whatever he calls it. Dean’s perplexed by those conversations. But he listens anyway. Listens to the soothing grit of Cas’ voice. Lets it carry him off to someplace nice and dreamy during the afterglow - during those precious moments when the Grace lingers, powerful and shining and fuckin’ buttery in his veins. 

Dean never asks for Cas to come and - do this to him. He just kind of arrives, whether Dean is thinking about it or not (he usually is). And it - it’s fine. He’s not gonna protest. No fuckin’ way. Not when this is the best he’s ever felt in his life. 

There’re times when he starts to worry Sam and Eileen have noticed. Times when Dean comes back from a long trip to the grocery store beaming from ear to ear (‘cause he spent most of it with Cas’ mouth on his dick) and he’s caught them exchanging indecipherable looks. But they don’t say anything. So he doesn’t either. 

And if he lets Cas into his personal space a little more when he’s cooking or washing the dishes? If he allows the angel to brush past him and place a hand (a hand which burns - every damn time) on the small of his back when he does it, so what? Who cares? That’s just healthy, friendly contact. Fuck anyone who says otherwise.

*

Dean’s on the couch in the Dean Cave playing Tomb Raider when Sam corners him into a conversation. 

“What’s up?” He lopes into the room, hands in his pockets all casual-like. 

Dean shrugs, “Just growin’ some roots, man.”

He's made himself a nice divot in the couch, thumbs working the controller as he tries to get Lara Croft to jump across this impossible fuckin’ river in the jungle. The eels got him, like, four times already. 

“Mhm.” Sam replies and perches his ass on the arm of the couch. “I see that. So, um, can we talk for a minute?” 

Lara falls into the water. An eel wriggles up and suffocates her. The screen goes black. The controller slips in Dean’s fingers. He swallows. 

“Uh. Y-yeah. Sure, man. What about?” 

“It’s the project. Me and Eileen have been thinking”-

Thank fuck. 

“Awh, man. Now? Really? C’mon, this is downtime.”

“Dean, all you’ve had is downtime.” Sam chastises. And Dean looks at him now. His brother’s got that expression on his face - the one that says he’s nervous to talk about something. Thinks he’s gonna flip his shit if he does. Dean puts down the controller. 

“Okay?” He challenges. “And, what? You want me to be more involved? ‘Cause I can try but you know I ain’t the logistical”-

“No, no. I know, Dean.” Sam sighs. “Look, I wanted to ask to see if you’d be up for the more practical elements of it. Y’know, location scouting and stuff.”

Dean sits up on his elbows. His back complains. Hasn’t had any Grace since last night. S’probably why. 

“Uh huh?” He prompts. 

“I know you’ve been - y’know - relaxing and everything. And I’m glad you are, really, I am, Dean. But if we’re serious about this we need to start thinking about plotting and construction and - alright, I was wondering if you’d be up for going out on the road for a couple of months. Driving cross-country to the places Eileen and I have plotted out on the map and just… y’know, checking that everything’s good? Start doing the preliminary sigils and stuff? I was thinking you could go with Cas. I can tell you miss being out on the road, and”-

Dean laughs. So sudden and so loud that Sam nearly slips off the couch. 

“You were gettin’ your panties in a twist over that? ‘Course I’ll do it, Sammy. I wanna help. You know I do. And that sounds… yeah. Right up my alley.” 

Sam’s eyebrows are teasing his hairline. “Y-you’re sure? It’s a lot to ask. It could take months and”- 

“Yeah. But this is important. Hunter community an’ all. And we’re, like, the poster boys for it. Can’t start slacking now. We’re at the height of our careers, man. Time to start thinkin’ ‘bout a legacy.” Dean says brightly. 

Sam gapes at him. “Y-yeah. Exactly.” 

“So, what’s the deal? You and Eileen stay here at ground base and Cas and I do the leg work for a while?”

“You won’t actually be building anything yet.” Sam explains, still trying to sweeten the deal even though Dean’s already sold. “Just - travelling, I guess. I dunno. Might be nice.” 

Nice? Dean nearly laughs in his face, ‘cause poor old Sammy’s got no fucking clue. This will be better than nice. Months of having Grace on tap - whenever he wants, whenever he needs. No interruptions. This is Christmas come fuckin’ early. 

“What’d Cas say?” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “You know Cas. He was all “Yes, Sam. I’d be honoured, Sam.” It was sweet.” 

Dean snorts. “Sweet. Yeah.” You don’t know just how sweet Cas can be. Ignoring Sam's squint of confusion, Dean continues. “Leave it to us, Sammy. We'll have these outposts set up in no time.”

And that's how Dean ends up spending the next eight weeks on the road with Cas.

Chapter Text

Eight weeks later, Dean finds himself tied up again. This time (unfortunately) not by Cas. 

The Lamia, who’s taken the form of a thirty-something beach-wave blonde, stalks closer to Dean where he's been trussed up, rusty chains and all, from the branch of a tree. And seriously? Beach waves in the woods? And blonde? This chick doesn't know Dean at all. Not that he'd been particularly fussy in the past, but - well. She’d have been closer with brunette. 

“It's a shame you tried to kill me,” she drawls, swaying her hips and licking plush, painted lips. Still trying to seduce. Even to the last. “We could have had so much fun.” 

“What, before you juiced me like a lemon?” Dean quips, “Not really how I like to do things, sweetheart.”

“No,” she says, scowling. “It isn't, is it? Tell me, where's that delicious brother of yours? I've heard you rarely travel apart, but I…” The Lamia sniffs the air, button nose scrunching in distaste, “I can't smell any other humans around here anywhere.” Her grin is broad. Teeth bared. “I suppose I have you all to myself. Lucky me.” 

“Think again.” 

The Lamia whips around, her smug face falling as she sees Cas standing behind them in the clearing, angel blade ready. A lighter in his other hand. 

“Who said anything about other humans?” Dean quips, chains rattling as he adjusts himself. As much as he knew he wasn't in danger - Cas had been waiting at Trapper Peak for a moment just like this - he'll be glad to be free of these chains. They're not the soft bonds Cas has used on him a few times now. They're heavy and rigid and relentless and every part of his wrists, from bone to flesh, fucking hurts. 

The Lamia's expression curls into a snarl, and before either Dean or Cas can say another word, she transforms. Her face morphs and contorts, black fur sprouting on every available surface of skin, and she bares long, black fangs paired with equally lethal claws. She darts at Dean, fast and with definite intent to kill, but Cas is faster.

He throws his angel blade with pinpoint accuracy. It buries itself in the Lamia's back, and even though that isn't enough to kill her, it gives him the time to strike a match and drop it on the ground, igniting the circle of holy oil they'd prepared for this very moment. 

Encircled in flame, the Lamia has nowhere to go. 

Her screech is ear-piercing. Desperate and angry. And it's the last noise she makes before Cas bodily throws her into the flames. 

Dean watches, wide-eyed, as heat flares up around them. Cas’ strength will never not impress him. He'd gotten so used to the mojo-less, underpowered angel from before that displays like this only serve to remind Dean just how goddamn powerful he is. 

He sighs as the Lamia's body shrivels and dies. Legs and arms curling in on themselves like a dead spider’s. 

“It feels like cheating with you here, angel. I almost feel bad for her.” 

Cas fixes Dean with a look, the firelight dancing with the shadows on his face. 

“Say that again.” He says slowly, stalking towards Dean in almost exactly the same fashion the Lamia had moments ago. 

“Uh, I almost feel bad for-?” 

“No. When you called me…” Cas trails off. His throat moves as he swallows. But Dean knows. He also knows the tell-tale blue-glow dawning in Cas’ eyes, and what'll come next if he's good. 

“Angel.” He breathes, and laughs at the way Cas’ entire posture seems to grow at the word. “My angel. You like that, huh?” 

Cas stands tall, chin lifted as he rakes his gaze down Dean's extended body. 

His eyes narrow at the bruises on his wrists, and it only takes a second for him to raise two fingers in a halberd and place them against Dean's shoulder. 

He groans as Cas heals him. Familiar ambrosia quieting his mind and sucking the pain out of his arms and wrists. 

Thing is, after two months on the road with Cas and being fed Grace daily, Dean knows what he likes now. He knows what feels the best. And there's something about being healed that just adds a whole extra level of kick to it. 

“Fuck, heal me again.” Dean moans when Cas pulls his fingers away. Closes his eyes as the last of the pain seeps out. 

He steps back. Frowns at Dean. 

“There's nothing left to heal. Once these chains are off”-

“Then cut me.” He says it before he has the chance to breathe. To think. To register the weight of what he's asking for. Cas’ expression smooths into one of abject horror, and he stares at Dean, blinking. 

“Dean, I won't”- 

“Calm down, Cas, it doesn't have to be deep.” Dean barks. His body thrums with anticipation. He needs this. He nods at the angel blade loosely held in Cas’ hand. ‘Cause he can't point. “Use that.” 

Cas looks at the blade. Tightens his fist around the handle. His jaw goes tight as he regards Dean. 

“I know what I'm askin’ for Cas.”

“You’re asking me to hurt you.” 

Dean shrugs. Flashes his teeth. “Wouldn't be the first time. I know you like me tied up like this. Filled up on your Grace. It's no different really. C'mon, man. I like it. C'mon.” 

The fire sends sparks spitting towards them. Dean kind of wishes one would land on him so it would give Cas something to heal, ‘cause he thinks he's asked for too much this time. Pushed it too far. Then Cas raises his blade and presses the deadly tip to Dean's ribcage. 

Dean's still wearing a white button-up. The Lamia roughed him up a little before she tied him up. A couple of buttons are missing and his tie's lost to the depths of Bitterroot forest along with his blazer. So when he looks down and sees a tiny, red blossom of blood begin to show on the polyester, he scoffs. 

“You can do better than that, angel. I won’t break. Trust me.” 

Cas narrows his eyes. Indigo in the firelight. Tilts his head, and presses. This time, Dean hisses when the blade penetrates deeper. It hurts, but only for a second because then Cas is flattening his palm against the crimson bloom and the salve of his Grace is back. Tumbling under the surface of Dean's skin like nectar. 

“Ugh, fuck yeah." Dean says, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. “More… C'mon.”

Cas rips what's left of Dean's shirt off with his other hand. The white rags hang off Dean's shoulders, tickling his sides, and his chest and torso are exposed to the elements and the ravenous ministrations of Cas’ tongue. 

He feels like princess Laia in her slave arc. All he needs is a fuckin’ mini-skirt and space-buns and the deal's sealed. Though Cas doesn't make much of a Jabba. No fuckin’ way. And Han Solo would never be this dirty. 

Cas runs the tip of his blade from Dean's armpit right to his hip in a long, shallow cut. Blood wells in scarlet pearls. Trickling hot and thin down his side. Then Cas' tongue is there, a million times hotter and thicker than the pain. Lapping up the blood and healing him as he follows the long, sharp line right down to Dean's hip. All that's left is the blood and the ecstatic tingle of freshly healed skin in the blade's wake. 

“Oh my God, fuck - Cas”- Dean gasps as the sensations go straight to the bulge in his slacks. “Why've we never done this before?” He sighs as the Grace thrums through his entire body like a pulse. A second heartbeat, invigorating him more with every pump. 

“You never asked.” Cas growls against the flat of his stomach - more toned now they've been hunting again. He carves a scarlet pattern on Dean's abdomen, his tongue following the blade so closely that Dean's nearly worried the angel will cut himself. 

He doesn't, of course. He's too precise. He cuts and heals Dean like it's a fine art. Carving nonsense symbols into his skin and licking them clean before the worst of the pain even has a chance to register. The sharp, hot sting and bone-deep pleasure begin to blur into one. So closely linked in Dean's mind that he can't differentiate pain from pleasure.

It doesn't take long for Cas’ tongue to find its way down to Dean's fly. He keeps his blade above the waistband of his pants, not cutting but running the lethal point tantalisingly across hip-bones and the dusty light trail of hair leading down Dean's navel. 

Cas unzips his fly with his teeth, eyes never leaving Dean's as he stops him from swaying on the chains with a firm hand on his waist. The other, holding the blade, comes to rest on the small of Dean's back. 

It's happening so fast, and he's so hard already that he doesn't have the time or the mind to react. To stop him. 

He never does. 

Cas frees Dean's erection from his boxers. Watches his dick curve upwards towards Dean's stomach. Engorged with Grace and want. 

Dean is legless in the angel's grip. His weight would be hanging entirely on the chains were it not for Cas supporting him, and he’s once again given no choice but to marvel as his entire being seems to be held up by a single hand on his waist and then, Cas’ mouth gently folding over his cock to engulf him whole. 

He’s surrounded by heat and glorious sensation as Cas, on his knees, takes him right up to the hilt. Swallows him down, his throat convulsing around his dick until he sees stars. 

Dean lets out a litany of curses, language dissolving into noise when Cas continues to use his blade and his Grace to further Dean's pleasure. 

He barely feels the first cut on his back. He's so overcome. The next is deeper. Right above his kidneys. A drawn out, jagged drag of the blade which sends a gush of blood down the curve of his back. Soaking his trousers. Making the cheap material stick to his thighs. 

Cas’ palm heals him as fast as he's cut. No damage done. Not really. He might be a little light-headed from the blood-loss when this is over, but it's a small price to pay. 

The blade traces every vertebrae of Dean's lower spine. Circles his hips. Teases the edge of his shoulder blade. Shallow and deep cuts in equal measure, soaking Dean in blood and sweat as the angel sucks and heals. Sucks and heals. 

He’s losing track of the sensations. His body is amped up. Powered entirely on Grace. Trying to focus on a hundred different sensations at once. Cas’ tongue. The blade. The blood soaking the rags of his shirt. Cas’ hand which had been holding him so still, dipping below the waistband of his trousers. Trailing over the curve of his ass. Lower, lower -

“Fuck!” Dean cries out. Jerks back as he realises how deep one of Cas’ fingers has actually gotten. A firm, blunt pad pressed up against his hole. 

Suddenly, all the sensations stop. He glances down. Knows he's covered in a sheen of sweat and his face is flushed and his pupils might be as wide as Cas’ but he can't - that's not -

Cas quirks a brow. Pulls off Dean's dick with a soft pop. 

“No?” Is all he asks. His entire palm flat against one of Dean's cheeks. So much sensitivity for such a small space. 

Dean shakes his head, breathless. “No.” He manages. “Not that. N…not that.” 

Cas nods, and resumes sucking Dean down like he was never interrupted. Rhythmic, calculated motions infused with Grace. It doesn't take Dean long to forget the sensation of Cas getting so close to - there. Putting a finger in his ass. Dean's gotta draw the line somewhere, ‘cause he's not - that's not -

But it doesn't matter right now. There's no more cutting. The angel blade has been dropped to the ground, forgotten. All of Cas’ actions are entirely focused on Dean's dick. He licks and sucks and pulls and teases, drawing noises from Dean he didn’t know he was capable of making. 

Even after months of this. Nearly every day a handjob or a blowjob or a fuckin’ - sometimes Cas just has to look at him with his eyes glowing - and the fucker still manages to surprise him. 

The chains are hurting again. But not enough. Still, somehow, not enough. Dean’s practically lifting himself off the ground as he strains against them, his body moving on instinct to fuck deeper into Cas’ throat. But the angel's huge hands hold him steady, bracing his thighs so he can impale himself on Dean's cock without interruption. 

It all comes to a head when he raises his knuckle and presses firmly against the smooth stretch of skin behind his balls. He hasn't done that yet and it -

Fuck, it's incredible. 

Dean comes down Cas’ throat, body jerking and chains jangling as he nearly blacks out from the force of his orgasm, the noises he's making stripping his throat bare as pure, Grace-filled ecstasy overwhelms him. 

Cas sucks him down, pulls out every last drop from Dean until he’s so oversensitive he’s trembling. When Cas pulls off him, it’s almost reluctant. He squeezes the inside of Dean’s thigh, smirking when he jolts with the oversensitivity, and finally lets him go.

The chains fall from Dean's wrists, cloven in half, and he falls forward into Cas’ arms, completely uncaring of what's happening around him.

The fire flickers down to glowing embers. The air is cold, a bite of winter in the air, but Cas’ Grace is warm and all consuming. Maybe it’s because of what they just did. Maybe it’s ‘cause this is one of the few times they’ve fooled around outside the weird swanky sex room, but Dean lets Cas hold him a little longer than usual. Doesn’t jerk out of his grip when the angel traces small, feather-light circles between his shoulder blades and ghosts a could-be-kiss between his neck and his shoulder. It’s just a press of lips. Lips which have been in far more incriminating places. It’s okay. It’s - this isn’t worse.

“Good?” Cas rumbles in his ear, the register of his voice vibrating through Dean's whole body. 

“Yeah.” Dean gives a choked-off laugh. “Real good, Cas.”

Yeah. Dean might even say he's never felt this good in his life. 

*

Sam calls Dean that night to let him know Jack's coming down in a few days. Indefinitely, this time. It's an eighteen hour drive from Idaho to Sioux Falls where they've decided to have Thanksgiving dinner a few days early. Dean's nervous as he sets off on the long drive down, while Cas is doing a crappy job next to him of hiding how excited he is to see Jack. 

They stop off at a Target on the way and Cas convinces Dean to purchase a horrific yellow hoodie for Jack - says it's his favourite colour. 

“At least we'll never lose ‘im.” Dean mutters at the checkout, “Kid's gonna be visible from space in this thing.” 

“Awh,” the cashier coos, listening in to their conversation, “How old's your kid?” 

Dean rolls his eyes as Cas leans forward and replies,

“He's four. He's been away on business. We're very excited to see him.”

Then the cashier sees the hoodie coming up with the rest of the junk they need for the road and her face goes from innocently confused to freaked. She holds the ugly yellow thing up by the hood and checks the label.

“Four. Right. You want me to get you fellas a smaller size, or…?”

“No. He likes his clothes oversized.” Says Cas, and Dean has to hide his grin in his fist as the cashier scans the rest of their shit with the occasional perplexed glance between Cas and Dean. 

The rest of the journey goes by pretty smooth. And when they stop at a junction and Cas brushes his fingers against Dean's outer thigh while he reaches for a soda, sending a sliver of Grace shivering through his system, neither of them says anything. 

Claire opens the door to Jody's place, her face dawning with shock when she lays eyes on Dean. 

“Woah, glow up alert!” She exclaims, mouth open in disbelief as he stamps the mud off his boots on the mat. “Drop the skincare routine, gramps. You get botox or something?” 

Dean rolls his eyes and ruffles her hair. ‘Cause she hates that. She shoves him off weakly, giving him a half-hearted elbow in the ribs. 

“Shuddup, Barbie.” He gripes. “Where's Jody?”

“Slaving away in the kitchen with Kaia. You might wanna go and rescue one or both of ‘em before they combust over stuffing.”

She rounds on Cas and smiles, allowing herself to be wrapped in a hug. Dean’s heart goes a little weak at the sight, knowing how far they’ve come. He leaves the hallway to give them some privacy and greet everyone else. Sam and Eileen are en route and Jack hasn't shown his face yet. 

Later, when Dean goes to the bathroom to clean up, he allows himself to take a good long look in the mirror. 

And, yeah. He can't deny it. He does look good. His skin has a healthy glow he's not seen in - maybe ever. He looks his age, he thinks, but, like. The best possible version of it. The lines on his face have decreased in depth. The permanent frown around his eyes and mouth eased somewhat. He looks… relaxed. Sun-kissed and healthy. Should be the opposite. He’s been hunting. Covered in blood and soil and ash more days than not. Instead, he looks like he's been following Sam's diet and working out and drinking gallons and gallons of water every day. He does none of those things. His blood content is more whiskey than water and the only working out he does is digging up graves. 

The only ingredient responsible for his “glow up” is good ol’ fashioned Grace. 

Claire isn't the only one who expresses a reaction to him. Jody's eyebrows fly up into her hairline at the sight of Dean and she gives him a full once over, hands on hips, before pulling him into a tight bear-hug. 

Sam and Eileen are similarly shocked, and Dean doesn't know what answer to give them when they ask what the hell he's been doing. He hadn't prepared for this. Hadn't realised he was so - different. 

When Jack arrives in the interim between daylight fading and dinner, everyone's attention is diverted. Dean's grateful for it, even though his stomach ties itself in odd knots when he sees Jack emerge through the door, only to be immediately engulfed by as many pairs of arms that can get to him. 

“We missed you.” Sam tells him emphatically. “You've done great, kid.” 

Dean hangs back. Waiting for his turn. Tapping his fingers on his thigh. 

“Did you get a haircut?” Asks Kaia, tufting up the front of Jack's silky blond bangs. 

“No.” He replies, “Does it look nice?” 

“Real nice, Jack.” Claire tells him, hugging him. 

And Dean - doesn't get it. This isn't - it's not a huge deal. No one acted like this when Jack returned from the friggin’ dead. Or when he came back from some of the worst hunts they'd ever been on or - ever. It feels like too much for this small life thing they're doing now. There's no stakes. No real reason for them to be all over each other like this.

And then it's Cas’ turn to greet Jack, and the too-much-feeling becomes all-encompassing as the angel embraces his son and kisses the top of his head, cradling him like he's a fuckin’ lilyflower. Like he might break. Like he's not literally God. 

Jack closes his eyes, smiling so hard his face might break, and presses himself up against Cas, thin fingers threading together at the back of Cas’ trenchcoat. 

Dean's not sure, but he thinks Cas’ eyes might even glisten a bit as he holds Jack in his arms. These two guys. An angel and God. Hugging in Jody's hallway like - like Jack's been at college for a year and they haven’t seen him in months and they're proud of him. 

Don't they know what they look like? 

A bitter, ugly lump rises in Dean's throat as he watches. He makes himself go into the kitchen. He can say he smelled smoke. Can say something needed putting in the oven. 

Whatever. 

“Hi, Dean.” 

“Oh, hey kid!” Dean calls over his shoulder as he dons oven mitts and hauls some veggies out the oven. Just to check them. They're doing exactly as well as he'd expect. “How's tricks?” 

“I didn't learn any tricks. But I have restructured the plane of heaven. I'm going to purgatory after Christmas.” 

Dean snorts. Throws off the mitts. Finally turns to Jack. Sees him standing in the doorway, pale hands stuck in his jacket pockets as he rocks backwards and forwards on his heels. Smile tight and apprehensive, like he's - like Dean makes him nervous. 

Like Dean's someone he should be wary of. 

The bitter lump threatens to re-emerge, and Dean swallows hard. 

“Purgatory, huh? You talked to Cas about that? Me and him, uh… We know it pretty well.” 

Jack nods. “Yeah, I - I was hoping I could talk to you. If you're not too busy.” 

“What? Now?” 

“No, but while I'm here. If that's okay. Did you know Jody's getting a dog?”

Dean blinks. Forgot how much of a kid Jack actually is. One subject to the next in the blink of an eye. 

“Nope. Didn't know.” Says Dean.

Then it's quiet. Dean wonders if Jack has a concept of awkwardness. Realises he probably doesn't, if he's as much like Cas as he thinks. “So, how about we go for a drive tomorrow?” Says Dean, “Talk about purgatory then?” 

“Yes!” Jack exclaims, like he'd been waiting for the question. “I'd like that! Thanks, Dean.” 

Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when Jack exits the room. Flat feet flapping against the kitchen tiles. 

This is gonna be a long Thanksgiving. 

Dean takes his beer outside after dinner. The clouds are a streaky, pale pink smudge against the darkening sky. Dead leaves crunch underfoot as Dean sits on the curb outside Jody's house. His knee doesn't pop. He also finds he isn't cold, despite the heavy chill settling over South Dakota, coating it in glistening frost. 

He lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks. Thinks about Grace. Wonders what makes it so - yeah. That. Wonders why he’s different for the hundredth time. 

Dean tenses as he hears the crunch of boots in the leaves behind him. Relaxes a little when he sees it's Eileen who's come to settle down next to him. 

“You don't mind, right?” She asks. 

“Not a bit.” Dean smiles, and lifts his bottle to clink ceremoniously with hers. 

They drink in silence for a minute. Watch the last of the light sink over the flat horizon before the stars pop into view. One by one until there's a galaxy above their heads. 

“How're you not freezing your ass off?” Eileen shivers. She's bundled up in Carhartt. One of Sam's old jackets. One of the few which survived the apocalypse(s). 

Dean's in a button down. Sleeves rolled up to his forearms. It's new. Crisp around the collar. 

He shrugs and throws her a grin. “I run hot.” 

She laughs. “Alright, wise guy. I'm sure that works on the ladies in town but not me.” 

He huffs out a laugh and swigs. Watches the sky. The liquid tinkles and fizzes in the bottle. Eileen goes still beside him, her breath puffing out in swirly clouds.

“How're you doing, Dean?” She asks out of the blue, and Dean - he gets that churning feeling in his gut. The kind which tells him something bad is coming. 

“Yeah. Good.” He replies. The image of nonchalance. “You?” 

She watches his face. Reads his lips. 

“Alright. Sam's worried about you.” 

Dean laughs. Shakes his head. 

“What's he gotta worry about?” 

She sucks in a breath through her teeth. Stamps her feet. 

“We talk, you know, and he - I'm sure you're not surprised he told me about… before.” 

Dean tucks his heels against the curb. Grinds the leaves under them. 

“Before you and Cas came back, you mean.” 

“Yeah.” She confirms. Voice soft and low. “I think if there’s anything worse than being dead, it's what you both went through. Losing everyone.” 

Dean sniffs. “Yeah.” He says, voice thick. “But it's better now. He doesn't have to worry. I really am good. You can tell him that. Doubt he'll believe it from me.” 

Eileen tips her head as she searches his face. 

“Yeah, you have been… different. I gotta be honest, Dean, I have my own theory.”

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Mhm.” 

Dean waits. Hopes she can’t hear his heart punching through his chest. 

“My family's from Philly originally. You ever been?” 

Okay. This isn’t where he thought this was going. “To Philly? Sure. Done a couple hunts there. Cas and I were there a few weeks ago. Just passed through though really, why?” 

“Then you probably don't know much about Kensington.” 

“Uh, I've heard of it.”

Eileen nods. Places her empty bottle by her feet with a soft clink. 

“Yeah. It's pretty infamous nowadays. Cheapest Fent on the market.” She sighs. “Eight years ago, my brother went missing there. Me and my dad searched all over for him. We found him eventually. Off his face. A zombie. He didn't want to come with us. We forced him into rehab but it - didn't work. You have to want to stop, you know? And he died out there. And I - I couldn't believe that's what got him in the end. The world was falling apart around us and he died with a needle in his arm.” 

Dean reaches out. Lays a hand on her Carhartt padded shoulder. 

“Jesus Christ, Eileen. I'm so sorry. Fuck.” 

“Yeah. Fuck.” She agrees. She picks up her bottle and peers inside. Huffs when she remembers it's empty and starts peeling the label. “I couldn’t live with myself if I had to watch someone I love go through that again. I'd do anything to stop it.” Eileen looks at him. Significance burning in her dark eyes. And Dean - it dawns on him. What she's getting at. 

He barks out a laugh. “Shit, Eileen. You think I'm on drugs? That's what this is about? You think I'm using?” 

Her expression doesn't change. He throws back the rest of his beer, weirdly relieved. ‘Cause no one's ever got him so wrong before. 

“Well, I'm not sure what lasting effects Grace has on the body, but if the last few months are anything to go by I'd be willing to bet withdrawals won't be fun.” 

Dean's empty bottle rolls onto the ground. Comes to a stop next to Eileen's. 

“What did you say?” 

A hubbub of laughter drifts out from the house. Sends chills down Dean's spine. He's feeling the cold now. Every mote.

“I might be deaf, Dean, but I'm not blind. You have your tells. Just like my brother did.”

Eileen's gaze on him is heavy and so fucking sad he has no idea what to do. 

“Tells?” He spits. “What fucking tells?”

She sighs. “You're defensive for one. Your worst fear right now is that I've found you out and I'm gonna find a way to take it away from you, right?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

“I first noticed it when we were doing the salt ‘n burn at the ice-rink. You got real defensive over Cas using his Grace and I - I knew something was up but I didn't know what. And then - after that - you were sick, Dean. When Cas went away you got sick and angry and I just kinda knew. And now it's just the same. Just like my brother. You're here, but - not. Glassy eyed and distant. All you can think about is the next hit. Right? I’m sorry, Dean but it's just the same. I can see”-

“You don't know shit, Eileen.” 

Dean isn't sure when he stood up. Her eyebrows knit together. Eyes huge as she looks up at him.

“I'm not judging you”-

“Sure as hell sounds like it”-

“I'm not!” She cries. “I just wanna help you”-

“There's nothing to help me with.” Dean snaps, pointing at her. “That’s the problem with us hunters, huh? Everything's a case. A problem to be solved. But not me. Got it? I'm sorry about what happened to your brother. I really am.” Dean's voice is low. Thunderous. Heart pumping a mile a minute. “But I ain't him. This isn't that. I'm not shootin’ up poison in some back alley.”

Her face crumples. “Dean…” 

“So what if Cas has been givin’ me a little juice every now and again?” He splays his arms wide - a challenge - and backs away from her. “I'm stronger with it. We get through hunts twice as fast and you know what that means? More people get saved. I ain't doin’ this ‘cause I'm”- he scoffs around the word - “ addicted. Okay? We're saving lives, Eileen! That's all it's ever been about.” 

A lick of guilt curls uncomfortably in Dean's chest at the lie. But it's still kind of true. He is a better hunter with a dose of Grace in his system. 

“And we've only got a few spots left to plot for yours and Sam's little outpost project. Me and Cas? We did all that. All of it in two months. And we're - I'm not doin’ anything wrong.” 

He feels sick. His heart's in his stomach. The beer and food sits in his gut in an undigested lump. He breathes hard as Eileen stares up at him. The icy air burns his throat. He could swear his knee is starting to twinge again. 

“I'm not doing anything wrong.” He asserts, ignoring the shake in his voice, and marches back to the house before Eileen can say another terrible word. 

*

Dean feels the ill effects of Eileen's confrontation all night. His insides go cold whenever he looks at her. He flicks his gaze away before they can make eye contact and makes sure not to look at Cas either. Can't raise any more suspicion than he already has. 

Dean excuses himself to Jody's guest bedroom (a sofa-bed in the corner of the basement) while everyone else is still up playing Blackjack. He's feeling much the same the next morning, and it's not until Jack appears next to him after breakfast that he remembers the talk he promised him. 

“C'mon, kid.” He sighs. “Let's go for a drive.” 

Jack hops in the passenger seat with his hands stuffed under his thighs while he kicks his feet and scuffs the floor mat. 

Dean resists the urge to tell him to stop. He doesn't wanna - doesn't wanna spook him. Knows Jack's already afraid of getting shouted at and Dean doesn't need that shit today on top of everything else. 

Jack stares out of the window as Dean drives. Whipping his head this way and that to gaze at truck stops and farm houses and crops like he hasn't been on this same route dozens of times. 

“Dean! A petting zoo! Can we go?” Jack blurts. Practically fuckin’ bouncing in the seat. 

“Uh, sure. Maybe next time.” 

Jack's face falls. And Dean's struck again by just how similar he is to his dad. Downturned puppy-dog eyes crestfallen as they pass the little farm with colourful signs attached to the gate. 

Dean sighs. “Wouldn't you want Cas to come along? I'm sure he'd like to pet the animals too.” 

Jack's whole body lifts and he watches Dean hopefully. The haunt of his smile is so like Cas’. There's trepidation there. He's unsure. But he looks a damn sight happier than the last time he was alone with Dean. It twists a peg in Dean's heart. Makes him turn his eyes back to the empty stretch of road and flex his fingers around the wheel. 

“Yeah.” Jack agrees. “I want Castiel to see the guinea pigs.”

Dean quirks a brow at him.

“You've been there before, haven't you?” 

Jack nods, flashing Dean a sheepish smile. 

“It's great though, Dean. You'd like it. We can all go together. You, me and Castiel.” 

“What about Sam?” 

Jack shrugs. “Well, sure. If he likes.” 

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. Weird fuckin’ kid. 

“So, purgatory, huh? What's the deal there?” 

Jack falls back in the seat with a whole body sigh. 

“I dunno.” He offers. 

“You dunno?”

“Mhm.” 

Dean clicks his tongue. “Real reassuring, Jack. You got no plans at all?”

Jack gives a noncommittal shrug, eyes fixed on a far away point on the road to nowhere.

“Nothin’? What'd you do with heaven?” 

Jack puffs up his cheeks and blows out. He opens the glove compartment and starts picking out mix-tapes from Dean's disorganised cluster. Fiddles with the rectangles of plastic, a pout on his lips. 

“A lot.” After looking at the label on each tape, he places it in his lap. Right side up. One on top of the other in neat piles. “Like, a lot a lot. And now I gotta do the same to purgatory. And hell. And limbo. And”- 

“Alright, I get the message.” Dean interrupts before the kid gets teary. “It's a lot of work, huh? Cas said he was helping though.” 

Jack's face falls again, and he stares at the tapes in his lap. 

“That's the thing. He basically did it all, Dean. I-I didn't know what to do. I feel so bad.” He sniffs. Starts putting the tapes away. Tidy as anything. “I haven't told anyone.”

Dean rolls Baby over to the side of the road and puts her in park. He lets the engine run under them. A soothing purr to quiet the aura of distress rolling off Jack in waves. 

Dean doesn't speak. He looks at Jack, trying to keep his face open the way Sam and those fuckin’ parenting books taught him. 

Don't ask leading questions. You are here to listen, not interject or some shit like that. 

Dean puts his best listening face on. 

“It took me a super long time to bargain with the Empty. Way longer than I thought.” Jack manages eventually. “If Castiel had been with me then, I don't think it would have taken so long. And I - I had to use threats, Dean. It was the only way it would let Castiel and the others go.” 

“What threats, Jack?” Dean asks softly. 

Jack scrunches up his nose. Like he's trying not to cry. 

“I told it I'd never let it sleep. I told it I'd fill the emptiness with noise. Eternal noise. That really scared it, Dean. And I - I meant it. Isn't that awful?”

Dean barks out a laugh before he can help it.

“Damn, nice goin’. Didn't think you had it in you, kid.” 

Jack frowns up at him. “But…”

Dean swings round so he can throw an arm over the back of the seat and face Jack properly. 

“Listen, the way I see it? You're God. You can do whatever the hell you like. The Empty is under your jurisdiction, Jack. Whether it likes it or not. Same with the other fucker - uh, I mean - the other guys. They gotta do what you say. Capiche?” 

“Are… you learning Italian?” Jack tilts his head.

Dean rolls his eyes skyward. “Do you get what I'm sayin’ or not?”

Jack nods. "Yes. I capiche."

He bites his lip and looks down at his sneakers. They're converse, but they've got ducks on ‘em. Instead of the star in the logo it’s just two dorky fuckin’ ducks. Staring up at Dean as if to say well, what could we possibly do? 

Jack lowers his voice to a whisper. “It's just - Castiel said it’s really important not to - let the God thing, y'know, takeover. He says there's a balance and I need to respect it.”

Dean snorts. “Cas said that? Rich comin’ from the guy who smote a church of homophobes and called us his pets." Dean shakes his head at Jack's confused frown. “Forget it, kid, just… look. When I was your age - not four. But. Twenties. Twenty. Whatever. When I was as scrawny as you are now, I thought the whole world was my bitch. Yeah? I thought I was the shit. Y'know, the bees knees. Only person I answered to was my dad. Now what you have is the opposite problem. You shrink in on yourself, Jack. You don't think you can trust your decisions but you can. You got a good head on your shoulders! You just need confidence. And you don't need Cas tellin’ you what you should and shouldn't do, ‘kay? You're God for a reason. ‘Cause you're good enough as you are.” 

Jack peeks up at Dean doubtfully from under his overgrown bangs. 

“But Castiel said”- 

“Forget what Castiel said.” Dean tells him. “Cas says a lot of shit. And he hasn't experienced being a human long enough to really know what he's talkin’ about, okay? But you? You're half human. I am human. And I'm saying…” Dean exhales. What the hell is he saying? “Follow your gut.” Yeah. That sounds okay. That's always good advice, right? “It's done you well so far. You got Cas out the Empty and fired up his Grace all on your own. And not just Cas, right?” 

Jack nods. “Angels and humans. But it's humans I need to understand if I'm going to successfully restructure the other dimensions and take proper care of Earth. But Dean. I feel like I don't know them at all.”

“You wanna know more about humans?” Dean says, “Go spend more time with ‘em. Hell, go party with ‘em. That'll teach you a thing or two about the human race and what to do with ‘em when they're dead.” 

Jack's drinking in every word. Dean can see it in the way his eyes get huge. Widen around the words with understanding and a newfound glee. He smiles. All big happy sunshine. Nearly as big as the smile he gave Cas yesterday. 

Dean swallows hard. 

“Yeah. Thanks. I - I can do that. Thanks, Dean.” 

“No worries.” Dean shrugs, putting Baby back in drive. “Any time, kid.” 

“Can we get ice-cream now?” 

Jack bounces on his hands, making the whole damn car shake. Dean's lucky he tuned up Baby's suspension before he and Cas left the bunker. 

“In November?” 

“Yeah!” 

“Sure.” Dean laughs. “Whatever.” 

Like he said. Fuckin’ weird kid.

Chapter Text

Dean can't stop thinking about it. 

The brief, blunt pad of Cas’ finger pressing against his hole. He comes to, half-asleep the next morning, humping the creaky mattress. 

Thank fuck he sleeps in the basement alone. 

Eyelids heavy with sleep, he pants into the flat pillow, finding friction in his boxers as he grinds against the sheets and imagines the tactile slide of Cas’ thick, sure fingers sliding between his cheeks and curling against his entrance. Stroking. Pressing. Fucking - ugh. 

He groans, muffling his voice in the pillow, and comes without Grace for the first time in months. 

Rather than face the sticky aftermath, Dean lets his eyes close and sleeps for another couple of hours. Content not to think about it until later. That's future Dean's problem.

And, as expected, future Dean's pissed. 

He strips off his boxers and bundles them up in a dirty t-shirt. Stuffs them in the bottom of his duffel. Away from prying eyes. 

He's even less pleased when he ascends up the rickety stairs and finds half the house already awake and gathered around the kitchen table. He'd been hoping for a few minutes to himself. No dice. 

He looks around for a muss of black hair. A pair of laser blue eyes pinning him to the kitchen counter. 

“Where's Cas?” Dean mumbles as he fumbles his way around the coffee maker. Jody takes the mug out of his hands, brow hiking up her forehead. 

“Mornin’ sleepyhead. Rough night?” 

Dean grunts. 

Claire pokes him in the ribs as he slumps down at the kitchen table. 

“You got eyebags like a raccoon.” She comments, peering at his face. 

“I also got a knife in my pocket.”

Claire snorts. “Yeah, right.” 

Dean scowls. Kaia watches them both with amusement, cheeks full up with toast like a hamster's. 

“No one answered my question.”

Claire juts her head towards the window. “He's out back with Jack.”

When Sam descends down the stairs with Eileen, Dean gains a significant interest in the steaming black coffee Jody dumps in front of him. 

“Gunna drink this outside… catch some rays. Vitamin D.” He mutters, and slips on out back before Sam or Eileen can corner him. 

Dean's stomach churns into butter as he watches Jack and Cas walking around the grassy flat land out back. Their mouths move but Dean can't hear the words as each waits their turn to speak, expressions relaxed. 

Cas’ big hand is clasped around Jack’s narrow, jutting shoulder. Lightly rubbing with his thumb. Familiar. Unselfconscious. Family. Dean thinks. This is how families are supposed to act. 

He remembers the heavy clap of his father's hand on his own shoulder. Weighing him down. Muttering instructions in Dean's ear. Breath tinged with whiskey. The cold press of his old Smith and Wesson pressing from his hip to Dean's ribcage as he leant in. Eyes hard. Lines deep. Before giving Dean a shove forceful enough to send him stumbling. The rattle in his dad's throat when Dean lost his footing. Before he was strong enough to hold still. Take the force of a man's grip and laugh right back. 

Dean's mouth is dry as he watches Jack and Cas converse. Neither of them have spotted him. They're in their own world. Meandering around the grassy plain with no direction in mind. No urgency. 

Sometimes Dean forgets they're not really fighting anymore. 

Jack peels away from Cas after a time. Looks up and sees Dean leaning against the house. 

He raises a hand in greeting. “Hey, Dean.” Smile on his face. All dimples and blond hair. John would have shook his head at the sight of Jack. Rolled his eyes and wondered what the hell was up with kids these days. 

Dean lifts his mug in reply and waits for Jack to go back inside the house. 

Cas is standing still, watching Dean. He doesn't come to him. And Dean is reluctant to move, but he does anyway. The dragging emptiness in his limbs magnetically drawing him closer to the source of their want. 

“Hello, Dean.” Says Cas when Dean's close enough to hear him. 

Where've you been? Dean thinks. Which is crazy. Cas has been here the whole time, but they haven't - they're not -

He wants to touch him. Fingers against skin. Grace surging. Soothing. Putting air in Dean's head until he's floating. 

Cas’ blue gaze is considering. There's a smile there. The ghost of one, anyway. Threatening to turn the corners of his mouth upwards. The anaemic winter sun lights him up from behind. Silhouettes the chaotic flyaways in his hair like a fuckin' halo. Dude puts the angel in angelic. Like he does it on purpose. He's so still, he could be a statue.

“We better hit the road soon.” Dean mumbles. His throat's sore. “Still got two states left.” 

Three outposts to plot in Texas. One in Oklahoma. Then they're done until the building stage, which could take a while to plan. 

Cas squints. “How do you feel?” 

Dean shrugs. “Come find me when you're ready to leave.” 

He turns on his heel, resentment bubbling in the pit of his stomach. The coffee doesn't help. He's jittery after an hour. Duffel packed and waiting by the door. 

The goodbyes turns into a fanfare. Dean was hoping for a quiet out. An Irish goodbye. Back to the routine. The road. Cas. The Grace. The ease of travelling and hunting and - whatever else it is they’re doing. 

Once again, no fuckin’ dice. 

*

It's a full day before Dean works up the courage to ask Cas the question which has been bothering him since they left. 

They're settling into a new motel. Dean's grocery bag thumps on the kitchenette counter, clanging with beer bottles and cans. 

Cas wanders about the room. Taking in the details like this place isn't a carbon copy of the last. And the last. 

“Hey, uh, Cas?” 

“Yes?”

Dean turns and starts unpacking their meagre groceries. Eighty-percent beer, twenty-percent non-perishables. 

“Did Eileen, um. Did she say anything to you? At Jody's?” 

There's a weighty pause. The can of spaghetti-os rolls from Dean's grip and lands on the grey linoleum floor. He curses and runs his fingers over the dent in the metal. Refusing to look at Cas. 

“Yes.” 

“Yeah.” Says Dean thickly. “Me too.” 

He puts the rest of the groceries in the stained cupboard. Neatly places the beers in the mini-fridge, logos facing outwards. 

“She believes I am enabling your addiction to my Grace.” Cas continues after some time. 

“I don't have an addiction.” Dean replies instantly. “It's not like that.” 

He feels rather than sees Cas crowd into his space. Just a little closer than socially acceptable. Like it's always been. Dean wonders if Cas loved him the first time he came too close. If there was a point where he started doing it because he wanted to be as near to him as possible, and not because he didn't know he wasn’t supposed to. 

He turns and finds himself inches away from the angel. 

“If I were to leave,” Cas says, his voice a presence in the small space between them, “for any significant length of time, would you be alright?” 

Dean's insides turn to ice. “But you're not.” 

Cas tilts his head. “I'm not, but if I did”- 

“You're not. So don't ask.” Dean grinds out and turns back to the groceries. Cas’ eyes are too heavy. Too full. The petulant blue of the winter sky. 

He still doesn't move. 

“I don't want to hurt you ever again.” He says quietly, and Dean has to haul in a breath. He makes himself turn around again and smile. 

“Cas, buddy, we've got a good thing goin’ on. It's like I said to Eileen: I'm a better hunter with a little juice in me, yeah? I'm a better - everything. Full stop. We're doing a great job out here and we have nothing to worry about.”

Cas’ expression remains fixed in a light frown, his eyes roving over every line and curve on Dean's face. 

“Okay.” He says finally, “I trust you.” 

And then he gives him more Grace.

*

Dean doesn't hear the knocking at first. He's dreaming. They're not Cas’ knocks. They're lacking the firm, perfunctory rhythm he knows so well. It's still dark when he cracks open an eye, the bright red neon sign outside their room lighting up just enough of the space for him to make out Cas, sitting in the creaky arm chair by the window, a book thumbed halfway open in his hand.

He was watching over Dean while he slept again. Dean's told him who knows how many times to just go out and entertain himself but these days he - stays. In case Dean needs Grace to calm his nightmares, he says. 

The fucked up thing is, Dean does. 

Now Cas’ eyes are trained on the door. Hunter instinct makes Dean reach for the sawn-off shotgun under the bed. He flips off the blanket and stalks closer to the door, putting a finger on his lips to signal to Cas: shut the fuck up or else. 

Not that Cas was making any noise to begin with. 

There's another knock. Soft and weak. 

“Castiel? Deeeean?” 

Cas reaches blindly for the handle, throwing open the door before Dean can stop him.

“Cas”- He manages to hiss before Jack comes tumbling over the threshold and right into Cas’ arms. 

Jack doesn't straighten up. He remains doubled over. Groans. Something is wrong. 

“Jack. Jack!” Cas’ voice quivers with panic. Dean doesn't know what to do. He slams the door shut behind Jack and double checks the window sills for salt. Still there. The sigils are in place - they're protected - this can't be happening again - they can't- 

“Hiiiiii.” 

The smell hits Dean as soon as he realises what's wrong with Jack. It's a familiar scent. It hung around the throngs of students at night when Dean went exploring Stanford on his way to ruin Sam's life all those years ago. It lingers around nightclubs and haunts the smoking areas in bars like a pungent promise. It smells like a good time. It smells like regret. It smells like long after two am and it burns. 

“Cas. Cas, it's okay. It's okay. He's just drunk.” 

Cas’ expression, wrought with anxiety, doesn’t change at the revelation. Then again, Dean thinks, he probably knew before Dean did. His sense of smell and - y'know - everything is a million times stronger than his. 

“It's not okay, Dean! He's four!" 

Well. When he puts it like that. 

They drag Jack to Dean’s single bed and let him flop back onto the tangle of sheets in an unceremonious heap.

The kid’s laughing as he gazes up at the ceiling, eyes glassy, tongue bright blue. There's glitter in his hair.

“What the hell happened to you?” Cas demands, standing over Jack like a mother hen. Fretting with his hands. Tugging at his hair. 

“WKD happened.” Says Jack. Like that means fucking anything. 

Dean steps forward. Places a hand on his shoulder. “Cas”-

“Jack. I need to know you're okay.” Cas ploughs on. “Who did this?” 

“Did it aaaaaaall myself.” Jack sing-songs and reaches up to grasp thin air. Fingers flexing and curling into fists and pushing against invisible objects. He's wearing the ugly yellow hoodie they got him from Target. “I turned off my inhibitors. Went to get to know some humans. Humans are crazy, Castiel. I knew. Already. Yeah. But these humans were craaaaaazy!”

Oh, shit. 

Cas stares down at his son in despair. “Use your Grace.” He tells him. “Come on. Sober up.” 

“Don't wanna.” 

“Jack!” 

“Cas, calm down.” Says Dean. Mistake. 

Cas shoves off Dean's attempt at consolation and steps back. 

“Don't tell me to calm down.” He snaps. Posture curled to defend. Eyes dark and mouth twisted in worry. “Someone did this to him and I”- 

“It's my fault, Cas.” Dean says. Braces himself for impact. Waits for the storm. 

Cas stills. “Your fault?” He echoes. Punches out every syllable. “How, exactly, is this your fault, Dean?” 

Dean's had his face busted open by Cas before. He can take it again. Maybe he'll even get some of that special healing Grace when it's over and Cas eventually cools off. 

“I… gave him some advice back at Jody's. Told him if he really wants to get to know humans to be a better God, he should hang out with ‘em more. I might have suggested partying as well but, uh. It was a joke. Didn't realise he'd actually take that part seriously.” 

Cas stares at Dean for a full five seconds. Averts his gaze down to Jack. Then back at Dean. 

Dean grits his teeth and prepares for the onslaught, but Cas only sinks down into the chair he'd been sitting in all night. Head in his hands. 

Jack giggles. It would be a nice sound in any other context. Dean grimaces when it's followed by a watery sounding burp. 

Please don't throw up on the bed, Jack. Dean prays. 

“Nuh uh uh.” Says Jack. Voice cracking through the silence. “Not gonna throw up, Dean. Don't worry. I'm aaaaa-okay.” 

Cas sighs. Long and heavy and deep. He stands and makes his way back over to Jack. Reaches out and presses two gentle fingers against the kid’s forehead. Jack drops his arms. They fall by his sides. Fingers loosely curled. There's a neon-pink glow stick bracelet on his right wrist. A rubber stamp for some club on the back of his left hand. 

Jack begins to snore softly in the muted motel silence. 

Cas stands above him. Face flat and unreadable. Just like. Gazing down. 

“Cas?” Dean tries, keeping his voice low. 

Cas sighs again. “Yes, Dean?” 

“You're mad aren't you?” 

Cas finally directs that awful blank look his way. 

“I'm not mad.” 

“You, uh, sure seem like it.” 

“I'm not mad.” Cas asserts. “Just - disappointed.” 

Damn. That's worse. Everyone knows that's worse. Mad is fine. Mad is explosive and quick and brutal. A flash in the pan then it's done. Forgotten. Disappointment hangs around like a nasty smell. Stains the water for days after. Inserts itself into everyday conversations and throws lingering looks when it thinks you're not looking. 

“Look, I'm sorry, Cas”- Dean tries. Desperate to save it. He hates this shit. “I didn't know he was gonna go out and get blasted.” 

Cas’ hands flex by his sides. “No, you wouldn't, would you?” 

Dean frowns. Irritation flares. “What's that supposed to mean?” 

Cas leans back in the chair. The material creaks and groans under his weight. He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. 

“I don't know.” 

It's a lie. Of course it is. 

Dean comes closer. As quietly as he can. Jack's gentle snores edging into the venom he can feel rising in his gut. Soothing the angry creature inside him against his will. 

“Cas.” He warns. “Don't fuck with me. I know you're disappointed in me, I - I can take it. Tell me the truth.”  

Cas closes his eyes. Shakes his head. 

“It's not”- He struggles. Uncharacteristically lost for words. “You have no idea how much he looks up to you, do you?” 

Dean stops.

Cas opens his eyes and levels Dean with an all-knowing glare. “He loves you. You're his father.” 

Dean grits his teeth. Lowers his gaze to the ground. “He's - he'll learn. In time.” 

Cas’ expression twists, and something akin to disgust sits there. 

“Why would you want that?” He shout-whispers. “Jack learned to be brave from you, Dean. Everything which makes him human comes from you and Sam. I can never give him that. You can. You have. I just”- Cas drops his head between his knees before inhaling hard and gazing up at Dean. Face wiped clean of anger and disgust and - yeah. Disappointment. “I worry he'll pick up some of your less desirable traits.” 

Dean huffs out a humourless laugh. “Like what? Alcoholism?” 

Cas’ lips twitch. “Amongst others.”  

Dean scoffs and turns his back on them both to mumble under his breath, 

“For a guy who says he's in love with me you got a funny fuckin’ way of showing it.” 

Cas says nothing. Dean can feel his gaze penetrating the back of his head, an unnerving scrutiny narrowing his eyes.

Dean tramps over to the kitchenette and picks up the sawn-off from where he threw it. He checks the safety. Tucks it into his duffel. Scrubs his face with his hands. Hauls on his jeans and changes his t-shirt. Puts on a fresh pair of socks. Goes for a piss. Comes back and Cas is still watching him. 

Dean throws his hands in the air. 

“Anything else?” He whispers. 

Cas threads his fingers together. “No.” And then he goes back to reading. 

Dick. 

Dean does his fair share of grovelling the next morning. He takes Cas and Jack to one of the nicer diners downtown and orders them both two burgers. Jack eats like it's the first proper meal he's ever had. Even though they made him shower this morning, there's still a smudge of gold glitter near his hairline and his tongue has a weird greenish tint. He's wearing blue nail polish too.

He looks - 

He looks like someone who'd get his ass handed to him in a town like this. 

Dean throws glances over his shoulder but no one bats an eye at them. They're just three, weirdly mismatched guys chowing down on cheeseburgers together like it's no one’s business. It isn't, really, but in a place like this - people make it their business. 

Regardless, Dean's determined to make this better. Despite Cas’ calm demeanour after Jack had gone to sleep, he's been fussing over him all morning. Scowling at Dean more than usual. Rolling his eyes at every churlish joke. 

“Where'd you go last night, Jack?” Dean asks. Trying to make it sound as conversational as he can.  

“Ibiza!” Jack announces. Sucking grease off his fingers and stuffing three fries into his mouth at once. 

Dean doesn't know what Ibiza is. He sends Cas a panicked glance. 

“You went to Spain?”

Jack nods. “Yup. I was googling the best places in the world to go to parties and it came up. So I went.” He meets Dean’s eyes, jaw slack. “You weren't kidding, Dean. I really did see a whole different side of humanity there.” 

Dean notices Cas tense up and scrambles to move the conversation along. “But you're okay, though, Jack? You're good? No one hurt you?”

Jack shakes his head. “No. They just gave me a lot of free drinks. And I saw a lot of”- he scrunches up his nose -“adult things. But don't worry. I closed my eyes.” 

“Great. I feel much better about it now.” Cas deadpans. Glowers at Dean. 

Dean grins and ignores Cas. Claps Jack’s skinny shoulder. 

“Yeah, no. That's fine, kid, but… Maybe don't go to Ibiza again? Or, err, any party town. Especially not alone. It might be better when you're older.” 

Jack nods. “I think so too. Can we go to the petting zoo soon?”

Dean sighs in relief. “Sure.”

“When?”

“How about Christmas? Me and Cas will be done and you're gonna be at Sioux Falls until then, right?” 

“Mhm.” Says Jack. “I'll be keeping an eye on things too. Going back and forth between here and heaven, but it’s mostly the outer realms that I'll be working on. I don't need to start restructuring purgatory until after, so Christmas works.” 

When Cas has relaxed enough that Dean can look him in the eye without grimacing, he gets the check and they begin the long drive down to the next outpost. Dean lets Jack pick the music. He grits his teeth through Kesha and Lady Gaga all the way down to the Texas border.

Chapter Text

Jack left after two days, parting when Dean and Cas inevitably found another hunt. Gradually, Cas’ spirits lightened when he finally accepted the idea that Jack wasn't going on any more benders, and the pit of guilt that had been stewing in Dean's stomach slowly withered. 

Now, two weeks on, Dean stumbles into an Oklahoma motel, grasping onto Cas’ shoulder as the angel hauls him over the threshold. 

Dean spits a thick glob of blood out of his mouth, mustering the last of his strength to mutter: 

“Can't stay here, Cas - Can't - too close - s'gonna find me.” 

“You're right.” Says Cas. And with a final glance over his shoulder, he flies them the hell outta there. 

They land in the - place. The room. Green walls. Oak king-size made up with a different set of sheets than last time. The chair Dean's been tied to more than once sitting innocently against the wall. 

Dean collapses onto the floor - hard, unforgiving wooden boards doing nothing to soften his landing - the moment Cas releases him. 

The creature - whatever the fuck it is - was a huge, mound of a thing. Scaled. Dark, blood red in color. It got him. He's got three, deep gouges in his side to show for it. He's oozing blood all over the place and his shoulder's popped out. It does that a lot these days. Joint's loose after so many dislocations.

One more second and he would've been a goner for real this time. If Cas hadn't shoved his arm between him and the creature's mouth, creating an obstacle in its path to Dean's esophagus, he'd - yeah. It'd be game over. As it is, the thing sunk its four-inch canines deep into Cas’ forearm instead. Tearing through muscle and bone which healed right away but still looked fucking brutal coming apart centimetres from Dean's face and that was when Cas had flown them to the motel. And now - here. 

‘Cause this thing, it tracks. It tracks its prey until they're dead, and it'll stop at nothing until it's found them and torn them to shreds.  

Dean's its prey right now. 

“What”- he coughs, hacking up another mouthful of blood, and cringes when he has to spit it onto the polished, dark floors. “What if this isn't far enough?”

“It is.” Says Cas, pacing back and forth.

“How do you-?” 

“It is, Dean.” 

Cas leans down then, expression falling as he realises the state Dean's actually in. The thick hand grasping Dean's bicep glows with the sheer amount of Grace Cas is pumping into him right now, and if Dean wasn't dead sure the unknown-creature-of-death wasn't about to smash through the arched windows and tear him to pieces, he'd sink to the floor and enjoy the ecstasy of the Grace knitting his skin back together. 

But he's afraid. 

He doesn't know what this thing is, and the sensation of its claws ripping into him reminded him way too much of the hellhounds. ‘Cause it wasn't just the once, was it? Nah. When he got to the pit, the hounds tore Dean to shreds for years. He’s way too familiar with the feeling of having his body severed into halves and quarters, and this case it - it came too close. Brought back some pretty fuckin’ unsavoury memories. 

“It's alright, Dean.” 

“It's not.” Dean gasps. His throat dry as he regains feeling in his upper body. He half expects to look down and see his intestines spilling out. Legs flung across the room. He's in one piece. Somehow. ‘Cause Cas, he - he put him back together again. Not just now. But then. Always. “We gotta call Sam.” Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the images brimming up into his vision. “We don't know what this thing is”- 

“I think I know.” Cas tells him softly. Despite his gentle tone, his face is hard. Set and determined. Cobalt eyes brimming with golden threads. And Dean thinks, yeah. Whatever this creature is, it isn't the only thing that'll stop at nothing to destroy whatever’s in its path. 

Cas has done that too. Will do it again. No matter what it costs. Dean believes it when he stares up into the angel's face. Knows Cas isn't going to run away from this. This is a hunt. In the truest sense of the word. 

“Sharing is caring, Cas. What the hell is it?" Dean rasps, propping himself up on both elbows, hissing with the phantom memory of recent pain as he shoves himself to his feet. His clothes damp and warm and tacky with fresh blood. His blood. Again. 

Salt granules crunch under his boots. Grind into the wood. His shotgun is lying in a field somewhere. The rest of his weapons are stashed safely in Baby a mile and a half up the dirt path where they found the creature and the stringy remains of its previous victims fertilising the soil. 

“I'm going to kill it.” Cas tells him. No discussion. He's just going. Leaving Dean here. “In the meantime, stay put.”

“Alone? But Cas”-

Cas turns his shining glare on him and Dean hears his mouth clack shut. 

“Yes. Alone. Stay here, Dean.” 

The command is said in his Voice. Not his normal one. The - fuckin’ - lower one. The almost a growl one. The sex voice, his brain helpfully provides. Dean's legs have stopped moving before he knows he's obeyed and with a shush of feathers and a waft of ozone, Cas is gone. 

“Son of a bitch." Dean swears and kicks the bedpost. It rattles, sound echoing through the high-ceilinged room. He can still taste copper on his tongue. His head thrums and buzzes with the familiar rush of Grace, but instead of calming him, it's spurred him on. His entire body tingles with the need to do - something. 

He paces in Cas’ traces, thinking. Thinking. Thinking. He doesn't know what the monster is. Despite his efforts, he doesn't have the inner-library thing Sam’s got going on. Probably been brained one too many times for that. He makes a mental note to ask Cas if Grace is any good for injury-induced memory loss.

Dean stops. Feels the lump in his pocket.

His phone! 

He digs into his pocket, cringing when plastic crunches beneath his grip. His phone is smashed to shit. The cracked screen remains black no matter how many buttons he presses. 

Phones don't tend to last long in this trade. His hopes of calling Sam and quizzing him about the creature die. 

Illogical minutes pass before Cas’ return. When he appears in front of the black, arched window, it’s all Dean can do not to smack him in the jaw. 

“You can’t just leave like that, Cas, not without”- He stops dead in his tracks. The darkness hides it well, but Cas is spattered head to toe in blood. “What the fuck…” Dean breathes.

“It exploded.” Says Cas by way of explanation, eyes shifted to the floor. He’s breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like he’s exerted himself, which Dean knows can’t be right. Angels - fully-powered ones anyway - don’t, like, exert. Or sweat, if Dean remembers right. So this is kind of a big deal. 

“Cas”- 

He doesn't get another word in. Next second, Cas has taken two strides over and he's all up in Dean's space, eyes faintly glowing, and there's another of those insane moments where he's sure he's about to kiss him but it's -

No. Cas hugs him. Just kinda drapes himself over Dean, chin hooking over his shoulder, arms threaded loosely around his middle.

Dean chokes around the words he was gonna say and lets his arms hang by his sides as he waits for whatever funk Cas is in to subside. 

Cas tightens his arms around Dean and fuckin' nuzzles closer. Doesn't care he's getting blood all over him. 

“Uh, Cas?” It's a whisper in the dark room. Loud against the scruff of Cas’ cheek which is currently pressed into Dean's jugular. 

He's a solid weight. Pushing. Dean's knees hit the back of the huge bed and he only just manages to stop himself from falling as a low growl of protest leaves Cas’ throat. 

“Cas!” Dean pushes but the fucker doesn't budge. This is the most aggressive and downright strange hug he's ever gotten. 

“Turn around.” Are the words Dean's able to parse out from the snarl in Cas’ chest. 

“Wh-”

“Around. Turn.” 

Dean does, ‘cause curiosity - and, yeah, he'll admit, a little bit of fear - gets the better of him. As soon as he's all the way around, he's pushed down, aaall the way down, onto the bed. Cas has one hand wrapped around the base of Dean's skull as he shoves his face into the comforter. The other lands on the small of his back. Fist scrunched into his shirt. Pressing him flat against the mattress. 

“The fuck, Cas?!” It comes out muffled in the sheets, sounding as scandalised as Dean feels. Suddenly there's a weight on top of him. Cas is fuckin’ lying down on him. Pressing in. Down. Everywhere. 

Dean’s a - he's a Dean sandwich right now, is what he is. Squished and unable to do little more than wriggle under Cas who's doing his best to make Dean a part of the bedding. 

Then, mercifully, there's Grace. Huge, warm swathes across the entire length of his body where Cas lays on top of him. 

“Ah….” Dean manages as he allows his eyes to shut and a violent shiver runs along the track of his spine. 

It nearly helps him turn off the rest of what's happening behind him. Nearly makes him unaware of Cas’ face pressed against the back of his head. Under his ear. The bolt of his jaw. And he's -

“Cas, are you fuckin’ sniffing me, man?” 

Cas doesn't answer. His breath is hot. Cloying in the join between Dean's neck and jaw. The point of his nose a cold and sharp contrast. 

Dean stops struggling and just - lies still. Takes it. ‘Cause he knows that this - whatever's up with Cas right now - he's gotta let it run its course. He can't fight back. Physically, he actually can't. He ain't strong enough. And he's sure if Cas was in his right mind he wouldn't be doing -

This. 

Cas’ hands settle on the mound of Dean's shoulders. Kind of pressing a little. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to keep him right where he wants him. He's straddling Dean's back, thighs either side of his body. Solid muscle lightly squeezing his sides. The fabric of his trenchcoat bunches up around Dean's elbows and catches on a useless metal button on the pocket of his jeans. Cas’ tie trails after his face as he presses his nose into the top of Dean's head. His neck. Behind his ears. Between his shoulder blades. It tickles. Cas is audibly smelling him. Breath puffing out in hot bursts through the thin, muddied fabric of Dean's t-shirt. It's so - so strange. But all Dean can feel is the generous hoards of Grace invading his body and that odd pulse of fear that tells him whatever Cas is right now, it's the farthest from human Dean's ever seen him. 

He doesn't speak. Squeezes his eyes shut and tries to enjoy the Grace without thinking too much about what Cas is doing behind him ‘cause it's not, like, inherently sexual is it? They're not fooling around like usual. Sex would make more sense than this. Dean can't figure out if it's good or bad when Cas keeps going over the same few spots like he can't fuckin' get enough of it. Like a dog who's found a particularly juicy lamppost to get a whiff of. And the other thing is, Dean knows he fuckin’ stinks. He's been sweating and fighting and bleeding up a storm. This can't be nice. 

“...Cas?” Dean dares to whisper after what feels like an age of this. 

The room goes silent. Cas stills, his face tucked in the curve between Dean's shoulder blades, and there's a faint rustling of many layers of fabric as Cas slowly rises from Dean and unhinges his legs from either side of him. 

The loss of weight is more welcome than the loss of Grace. So fucking much of it, too. Dean's crazy for breaking it. But this felt. Important.

“Dean, I…” Cas’ voice is broken in the dark. There's a cough and a shuffle. “I apologise.” 

Dean remains face down on the bed when he answers. Loath to look at the other man's face. He pictures it anyway. Imagines the ruddy flush on his cheeks. The faint glow of Grace lingering behind his eyes. 

The back of his neck stings from the constant scrape of Cas’ perpetual scruff.

“S'okay.” Says Dean. “Y'alright?” 

“I had to leave my vessel.” Cas says in a rush. That makes Dean get up. Face him. Sitting, uncomfortable in his body, under the rays of a gold and azure gaze. “To kill it. I had to.” 

Dean nods in understanding. “The last time you left your vessel, even a little bit, you”- Dean doesn't know how to finish that sentence. Regrets starting it. ‘Cause they both remember. The ice rink. The ropes. Dean's first not-quite-a-handjob-orgasm with Cas’ Grace in him. 

Cas inclines his head in lieu of acknowledging it, tearing his eyes away from Dean and lighting up his blood encrusted shoes with them instead. 

“Yes, I - was unnecessarily rough with you. It won't happen again.” 

“You weren't rough.” Dean mumbles. Doesn't want Cas to think he's done anything wrong again. This isn't one of those times. “Just weird. Weirder than usual.”

Cas’ lip quirks, and Dean considers it a small victory. 

The light disappears from Cas’ eyes as he closes them. His shoulders rise an almost imperceptible amount on an inhale, and then the tension seems to bleed away from him as he breathes out. He opens his eyes again only to immediately narrow them at Dean. Surveying him from head to toe. 

“I forgot to clean you up. You're covered in gore.”

“Yeah. Could do with a shower.” Says Dean, letting his head drop. His neck aches. His whole body does. The Grace works on a physical level, sure, but the ache is - deeper. It's personal. Has been for a long time. 

Cas holds out two fingers. “No need.” 

He mojo's him clean as per. The small amount of Grace curls pleasantly over Dean's skin, vanishing the blood and viscera like it never was but it's - not enough. 

“There is a shower here.” Cas announces, probably hearing some inkling of Dean's thoughts. “It's stocked with soap and towels. The hot water works. I've checked. I can get clean clothes for you from your room while you're in there if you'd like.” Monotone. Like fuckin’ siri put through a blender. 

Dean breathes heavily into his hands. “Yeah. That, uh, sounds really nice.” He lifts his head with herculean effort and eases to a stand. Cas’ eyes are dark now. Indigo in the night. He's clean. Back to the blank-slate version of himself who surely couldn't have been sniffing Dean senseless minutes ago. Not for the first time, Dean wonders if the Grace makes him hallucinate that shit. 

“What was it?” He asks. “The monster.”

Tension returns to the cut of Cas’ jaw. He holds Dean's gaze. 

“I'll tell you after you've showered. It can wait, and we need to talk about it.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “You can't just say shit like that and then”-

“Dean. Shower and come back. I'll have fresh clothes waiting for you.” 

Cas has put a big full stop on Dean's questions, and he knows well enough by now there's no use arguing when he gets like this. All stone-faced and stoic and detached. It's a tactic Dean knows well. One which doesn't run as deep as it once did. But still. 

“First door down the hallway on the right.” Says Cas in answer to Dean's scowl. 

“You sure the real owners of this place won't mind me using their shower and towels and shit?” Dean asks, goading Cas into giving him something, even if it is just answers about the joint he's been giving Dean mind blowing orgasms in for the past few months. 

“I don’t imagine they would,” Cas replies without missing a beat, “seeing as they're dead.”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. Right.

So this place… isn't Cas’. Or wasn't - before he killed whoever lived here before, Dean assumes. It's the only explanation which makes sense, he thinks, as he opens the bedroom door for the first time in ever and finds himself face to face with an austere-looking hallway which only leads to more doors. 

Maybe it was a vampire nest. 

Dean works through the various possibilities as he pads heavily to the bathroom, floorboards creaking under his boots. When he throws open the door, he shakes his head in disbelief and suppresses his exclamation. 

The bathroom's fucking huge. There's an honest to god claw-foot tub at one end. Golden feet and everything. The tiles are a dark, forest green. Black grout. A huge, wall-sized mirror above twin sinks. Classy as fuck, basically. 

It's got one of those dimmer switches, so he makes it gloomy. Twilight-like. Soft and dark on his tired eyes. 

Dean toes off his boots by the door and sheds his nasty clothes, before warily making his way to the shower. A shower which could easily fit five people inside. It's got two shower heads. What the hell's he supposed to do with two of ‘em? He yelps when he touches the tap and an icy spray drenches him from above. He angles his body close to the wall, away from the water, and messes with the temperature until it's appropriately scalding. 

At first he's annoyed at the lack of pressure on this thing until he remembers the second shower head attached to the wall. This one actually comes off, and it's a jet. 

Using the various soaps on hand - especially one which smells like pine (kinda Christmassy) - he uses the jet head to slough the dirt and blood off his skin. After scrubbing himself down to within an inch of his life, he doesn't turn off the overhead shower. Instead he finds himself just… standing under it. Gently held in a thick embrace of steam as hot rain streams over him. 

Jesus. No wonder Cas snagged this place at the first opportunity. Not that he showers often (or at all) or anything, but it's nice as hell. Dean's sure if he didn't have hunting to worry about, he'd never leave. 

He thinks about the smell of fresh paint. The odd bits of furniture appearing all over the place. The fresh sheets. 

Maybe. 

Maybe Cas is gonna leave. Live here. Make this his - house. Or base. Or his. Whatever. 

Dean goes cold and shuts off the water, immune to his pretty surroundings as he quickly scrubs himself dry with a huge, fluffy towel and massages one of the pine-scented lotions into his skin until he's softer than a baby's ass and glowing from head to toe. 

Dean wouldn't blame Cas - wouldn't have a leg to stand on, would he? - if he was planning to leave. It wouldn't be fair. Wouldn't be. Right. 

Nah. Fuck what’s right. Cas can't leave. Not now. Not while they're -

Well, there's the project to do for starters. For all his talk of helping people and selflessness and blah, blah, blah, he certainly seems to be setting up a nice little cushy spot for himself. Retirement plan or something. Dean accidentally knocks over a delicate glass bottle containing one of the lotions and doesn't bother to pick it up as he stomps out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, thinking of all the questions he's gonna throw at Cas the minute he -

He opens the bedroom door.

Cas is waiting for Dean. His trenchcoat and suit-jacket neatly folded over the back of the torture-gasm chair. Tie loose around his neck where he's currently in the process of gently pulling it off. Big fingers wrapped around silky, navy material. 

Dean swallows his barrage of questions. 

“Lie down on the bed.” Cas orders. His eyes aren't glowing. He doesn't look all - sniffy. He's himself. A deconstructed, trenchcoatless version, but - himself. 

“Why?” Dean blurts. ‘Cause he's an idiot. And he's suddenly decided looking a gift horse in the mouth sounds like a really fun idea.

“Because I want you to relax.” Cas tells him, arching a brow. “And I have an idea. But you have to trust me.” 

Dean snorts but moves to the bed anyway, grumbling about trust and the meaninglessness of the word. 

Cas ignores his complaints and just watches while Dean scoots up onto the covers and lies back with a huge sigh. 

“What now?” 

“Lie on your stomach. You can leave the towel around your waist. This activity does not require clothes.”

Dean short circuits. His stomach does a funny little somersault and his traitorous dick twitches under the thick, concealing towel. 

He does as he's told and waits, his back and shoulders and calves exposed to the coldness of the bare room. 

There's a rustle as Cas moves and plants himself on the bed behind Dean. Straddling again, but no longer pinning him down with his weight. His thighs are either side of him, but not touching, and he's hovering above Dean. Doing - something. There's more rustling. The shush of skin against skin. And for a totally wild moment Dean imagines Cas jacking himself off above him, preparing to decorate his back with his come which is just - holy shit - but - no. There was no sound of a zipper and it's not that kinda skin on skin noise anyway. It’s slow. Considering.

Then there's the… scent. 

Dean's nose twitches as a distinct but unrecognisable perfume pervades his senses. There's Cas’ scent of ozone, yeah, but then there’s something like rain? Or rather, damp bark after rain. A forest after a storm, maybe. And there's something sweet, too. Perched on the tip of his tongue. 

Honey. 

“I'm going to touch your shoulders.” Cas tells him plainly. “Is that amenable to you?” 

Dean’s head swims with the loose gravel of Cas’ voice and the strange but downright fuckin’ sublime scent filling up his nose. 

“Y-yeah. Fine.” 

Cas’ broad palms come to rest lightly on Dean’s shoulder blades. He moves them in slow circles, just touching his skin. It’s warm and it’s soft and slippery and - 

Ah. That’s what the scent is. It’s some kinda massage oil, and Cas is lathering it onto Dean’s shoulders and back, hands moving with careful precision. 

He’s giving him a massage. 

Fuckin’ Christ. 

“Tell me if you don’t like the pressure.” 

Dean slides his eyes shut. “Mhm.” 

The pressure, when it comes, is fucking glorious. Cas isn’t shy with it. He kneads into Deans’s shoulders over and over, his thumbs working the thick, tight knots wound deep into his trapezius until he’s groaning from the mix of pain and pleasure. 

Cas’ magic hands move in tandem towards Dean’s spine, massaging deep around each vertebrae for endless minutes. He turns to putty under Cas, each muscle group unwinding delicately after thorough, brutal attention. 

It’s silent, save for the sound of Cas’ hands on Dean, and Dean’s own occasional deep moans and grunts in response to the more intense knots Cas comes across. 

“What’s’at?” Dean mumbles eventually, his head and nostrils full up of the scent of the massage oil. His body melting and pooling into nonsense on the bed. 

“Hm?” Cas responds, sounding a little distant. 

“What’re you using? Smells fuckin’ great.” 

There’s an odd few seconds of silence.

“It… does?” 

Dean nods. It’s no more than a bob of his head against the pillow but it’s all he can manage. 

Cas clears his throat. “I sourced it myself.”

Dean snorts. “Fine. Gatekeeper. Just bring me a jar once in a while and I’ll never ask again.”

Cas doesn’t say anything at all in response to that. There’s not a coy remark or even a huff of mocking laughter following Dean’s silly request. Maybe he got it immorally. Blindsided some poor Peruvian farmer and stole his oil seeds or some shit. Dean doesn’t know how these things are made. 

“About earlier…” Cas begins, when he’s made his way down to the small of Dean’s back. 

“Hm?” Dean prompts as the silence stretches. He recognises the influx of Grace now, making its way into his muscles and massaging even deeper than Cas’ fingers are. Unraveling the knots with deft, golden fingers. Scraping the underside of his bones and emptying out the hurt and decades worth of aches and pains. 

“I was finding it difficult to equalise again, after leaving my vessel.” Cas says, the heavy monotone of his voice a tarp covering the shyness Dean can just about sense under the surface of his words. “The - what I did to you - the, err, sniffing… it’s… how do I put this?” He sighs, “In our true forms, we have ways of seeking each other out. Identifying one another in the celestial plane. A sort of - sensory recognition technique.” 

“So, what? You all got unique angel scents or somethin’?” 

“In a way, I suppose.” Cas says heavily, “But the action, the - sniffing - is how it translated. In this vessel. I suppose identifying you via scenting was the closest version of the instinct in this form and I…” He sighs again. Sounding utterly put upon. “Yes.” 

There are details missing here, if Cas’ tone of voice is anything to go by. 

“And what else?” 

“...” 

“What else, Cas? I can tell you’re not saying everything.” 

Dean thinks the next pulse of Grace is deliberate. It renders him speechless for a minute, loath to do little more than groan and sigh into the sheets. Coupled with Cas’ fingers digging deeply into the base of his spine, he’s forgotten how to form words. He does anyway, once his head has cleared enough to remember the angel’s name.

“Cas." 

Cas exhales hard. His fingers pause in their ministrations. 

“It’s something. Mates do. For one another.” 

“Mates, like… not the friendly kind?” 

“No.” Cas emphasises. “Definitely not the friendly kind.” 

Dean doesn’t realise his eyes are open until he catches himself tracing the complicated filigree patterns in the dark oak bed frame. 

“Oh.” Oh. Such a fuckin’ whiny, pathetic sound. His throat feels full. Lumpy. Engorged. He swallows but it just makes it bigger. “So, if it was Sam here and not me…?”

“That wouldn’t have happened, no.” 

Dean remembers to breathe. “Right.” 

“I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.” 

“Little late for that.” Dean scoffs. Regrets it the instant Cas’ hands go still on him. “But I - it’s fine. I understand. S’not like you tried to kill me or something, Cas. I just - I was surprised, man. S’all.” Downplay of the century, Dean thinks. It was freaky as fuck, but it wasn't horrible. It's freakier now he knows why Cas was doing it. ‘Cause some instinctual, angel part of him sees Dean as his mate. 

He shifts. Wiggles his hips to get some air under his belly and remind himself what he’s - what they’re doing. 

“You made up for it with the massage.” He jokes, slicing through the tension barrier between them with ease, ‘cause it’s better than admitting that he - the whole mate thing feels - 

Impossible. 

Cas relaxes just an iota behind him, settling down comfortably on the back of Dean’s thighs so he can continue rubbing and pressing around the small of his back. Up into his sides. Around his kidneys. Trailing Grace, Grace, Grace, everywhere his fingers go. The taste of honey on his tongue intensifies. The thunderstorm scent is a heady musk. Intoxicating. Dean closes his eyes again. 

“I wanted you to relax.” Cas says eventually. “We’ve been on the road a long time. It’s important to give your body time to unwind.” 

“Mm.” Dean agrees sleepily, lulled by the warmth and the Grace and the luxurious material under him. The tips of his ears are wet from the damp ends of his hair. His hands tingle from being in the same position so long. 

“I’m going to tell you about the monster now, Dean.” Damn, buzzkill. “You wanted to know.” Cas reminds him. 

“Yeah… do I wanna know, though?” 

“No. But you should, in case we encounter something like it again.” 

Dean grunts. “Lay it on me, Mulder.” 

“It was a Damnell.” Cas intonates carefully, ignoring the X-Files reference like he does most of Dean's other references. His hands don’t stop moving, even when he says, “A creature of hell.” 

“I fucking knew it.” Dean hisses, the air cold and unpleasant against his teeth. “I knew it wasn’t just a regular”- he breaks off and forces himself to take deep breaths. Follows the long slides of Cas’ hands up his sides. In… out… in… out… 

“A Damnell is a powerful thing.” Cas continues, and he could be reading the weather for all his tone indicates. “Hell’s oldest souls - the most tortured, the most broken; metamorphosed by millennia of agony - can sometimes become Damnell. If they don’t completely break, of course. Think of it like a supernova. Some stars die when they reach the end of their lifespan. Others have so much energy that they collapse, in and in and in, until they become black holes. A Damnell is the soul’s answer to a black hole. It consumes and hunts and seeks to heighten the pain of everything in its path until there’s nothing left. This one breached the fold between here and hell. Gnawed at the rift for eons to get to earth. Thankfully for us, it was tired. It probably didn’t have long left anyway.” 

“Tired?” Dean fires back, muscles in his back protesting the way his whole body tenses. Spasms wrack him, only soothed by the gentle, constant ooze of Grace. “Didn’t seem fuckin’ tired when it was pokin’ holes in me.” 

“At least it was a young one,” Says Cas. “Elder Damnell are far more powerful. Guardians of the seventh circle. The chaos one of those might have unleashed would have been far too much for just the two of us to handle.” 

Dean bites back the numerous retorts presenting themselves in answer to that. So he asks the most important question first.

“And what was an ancient creature of hell doing in the middle of butt-fuck-nowhere Oklahoma?” 

Outside, a bird chirps. The gloom inside the bedroom lifts until the space is cold and blue and new. Dawn. 

“I’m not entirely sure, but I have a good idea.” Cas admits. “I can tell you. Or not tell you. Or tell you later. It depends”-

“Tell me.” Dean grinds out. “Just fuckin’ tell me, Cas.” 

Don’t hide from me again. Don’t lie to me again. Please, please, stop lying even if it’s only a small lie. I hate it when you lie to me. 

Cas’ oily hands scrunch against the soft, tenderised muscles in Dean’s back. His nails scrape pleasantly against his flesh. The pads of his fingers are ten, distinctive points where they drag down his spine reflexively, only to push down on his tail bone with so much pressure, Dean nearly protests. 

“Think about it,” He tells Dean, “Hell is not run the way it used to be. Jack may be God, yes, but each realm has been uprooted and reorganised with or without Jack’s help. Change - natural change - still happens, regardless of who or what is in charge, and errors like this may slip through the cracks more often until a proper hierarchy is established.”

“What kind of hierarchy?” 

“Hell needs a jurisdiction. Some kind of system to make sure the souls locked inside are kept in check. Lest something like this happen again.” 

“You mean it’s mutiny down there? What about Rowena? I thought she was calling the shots?” 

“No. Not mutiny. But there is little in the way of a chain of command below Rowena. She does what she can, but Jack brought back many souls from the Empty, and now it's just a matter of delegation and forming a core structural team we can trust. Rowena included. And she is a difficult woman to negotiate with. As you well know."

Dean tries to imagine Jack in hell. Soulful eyes taking in the chaos and the torture. Thinks of him trying to make sense of it. To justify it.

“How about…” Dean swallows the words. “Never mind.” 

“Go on.” Says Cas, “If you have ideas, I'd like to hear them.” 

Dean shrugs. Rolls his shoulders. They do feel good. 

“I was just - what if you guys just… got rid of hell altogether?” 

The last thing Dean expects to hear in response to that is a brief hum of sad laughter from Cas. 

“Jack said the same thing when we first started restructuring.” He says by way of explanation. “I told him exactly what I'm going to tell you. Somehow, I imagine you'll like it even less.” There's a pause where Cas shuffles up on his knees, then another slick shush of his hands rubbing together, and then he has his palms back on top of Dean's shoulders. Rubbing and pressing over the same spots as before. Dean isn't imagining the rhythmic pulses of Grace which come with each hard press of Cas’ fingers. It's gone from amazing to fucking ecstasy. He inhales deeply as the scent of ozone, honey and fresh rain embark on his senses. He nearly forgets their entire conversation until Cas starts talking again. 

“Chuck’s death, though inspiring positive change, didn't enable us to simply hijack complete control and remodel the universe as we saw fit. Heaven, hell, earth - they may have been his creations but once they were built, they functioned on their own.”

“That doesn't make any sense.” Dean mumbles into the pillow. 

“Think of it this way then,” Says Cas, his voice dropping as he practically remoulds the shape of Dean's body under his hands. “When you’re fixing a car, do you take it apart piece by piece, body and all, until there's nothing left? Or do you send it back to its manufacturer so they can remake it from the ground up?” 

Dean frowns. “No I just - get the parts in I need. Or just - fuckin' fix it. Unless it's totalled, I guess. Then y’hafta give up. Scrap it.” 

“Yes, you - well in this scenario we aren't scrapping the universe but - yes. Exactly. Say it's Baby.” Dean makes a small sound of distress, and he can literally hear Cas’ eye roll. “If the exhaust broke or the paint scratched, you wouldn't send her to Chevrolet to get her remade from the ground up, would you? You'd either send her to a mechanic or do it yourself.” 

“No quack mechanic’s touching my Baby.”

“The point is,” Cas continues over him, “creation is much the same. Chuck may have been the architect, but he did not oversee much of the goings on once he was done with it, as you well know. He took interest in things here and there. Played with it as he saw fit, but the rest of creation kept on ticking and will keep on ticking without his aid. There's a natural balance to it; a self-sustaining order which Jack, as the new God, can tinker with, but must be very careful of. Destroying hell would not only upset that balance, but create an outpouring of energy so huge that it may shatter other realms as well. The energy inside hell would have nowhere to go except out.

“It's something we have to be extremely aware of while restructuring. We can siphon off energy and redirect it to where we want, but we cannot destroy it. We can bargain with the consciousnesses within. Jack can exert immeasurable power - he can influence and manipulate, but he has to be delicate. Changing one thing may affect another. The same way it can when fixing an engine, for example. You wouldn't want to fix one thing by breaking another, would you?” 

“Your car analogies are shitty, Cas.” 

“Well, obviously I don't know as much about them as you.” Cas snaps, and his next press against Dean's muscles is biting. Dean grins into the pillow. “You are infuriating.” 

“Yeah.” Dean agrees, now one with the mattress. He lets the terse seconds pass. Waits for Cas’ pressure to become more human-friendly. “I think I get what you're saying though.” 

Cas’ weight increases by a mote as he sighs. 

“Good. I was afraid you'd try to argue with me.” 

Dean exhales hard. “Difficult to argue with the laws of creation. Believe me, I've tried.” 

“And succeeded on occasion.” Cas reminds him. 

“Mhm.” 

Silence falls easily. A chorus of birds have taken up residence outside the window, and their soulful chattering blends in easily with the sounds of Cas’ hands making circles in his skin. Dean slips somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. His head buzzes pleasantly. He's warm and lax, the Damnell already a distant memory. He thinks if he ever makes it to heaven, it'll feel like this. 

He maybe actually does fall asleep at some point, ‘cause he's dragged back to reality when Cas’ hands pause. He's right back down the base of his back, fingers feather light at the hem of the towel still wrapped around Dean’s waist. He tugs slightly, hesitating, before seeming to take Dean's lack of protest as consent. He pulls the towel all the way down and lets it land on the floor with a soft whumph. 

Ass exposed to the early morning air and Cas’ fuckin’ lazer eyes, Dean is suddenly very awake. 

Cas continues massaging down, grinding his knuckles down into the soft meat at the top of his ass.

For all his embarrassment, it feels fucking great. 

He carries on down Dean's flanks, the scent of the oil becoming more potent and dizzying with each minute. He massages Dean's thighs. Behind his knees. His calves prove to be ridiculously tight, and Cas pulls some truly inhuman noises out of Dean as he kneads the knots out of him. 

Finally, Cas massages the balls of Dean's feet, even cracking his toes on these weird, quick little upstrokes which snap in the silence like gunshots in the distance. 

Grace, oil and warmth are imbued in every essence of Dean's being. He's never felt so relaxed in his life, and he doesn't want Cas to stop. Ever. Nothing could drag him from this position.

“Would you like to orgasm, Dean?” 

Except maybe that. 

Dean makes a little choked off sound of surprise and covers it by clearing his throat. 

“Who doesn't?” He jokes. 

“Plenty of people.” Cas deadpans. 

Dean shoves his hands under his chin and buries his nose in the crook of his elbow. No sleep, the best massage of his life and a heavy dose of Grace makes him say,

“People like you, huh?” 

Cas doesn't seem to be massaging Dean with purpose anymore. He's just sort of - running his hands up and down the backs of his legs. Squeezing every now and again, but it's just mindless movement. An excuse to touch him. Dean's insides wind themselves into knots of their own as Cas’ refusal to answer stretches on. 

“I just meant - you never want”- 

Fuck's sake. He curses himself for not just saying yes to the stupid orgasm in the first place. 

“I know what you meant, Dean.” Cas rumbles behind him. Low enough to feel in his skin. In the marrow of his bones. Soft and sombre as an oncoming storm. 

“But you made it very clear from the beginning you couldn't participate in that. It was a clear boundary. I would if I could, were the words you used, I believe.”

“This again…” Dean mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing. Yeah. I did say that.” 

Dean's pissed off. Can't pinpoint exactly why but something about - about the way Cas says it. Like it's Dean's fault that this whole orgasm situation has been so one-sided. If he wants it he can just fuckin’ ask for it. 

Dean imagines it. 

Imagines Cas standing over him. Asking - no - demanding Dean to jack him off. Suck his cock. Fuck him.

And hell, after all the shit Cas has done for him, could he really say no? Would he? Would he. Would he want to? 

Fuck. 

For the first time in his twisted existence, Dean tries to imagine what sex - real sex - with Cas would be like, and comes up point fucking blank. 

Y'see, there are three things Dean considers himself an expert on in this life.

Cars, guns and sex. 

Until recently, he'd say he's a certified connoisseur in all three. 

John used to say, "a good girl is like a good engine: treat her right an' she'll purr for you real nice." 

At the time, Dean hadn't thought that was a weird thing for a man to say to his fourteen year old son. He tries to imagine himself saying something similar to Jack now and nearly throws up in his mouth. But it was an ethos he's carted around with him for the better part of twenty-five years. An ethos which never let him down. Got him laid through thick and thin. 

So, yeah. The car thing and the sex thing? Generally kinda interchangeable in Dean's mind. The gun thing though - different kettle of fish. He's worked hard to know guns. Familiarised himself with the feel of all different kinds in his hands. In his arms. Propped against his shoulder. Slung on his hip. Concealed in a jacket. He reaches for his gun before he reaches for his phone. Always makes sure he knows where the nearest gun is when he goes to sleep. Guns are necessary. Guns are the reason he can participate in the other two things in the first place. Guns are the reason he’s alive. 

So cars and guns? Yeah. Solid. 

The sex thing, though. He's not so sure anymore. 

Dean's googled gay porn before. Once. When he was curious. In his twenties. Like every guy fuckin' does. Just to see - just to check if it - does anything. For him. Dean didn't make it past the first low moan rumbling through his shitty laptop speakers before slamming the damn thing shut only to open it again and wipe his search history squeaky clean. 

He wishes he hadn't. He wishes he'd stayed and watched. Only so he'd be more confident with the world Cas has opened up to him. Only so he could see if it's - if that's - normal. To want this. To want to be touched in that way. To like the feel of the scruff rubbing against the inside of his thighs when Cas takes him in his mouth. The scrape of his calloused fingers against his skin. 

He'd never have thought about it before -

Before. 

It's the Grace. It's the only explanation. When there's Grace in him, Dean's just - he's weak. He can't - doesn't want to say no. 

It's with this in mind that Dean whispers (half into his hands and the pillow).

“I- I do though. I want it.” 

“Want what?” Cas, the Bastard, asks. 

“Y'know.”

“You'll have to be more specific.”

Dean grunts in protest. Cas’ hands rub on the underside of his ass. Each swipe exposes a breath of cold air between his thighs. Heightens his senses. He's already hard enough to hammer nails, his cock trapped uncomfortably against his stomach, straining for some relief. Just thinking about it - what the next few minutes might look like - it's intoxicating. 

Dean can't ask for what he wants, though. And that's the problem. ‘Cause Cas is - he's making him. 

And he can't. 

So instead, he prays. 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and throws his mind back to that night in the forest. The Lamia dead and burning. Cas cutting lines across his body and healing him. But most vividly, he visualises the moment Cas gently slid the pad of his finger down between the cleft of his ass and pressed -

Cas squeezes Dean's thighs. Bruising. 

“Dean.” He says. Snarling. An earthquake above Dean. “To pray like that… is so unbelievably heinous.” Somehow, Cas doesn't sound mad about it. “To use prayer to express your sexual desires… any other angel would smite you where you stand.” 

“But not you, huh?” Dean manages, “What does that say about you?” 

“Oh, you have no idea.” Cas murmurs. “I hear you, Dean. Every time. Praying for this in your dreams. In your half-asleep state in the morning when you let yourself want just a touch more than usual. Do you know how difficult it is to keep away? To allow you your space, when all I want to do is…” Cas trails off, his hands digging valleys in Dean’s skin as they move up and up and up until they’re back, firmly, on the curve of his ass. Pulling and crushing in equal measure. Dean kinda wants to hear the rest of his sentence. Doesn’t get a chance, ‘cause the next minute both of Cas’ thumbs, slick with heavenly oil, slip between his cheeks and gently slide up and along the inside. Dean’s cold with anticipation. He’s trembling. Fucking knows he is. If he wasn’t blitzed out of his skull on Grace he’d be gone. Running a hundred miles in the opposite direction ‘cause this is - conceptually - just wrong. For him. Dean doesn’t care what the fuck other people do in their own time. He knows some straight guys are into butt stuff it’s just - it’s never been him. He always thought it was funny. Kinda weird. It shouldn’t feel this good.

Shouldn’t. 

“You look so beautiful like this.” Cas announces in a low purr, and Dean hides his face in his arms as all of him is spread out on display. He’s burning with it - embarrassment, shame, you name it. He’s got it. But he doesn’t stop Cas. Bites back the protest and the fuckin’ moan when Cas drags the rough, calloused pad of his thumb across his - yeah. There. 

He sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth and squirms a little when Cas doesn’t remove it. Just keeps moving his thumb in slow, musing circles around his rim. 

“You’re so hard for me, aren’t you? You want this. You’ve wanted this since that night, haven’t you, Dean? I heard you praying for it. Silently begging.”

Fuck. Fuck. 

Dean writhes, meaning to get away but somehow pressing back into Cas’ finger instead in an obscene gesture which makes his head swirl with chagrin. What the fuck is he doing. What the fuck is he doing. 

“Oh, yes, Dean.” Cas all but gasps above him. “Like that? Yes… Like this?” 

“Y…” 

“You can say it. You can tell me it’s good. I want you to.”

“...s’....good… fuck.” 

Cas’ finger catches against his rim and he presses in a little deeper. Barely entering but still - it’s so much sensation and Dean’s insides swoop with arousal as he bucks into it, simultaneously wanting him to go in further and pull away. 

Cas’ thighs tighten around Dean’s glutes and he’s sitting right under the swell of his ass, the material of his slacks pleasantly rough against his skin where Cas - Cas moves against him. Small, rocking motions which could. Could just be Dean, squirming around ‘cause he can’t stop. But could also be -

“...when you tell me, Dean…” Cas is saying. His voice a breathy, panting mess. Dean can hardly hear him over the sound of his own laboured breathing. “...love it so much. You want more? I want - fuck, I want”-

“Yeah, Cas. Yeah.” 

Dean wants. 

His mind is gloriously blank. His previous misgivings have fucked off into the stratosphere. All his blood has gone south, and there’s something about hearing what he thinks (hopes) is arousal seizing Cas’ voice that makes him crazy. And the way his thighs are seizing Dean’s sides in time with the movement of his fingers against his hole and the tingling zaps of Grace -

If he was ten years younger, he’d have come all over the bedspread already. He’s close enough as it is, but it’s too early. Cas has barely been touching his ass for a minute, he needs - he needs more. 

The need comes in the form of a prayer, again, and this is what seems to toss Cas over the edge. 

“Dean, you” - he growls. The rest is unintelligible, and in a matter of seconds, Cas’ fingers are replaced with his -

Oh, god. 

With his tongue. 

Cas buries his face between Dean’s ass cheeks, using his hands to spread him apart so he can get his lips against his hole. 

Dean cries out in helpless ecstasy as Cas mouths at his rim, tongue flicking over the sensitive skin. Stubble burning. He hooks his hands under Dean’s hips and pulls, so Dean has no choice but to hike up onto his knees, bared like a fuckin’ pornstar, back bending in ways he’s not sure it ever has, all so Cas can spear into him with his tongue. 

He impales him with it, pushing past the ring of muscle with ease and fucking him over and over until there’s spit dripping down his balls and his thighs, quickly joined by the pre-come leaking like a faucet from Dean’s dick. It’s painting his stomach and smearing against his inner thighs as each thrust of Cas’ tongue sends shockwaves through Dean’s entire body. 

His throat is racked dry as he groans in abandon. He’s never - ever - felt anything like this. It’s raw and real and so fucking filthy he’s going mad with it. 

One of Cas’ hands snakes under Dean’s hip and curls his fingers tightly around the base of his dick before he can come.

“Cas, Cas.” Dean complains and gasps. “Please, lemme. Lemme.” 

Cas doesn’t answer, mouth occupied as he laves his tongue over Dean’s rim like a man dying of hunger and this is his first meal in days. Presses the tip of it against his perineum, making his balls draw up, tight and ready, before diving back in to fuck him open with his tongue. 

Where Cas’ massage made Dean lax and liquidy, this has him clenching every muscle in his goddamn body. His teeth grind and his jaw aches and he’s cutting into his palms with his nails and his toes are curling in the sheets and his thighs are trembling. He’s gonna fuckin’ die. This is gonna kill him. 

“Cas, please… fuck, please…” He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. There’s more Grace in his system than ever. He’s surprised he’s not glowing with it. He’d take more - he’ll always take more - but it’s. He needs. Needs. All of it. The release of this. More of it. Wants it to never stop. Needs to come now. Wants it to last. Can’t last. 

After what feels like an age, Cas withdraws his face from Dean’s ass and manhandles him upright. Dean is weak to do anything except fall back against Cas’ solid chest while one hand remains at the base of his dick, the other returning to delve against his ass, one finger gently pressing against his oversensitive rim in short, rhythmic motions. 

“I could taste you forever. If your body could take it, I would.” Cas breathes against the shell of his ear. A broken whisper. Rough, disorganised, keening words, the likes of which Dean never imagined he’d hear from Cas’ mouth. 

He’s flushed from his chest to his hairline. Covered in sweat and oil and spit and his own pre-come. Naked as the day he was born. Remade and destroyed under Cas’ hands. 

Cas’ body is a hard line against Dean’s back, pressed up and moulding into every curve, his shirt and slacks streaked with oil. Sleeves rolled up. Tan forearms splayed against Dean’s skin where he holds him. Cas’ right arm is still bloody. Healed, but spattered with evidence of the Damnell’s powerful bite. Dean, ludicrously, wants to lick it off. Not ‘cause he likes the taste of blood. Fuck, no. It’s just something about it being Cas’ blood. Cas’ muscled forearms underneath it, dusted with fine hair. Thick wrists. Broad hands. Strong. Hard. Impenetrable. 

“Of course, I could make you take it.” Cas continues, his teeth nipping at Dean’s earlobe. Lower. Against his neck. “I could train you to take it for as long as I wanted. My tongue inside you. For hours and hours. Do you think you could take it, Dean? If not now, then one day?” Cas mouths against the bolt of his jaw. “I would reward you for it, of course. In whatever way pleases you.” 

Dean’s dick throbs in Cas’ fist. Aching to come. Cas’ finger moves against his hole at varying speeds. Always keeping him on the edge. 

“Yeah…” Dean chokes back mindlessly, “Could take it. I could take it. S’so so good. Fuck, Cas, fuck… ” 

Dean’s entire body rocks with the motion of Cas’ finger rubbing against him. His other hand fists his dick, squeezing hard enough that he can’t come even though he wants to. Cas is moving too. Dean can feel him, compressed up against him, straining and pushing, his groin grinding against Dean’s ass. He’s hard. He’s fucking hard. 

As soon as he thinks it, the sensation disappears. 

Loud thoughts. Right. Cas doesn’t want him to know he’s aroused. 

Fuck that. 

Dean throws his hand out behind him and clutches Cas’ belt, hauling him back in.

“Dean.” He warns, trepidation crawling into his tone for the first time. His hands slow their movements, and Dean. Can’t. 

“Cas, just - fucking do it. Do it. ” 

He just wants - needs Cas to stop pretending he’s not enjoying this the same way Dean is. He can fucking feel how hard he is in his slacks. It’s making him insane, knowing it’s - knowing he’s feeling it too but not fucking doing anything about it. 

Dean thinks he’s gonna explode when Cas gives in, forehead dropped against Dean’s shoulder as he begins to rut against him. The hard, thick swell of his dick rubbing up on Dean’s ass through his slacks. Something about this turns Dean on even more than the hand on his cock or even the finger in his ass. It’s heady. Potent. Powerful, knowing Cas has finally given in. Has finally shown him he’s hard for this. For him. 

“Oh, god, yeah…” Dean chants as he sways with each cant of Cas’ hips, growing rougher and more desperate every second. “Yeah, baby, fuck, just like that. Yes. Yes, come for me, come for me, angel.” 

They’re not words. They’re nothing. Dean just lets his mouth run off on its own. He isn’t thinking. Isn’t aware. He’s just a body in bliss. His own orgasm is halted by Cas’ steadily loosening fingers and his diverted interest in the fucking insane movement of Cas chasing his own release against him. 

“Dean…” Cas’ teeth scrape hard on Dean’s shoulder. Not quite a bite, but almost. “Ah, Dean. Yes… I can’t - I can’t -” He moans, and it’s - it’s not a sound like Dean’s ever heard from him. His inflection rises in pitch. A whine, almost. An inhuman mewl mingled in with the voice Dean knows better than his own. 

The hand fisting Dean’s cock increases in speed, and it’s sheer will which keeps Dean from coming now. ‘Cause he wants to see - needs to see Cas come first. This might never happen again. 

“Yeah, come for me, sweetheart. Fuck, yes, you’re so good. So, so good, angel.” Dean sighs, head tipping back as his orgasm waits like a wound spring at the base of his spine. Hot and coiled and so damn incredible, he can’t - 

“Dean!” Cas grunts against his hot, oily skin as he thrusts against him one - two - three more times before his hips stutter and he stills, his whole body locking up behind Dean as he comes. Dean feels damp heat against his ass in short pulses, bleeding through Cas’ slacks as he makes broken little “ah - ah - ah,” noises with each one.

It’s the noises. The heat. The knowledge this is Cas fucking coming in his pants for him, which undoes the coil. 

Dean comes off the back of Cas’ orgasm in long, thick spurts. It lands on the bedspread, still warm with the imprint of his body and steeped in oil. It coats Cas’ fingers. Dean’s abdomen. 

Cas slowly jacks him through it until Dean is spent and oversensitive. Until he’s boneless and he collapses back onto the bed, right in the puddle of his own come. He doesn’t care. Can’t care. 

He’s done. 

He breathes hard, feeling like he’s run a marathon as he comes down from his orgasm. His entire body twitches. The muscles in his thighs spasm with exertion. And Cas - Cas is moving away from him. Dean isn’t aware of himself enough to register why this feels wrong. It just does. 

Straining, he props himself up on his elbow and watches Cas slide off the bed. 

“Cas”- 

The angel faces Dean, and he’s - 

God, he’s fucking wrecked. 

His hair is a fucked up mess. Sticking out every which way possible. It’s light enough in the room now that Dean can make out the smears of oil on Cas’ face. Especially around his mouth and his chin. Where he had his face in his ass. 

His top two buttons are undone and his shirt has been rucked up out of his slacks and he’s poised like - like he’s gonna pounce or something. Like he’s about to be attacked. But it’s his eyes - still glowing with Grace, so bright the pupils aren’t visible. Even the blue is gone. That’s what shocks Dean into sobriety. 

He sits up. Sticky. Sweat-soaked skin cooling. Fucking debauched. And he still manages to ask,

“Cas, are you okay?” 

Cas says nothing. He’s - panting. Catching his breath. Just staring through Dean with those searchlight, demon-smiting eyes and he’s - 

Fuck, he’s so not human. 

Dean tries to ignore the press of - fear isn’t the right word. But it’s like fear. Clawing inside his gut. Reminding him that this - Cas is a supernatural. If John was alive - 

Dean closes his eyes. Draws his knees up to his chest and tries not to think about how fucking doomed he is for all of a second while he gathers the strength to speak. 

“Cas, man, I need you to talk to me.” 

“I…” 

Dean opens his eyes, and when he does, Cas is looking at him. Like, actually this time. The sky-bright blue is back. His posture uncurls a little but he still looks - well, he looks like someone who just got fucked to hell and back. And damn if that doesn’t make Dean’s dick twitch with a valiance he’d deem a medical miracle if he weren’t so caught up in what might be the worst post-nut clarity he’s ever had. 

Cas turns away from Dean. Faces the window. His entire body stiff and taut. 

“I am so sorry, Dean.” He says. And his voice is - small. Quietly hysterical. “I didn’t plan to - go so far.” 

Dean gapes at Cas’ back. At the rumpled state of his shirt. At the strain of his broad shoulders held so tightly. Like he’ll break into pieces if he relaxes for even a second. 

“You - I didn’t think you planned any of it.” Dean says. 

“I always plan.” Cas replies, which is just. Crazy. 

He manages indignation. Dredges it up from somewhere amidst the guilt-shame-fear soup cooking in his gut right now. 

“So, everything we’ve done before this? You planned it?”

“Of course.” Cas tells the window. “Before now, I never did anything you didn’t want.” 

Dean frowns. “Is this ‘cause you got your rocks off?” Cas just shakes his head in defeat and deflates on a shaky exhale. “Get a grip, dude.” Dean snorts. “I’m the one who told you to do it.” He tries for nonchalance, but he - he can’t afford for Cas to panic and run off right now. Can’t afford for him to fuck off and leave him Graceless for who knows how long. He’s not sure he can - deal with that. Without it. Not right now. Not while he’s still hunting and getting used to everything going back to normal. Or the new normal, he guesses, ‘cause nothing was ever really normal while Chuck was alive. He needs the Grace. It stabilises him. Regulates him. Stops him doing crazy shit like drinking himself into an early grave. It’s good for him, and he - he’ll let Cas dry hump him all he wants if it means he gets to keep this. 

“It’s my fault.” Dean reiterates. “Okay? Don’t beat yourself up.” 

Finally, Cas looks at him. Pacific eyes roam over every inch of Dean’s skin.

“You’re really… okay?” 

Dean nods. “Yeah, man.” He shrugs. “I’m - it’s fine. You’re off the hook. Let’s just - forget about this and get back on the road, yeah?”

He’s moving as he speaks. Switching gears. This is a hookup like any other. Now it’s time for you to make your excuses and leave like you always do. ‘Cept this time the hookup’s kinda… coming with you. Compartmentalise. Compartmentalise. 

He moves around the bed on weak legs, searching for his clothes. Which are scrunched up into a dirty, bloody, muddy ball in the bathroom. Shit. He settles for the fluffy towel instead, reaching down to pick it up and shimmy it up around his waist. Cas tracks him with his eyes. Every move. Like he’s always done. 

“Dean, I - I think I should take you back to the bunker.” 

Dean snaps his head up to look at Cas so fast he nearly gets whiplash. “You”-

“I’m not leaving you.” Cas emphasises, moving the two paces necessary to come stand by the bed. “It’s about the Damnell. I need to meet up with Jack and tell him what happened. Until we’ve made sure there aren’t more coming and hell is secure, you and I should take a small break from the outpost planning. I won’t be gone for long.” 

Dean narrows his eyes. “So you are leaving.”

“No more than a few days.” 

A few days. 

Dean tries to remember the last time he went without Grace for a few days. It was a while ago. Months ago. Feels like a distant memory. This journey - Cas - has been his whole life for… yeah. A while. 

But he can do it. After all, it’s not like he’s addicted or anything. 

A few days is fine.

Dean ignores the knot of dread curling deep in his belly as he says,

“Yeah. Okay, fine. Let’s do it.”

Chapter Text

The first day is fine. 

Really fine, actually. 

As surprised to see Dean as Sam is, he gets it when Dean tells him about the Damnell. Scaly hell-spawn motherfucker of the seventh circle. It makes sense to him, then, that Cas has gotta spend some time with Jack to make sure hell's gates aren't about to bust open on their asses and send everything sideways once again. 

Eileen's out hunting with Garth in Wisconsin - werewolves. Garth has got something of a community programme going for them, and she's volunteered to check out the supposed young wolf and help get them onto the scheme. Sam doesn't say much more than that. The subject of Eileen is tense, and though neither of them say why, Dean thinks - no, he's sure Sam knows. What Eileen said to him. And to Cas. But he doesn't mention it, so Dean doesn't either. 

But Dean's early return means Sam gets to show him everything he's been working on for the outpost project since he's been gone. 

He shows him the internet archive he's building - a series of downloadable PDFs of pretty much all the info they've got in the library, only accessible through a special password - which Dean's more than a little impressed by.

“Jesus, man, you got the whole freakin’ bunker in here.” 

Sam shrugs, smile modest. “Well, not all of it yet. We've been working through it section by section. What's the point in letting all this info rot down here when it could be saving lives, you know? We were lucky to get everything the Men of Letters left behind, but it's only fair that other hunters have access to it too.” Which, yeah. Dean can't argue with that. Then Sam shows him the app he's been putting together, setting up a spare phone for Dean in the process seeing as his was wasted by the Damnell hunt. 

“You made an actual honest to god app for hunters.” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Only you, Sam. Only you.” 

“I had help with this too.” Sam says, unwilling to take any credit. “Alex is pretty techy. We've been chatting over the phone. She's been helping me set things up. I did all the spells and sigils and shit.”

“You spelled an app?” 

“For security, yeah. I mean this isn't exactly the kinda thing we want getting popular on the app store. Only hunters will be able to find it.” 

Dean snorts, flicking through the various archives and maps already laid out in an easy to navigate menu on the home screen.

“Steve Jobs is gonna sue the shit outta you.”

“From the grave?” 

“He’s gonna come back as a ghost just to dump a lawsuit on your ass. If not him then Zuckerberg.”

“Who is actually alive.” 

“And probably a skinwalker, so suck it.”

They laugh and crack open a couple of beers. And Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't humbled by all the work Sam's been putting in. It seems like a feat compared to just driving cross-country checking out areas for something which hasn't even been built yet. 

There's the hunting too, but technically that's separate from everything Sam's been doing here. They've always hunted. It's nothing new. And with Cas by his side at full mojo, it's a walk in the park. It's nearly boring. 

Sam's turned hunting into a profession down here. Sure, they're still legally dead and using a stockpile of hacked credit cards which would land ‘em decades behind bars, but it feels… halfway to something more. More than Dean's ever been lucky enough to aspire to anyway. He realises with some reluctance that Sam's found meaning here. In the bunker. It isn't just a checkpoint for him. Not just somewhere to rest his bones after a particularly gruelling hunt or seek out clues for whatever conundrum they're working with. This is his place. Work and life all tied up in one. Dean had just kind of accepted that this is it. His lot. He doesn't get a life. Hunting's all there is and the bunker has always been a part of that. It's his base, it's not a home. Not, y'know. Really. 

He thinks of Cas’ mystery house. The opulent bathroom. Twin sinks. Green walls. Bedspread. Could be nice. Place like that. Real house. Real furniture. Less concrete. More wood and plaster. Soft. Safe. Open. 

Suddenly the beer isn't going down as easy. 

Dean goes to bed feeling a little hazy. The bed - his bed - is cold. Made fit for standard. Neat and clean just how he likes, but. The room is so empty. The halls echo. The pipes don't rattle. There's no tinkle of laughter of a couple snagging the room next door or the distant drunken shouts of a bar fight across the street. There's no stench of old cigarette smoke. No weird stains on the blankets. 

He's alone. And it's quiet. And he hasn't slept in this bed in months. 

*

Garth and Eileen get more than they bargained for in Wisconsin. Just ten miles east from where they found the werewolves, there's another missing person’s case. A whole group of kids. All M.Os point to a pack of Nachzehrer packed in the Milwaukee sewers, ‘cause nothing’s ever easy. 

They call up Sam to get him to come and help out. They don’t know Dean’s here. Sam doesn’t mention it on the phone, which. Okay. It’s not like they ask, so. He figures he’ll just come along anyway. Beats sitting on his ass waiting for Cas to come get him. 

They try to get Claire and Kaia to join, but they're already busy tackling a nest of ghouls in Montana so it's just the two of them. 

Like old times. 

Dean feels unreasonably nervous as they head out in the early dawn, breath puffing out in front of him in the dry, mid-December air. His stomach turns and he’s a little more hungover than he should be after the beers the night before. It's not the hunt that's making him edgy. He's dealt with these fuckers before. It's seeing Eileen again. He doesn't wanna look at her and see - well. Pity. Anger. This thing like - like Dean's a problem in the long line of problems they deal with on the daily. Him and Eileen? It's s'posed to be simple. He's kinda held onto the fact that his friendship with Eileen was the closest thing he's had to a platonic relationship with a woman since Charlie. And doesn't just thinking about that sting? 

So her looking at him and seeing an issue? 

Yeah. Sorta sucks. 

He doesn't wanna fight with her. But he has to stand up for himself. And if she starts on this shit today - 

Christ. He doesn't know what he'll do. 

Dean distracts himself from thinking about Eileen and Charlie and all the other dead (ex-dead or otherwise) women in his life by cranking up the music full blast as he drives, ignoring the side-eyes Sam throws his way as Zepp thrums through the ancient speakers. 

He shoots Cas a text when they stop to fill up at a Gas ‘n Sip. 

Going hunting. More of those vampire-ghoul SOBs in Wisconsin. Dunno if you remember em. Just a heads up so you know where to find me. 

He presses send before he can second guess himself, inwardly cringing at the last line. Of course Cas knows where to find him. He always knows where to find him. He just -

He doesn't want Cas to forget that he's - out here. Without access to Grace. Dean doesn't get hungover easy. He knows the churning in his gut has little to do with his nerves and more to do with the fact he's been cut off from the good stuff for over twenty-four hours. And the advil he popped this morning isn't doing shit. 

With any luck, Cas will be able to find time to swing by and just. Y'know. Juice him up a little. It won't take more than a few seconds. 

It'll be good for the hunt. 

However he wants it whenever he wants it. That's what Cas had said, right? So he doesn't think it's so unreasonable to ask for it. If Cas doesn't. Y'know. Come to him first. Because he - he does. Dean doesn't need to ask usually. He's just there. Always. 

I always come when you call.

The Impala's kinda empty without him. Sam fills up the shotgun space nice ‘n easy like he always does but it’s just - it takes some getting used to. Sam’s bright, enthusiastic tones instead of Cas’ droning, gritty monotone. His short bursts of laughter as opposed to a low, chesty chuckle. It’s just. Different. 

It takes them about eight hours to get to Milwaukee. By hour four, Dean's already nauseous enough that he lets Sam take over for the rest of the ride. 

Sam offers him some organic ginger tablet thing to chew on. Says it'll help settle his stomach. Dean shakes his head and rucks his jacket up against the passenger door to rest his head against as he waits for the world to stop tilting. 

It's not bad enough for him to give up on the hunt. No way. Not yet. 

They decide not to check into a motel until after the hunt. It's still early afternoon when Sam brakes outside Mitchell Park and tracks down Eileen via the shared location feature on his spanking brand new hunter network app. The pin on the map has her down to the nearest ten yards, and Sam jumps for joy when they spot her figure milling by the pavilion. 

“I'm gonna have to buy Alex dinner.” Sam declares as they march up to Eileen. He yanks her into a hug. Dean hangs back. Hands stuffed into his jacket. 

“That so?” Eileen teases. Laughing when Sam fumbles to correct himself as she reaches up to brush the mop out of his face. 

Her eyes land on Dean over his shoulder. 

“Hey, Eileen.” He tries, attempting not to look as lousy as he feels. 

A divot appears between her brow and she takes a step back from Sam. 

“Sam? What's he doing here?” 

Maybe if Dean wasn't so ready for this, he'd overlook her words and hear the actual concern in her voice, but he fears acknowledging that would only piss him off more. So he shouts back,

“I'm here to hunt, Eileen. I've dealt with these vamps before.” 

Of course, she doesn't hear him. Her eyes stay locked on Sam’s. 

“He's helping.” Sam signs along. Hand movements suggesting a longer sentence than the one he says out loud. 

Eileen signs furiously back, and Dean barrels forward to grab her attention. 

“Hey. Don’t ignore me.” 

She frowns up at him. Kind, dark eyes roving. Taking in his sweat-sheened brow. The tender way he holds his posture. 

“You can't hunt.” She tells him coolly. “You're not up to the par right now.” 

“Not up to the fuckin' par? Are you kiddin’ me?” He points at her. “I've spent the last two months haulin’ my ass around this country for you guys and this is the thanks”- 

“Okay, back off." Sam thrusts his arm out between them, knocking Dean back. The movement sends an uncomfortable roll of nausea running through Dean which he heroically masks with a scoff of pure indignation. “We came here to do our jobs, and I knew Dean wasn't gonna stay behind”-

“Like hell I was”-

“So if you could just be civil until this is over,” Sam eyes them both like they're naughty kids he caught scrapping over candy, “I'd really appreciate it.”

Dean grits his teeth. “Tell your girlfriend to get off my case and I'll be more than civil, Sammy. I'll be fuckin’ delightful.” 

Sam's expression flickers. “Dean.” 

He makes the mistake of looking at Eileen's face. ‘Cause she can read lips well enough and, yeah. She looks hurt. But only for a second, ‘cause she's a hunter and she's as practiced at hiding her emotions as any of them. She throws her arms up and says nothing, turning her back on them both to go and sort through the supplies in the pavilion. 

There’s another hunter in there Dean doesn't recognise. Watching their conversation warily. Dean wonders how much she heard. How much she understood. 

This is his cue to go over and introduce himself. Do the customary look-up-and-down ‘cause even from this distance he can tell she's a piece. Tight and curvy in all the places Dean (usually) likes. 

He doesn't have it in him right now. The whole - thing. The act. He's as hollow as the day he climbed out of his grave. 

“Maybe…” Sam begins, casting Dean a wary glance, “maybe you should sit this one out, man.” 

Dean opens his mouth to argue when there’s a whumph of feathers and a soft breeze tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. The relief which follows can’t be overstated. He’s never been so fucking happy to see Cas in his life. The creature in Dean's ribcage claws at its bony prison and chants: Grace Grace Grace until it's all he can hear. 

“Cas!” Sam explains in surprise. “Dean said you were with Jack.”

“I am.” Cas intones, carefully examining his surroundings. He’s breathing hard. “Was. I can’t stay long. I need to”- 

He breaks off. Looks at Dean. Dean sees the movement of his adam’s apple - big and traitorous - as he swallows. His shoulders roll as he exhales hard and focuses back on Sam. 

“Dean and I need to have a private conversation.” 

Eileen and the other hunter have emerged from the pavilion. Dean’s hoping they didn't hear, but luck isn't on his side today as Eileen says, “Private conversation? But you just got here! Hi, Cas.” He curses her ability to read lips from afar and glares at her. She smiles innocently back.

Cas flits his gaze down to the ground. “Hello, Eileen. I'm afraid I can't stay long. Dean and I”- 

“Need to have a private conversation. Yeah. Got that.” She narrows her eyes at them both. 

Dean tugs on Cas’ arm before she can say another word and leads him behind the concrete structure. Out of sight and earshot. 

“Jeez, she's been on my back since I got here, I”- 

Cas presses two firm fingers against Dean's temple as soon as they're hidden.

The Grace is welcomed into his body with a fanfare of exploding nerve endings and euphoric warmth. Buttery soft and all consuming. Dean sinks to his knees on a relieved groan, the wet grass bleeding icy dew through his jeans. 

Cas falls with him, bracing Dean by both shoulders as he lets the sensation of the Grace wash over him. 

“I apologise for not coming earlier.” Cas says. Chest pushed against Dean's. Voice vibrating through him. "I saw your message.”

Dean hums in vague agreement. Eyes closed. Relishing. Bathing in it. When he opens them, he knows he's ready for anything. He grins. 

“Thanks, Cas.” 

“It's yours.” Cas returns earnestly. “All of it. Forever.” 

Dean swallows. Searches Cas’ face for a double meaning and, as usual, finds none. The angel is as fiercely sincere as always. 

“Forever, huh? I gotta die someday, man.” Dean jokes weakly. 

Cas’ jaw twitches. His eyes narrow. 

“Not if I have anything to do with it.” 

He's dead serious. Dean stumbles out a laugh. Feels Cas' body tense in response. They're close. Too close. 

“We've done this dance, dude. I killed death. Didn't exactly stop it, did it?” 

Cas’ shoulders fall and his gaze drops to his shoes. 

“I don't want to talk about this.” His hands brush down Dean's arms. Tug at the sleeves for all of a second before dropping by his sides. Dean finds he wants to follow the movement. Do something stupid like press his forehead against Cas’. Say something even stupider like “I ain't going anywhere, Cas. Not for a long time.”

He doesn't. He hears his throat click as he swallows. Leans back a little. They're still too close, but it's. He can think like this. 

“How's hell?” Comes out his mouth in lieu of the empty reassurances clamouring behind his teeth. 

Cas turns his head and squints into the distance. Tracks the graceful slide of a swan across the pond. 

“Almost completely secure. Crowley did an excellent job of sealing it before he died. This was an anomaly.” 

“So we can get back on the road soon?” 

Cas directs his squint at Dean. “We only have one outpost left to plot, Dean. I assumed you'd take on the responsibility yourself.” 

Oh.

“And hunting? You just gonna let me fly solo now?” It comes out harsher than he intended. But he just. His chest feels cold. Dunked in an ice bath where before it was so warm. 

Cas frowns. The lines deepen. “No. Of course not. I will join you, if that's what you want.” He stands, leaving Dean kneeling. Staring down his chin at him. 

Dean remembers the fantasy he had - vague and a little mushy now - about Cas in this position. Standing above him and asking - no - demanding Dean get him off. He could do it from here. On his knees. With his mouth. Help with his hands a little. Right here on the grass, behind the pavilion, protected from sight by the pillars of concrete and tall rushes surrounding the pond. Unbidden, he finds himself looking directly at Cas’ crotch. It’s right there. Eye level. Not exactly easy to avoid. And he remembers what happened the last time they were this close. Knows, now, that Cas can - 

That he enjoys it. And he might want - that. From Dean. 

He would do it. 

If Cas asked him to, he would. 

Fuckin’ Grace. 

“I have to go.” Cas tells him.

Oddly disappointed, Dean rises to his feet. 

“Sure. Thanks, for um… you didn't have to.” He scrubs the back of his head. Decides to study the graffiti on the pavilion which has some random address in Milwaukee on it with the phrase ‘cum here 4 free sexxx’ roughly painted in thick, red strokes above it. 

“I saw your message.” Cas repeats. As if that's all the reason necessary to fly over here in the middle of whatever important shit he had going on. There had to have been more. Dean wants there to be more. Wants him to say. Something. Anything meaningful. 

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Cas leaves. The breeze following the whisper of feathers is cold. A brush of arctic wind against Dean's cheek. 

And despite the Grace running rampage in his system, he feels as hollow as he did before Cas arrived. 

When he rounds the pavilion, Sam and Eileen are huddled together, signing furiously. The other hunter's a few feet away. Arms crossed, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. 

Channelling the erratic pounding of his heart and the inexplicable sinking in his stomach, Dean claps his hands together, making Sam jump. 

“C'mon, team, let's not get too comfortable. What're we waiting for?” 

The other hunter tilts her head towards the inside of the pavilion.

“Garth. He's already inside the sewer system. There's a blockage up ahead we couldn't get past. Looks pretty deliberate. They know we're onto them.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Finally. Some useful information. And what do I call you?” 

She purses her lips and gives him the once over. 

“Tia. Or T. If you're in a hurry.” Her lips quirk. 

“Dean.” Says Dean. 

She narrows her eyes. “Was that an angel with you?” 

“Cas? Nah, he's just some guy with wings and healing powers.” Tia doesn't laugh. Actually, she looks pretty pissed. Dean's heckles rise. “You got a problem?” 

She uncrosses her arms and stalks towards him. Dark eyes. Curly hair. Pushing mid-thirties. Pretty. In a ruthless way. Tall, too. They're eye-level when she crowds into his space. 

“I only agreed to this hunt ‘cause I owe Garth a favour. I don't wanna see any more of those feathered bastards around. I thought we were done with them.” She hisses. 

“That feathered bastard is the reason your ass is still up and running at all.” Dean bites. “If you got a problem with Cas, you got a problem with me. Don't like it? Leave. We can handle this hunt without you.” 

Tia stares him down a moment or two longer before tutting and turning her back on him. He thinks he hears her mutter: “Fuckin’ Winchesters.” 

He honestly doesn't give a fuck what she thinks of him. But Cas? She hasn’t even met him. He just - it pisses him off. People judging before they know. How much he’s done. What he is. ‘Cause he’s so much more than just an angel. 

Mood completely soured, he raises a brow at Sam and Eileen who have stopped conversing to watch the cold exchange. 

“Anyone else got any issues they wanna air before we gank these bitches?” 

Eileen's lips remain shut, but it's all in her eyes. 

Garth doesn't come back from the sewer. Half an hour goes by and he's not answering his phone. They uncover the manhole in the pavilion and climb down into the stinking, wet dark. Torch beams crossing and illuminating the pile of debris Garth had put a dent in before whatever was waiting for him took him. 

There's no blood.

So that's a plus. 

Tucking his jeans into his boots isn't enough to stop splashes of mysterious-looking liquid splashing up and onto his ankles. Dean grits his teeth through it. Tolerates it, no matter how his skin crawls with every cold, damp prickle. 

They split up eventually. Dean ends up going left down the sewer complex with Tia (great) and it doesn’t take them long to find Garth. They follow the maze of tunnels down and down until the floor evens out. Gets dry. It almost looks civilised. 

Yeah. They’re in the right place. 

“Castiel?” Garth’s voice floats up to them from the dark. 

Tia and Dean exchange a look. 

“Garth?” Dean shout-whispers back. “That you?” 

“Dean!” The relief in his voice is evident. 

They barrage down the widening corridors until they find the cavern. Garth is tied to a post on the wall. Strung up like a Thanksgiving Turkey. He pales when he sees them. Squinting against the torch beams. 

“As happy as I am to see you guys, you gotta run. It’s a trap.” 

The words are barely out of his mouth before they hear the slap of feet against brick echoing behind them. They’ve been cornered. 

“Shit.” Tia hisses. 

Dean rolls his eyes. This is just another Tuesday for him. He and Cas have been in far worse positions over the last few months. This is nothing. 

Tia backs against the wall (rookie move). Dean pushes up as close as he can to the cavern entrance, blade ready. Silver for Nachs. Copper coins in his pocket. Sam’s got some too. Chances are, though, the alpha isn’t with them. 

The first three to fly into the room are teenagers. Dean recognises two of them from the missing person’s pictures in the paper Sam showed him on the drive up. An eighteen year old kid and his sixteen year old sister. They’re foster kids. Most of the missing are. 

If they can gank the alpha, they’ll be back to normal in no time. In the meantime though - 

Dean has no qualms decapitating the teens. 

They’ll live. 

Dean’s distracted a minute later when Tia gets bit. He curses when she screams. Shiny blood pooling in the hollow of her throat. Then he’s slammed against the wall by a Nech.

The young woman’s face is illuminated by torch light. Honey brown eyes. Crazed. Manic. Fearful. 

She scrunches her face up as she gets close to him and staggers back, throwing a hand over her mouth.

“Fuck!” She yells. “Run. Get outta here. Run!"

She’s not shouting at him, but at the other Nechs advancing. Some of them look at Dean. Try and get close. The second they do, their noses wrinkle and their eyes widen in fear. Teeth bared. 

They run back the way they came. All of them. While Dean stares on in shock.

It could easily be another trap, he thinks, bracing his weapon tight in his hand. Copper coins weighing heavy in his pocket. Harsh, adrenaline-filled breaths bouncing off the walls. But if it is a trap, it's a weird play. Makes no damn sense. 

He pushes off from the wall and goes to Tia who’s slid to the floor. Her injury isn’t life threatening, but she’ll turn for sure if they don't kill the alpha soon.  

“My skin’s on fire.” She gasps, hands pressed against her neck. Blood wells and spills over her fingers. Dean grimaces. 

“Yeah. Bite’ll do that. Look, hang tight and we’ll get you outta here. I’ll call Sam.”

He unties Garth before yanking out his phone. 

Garth scents the air. Brow creasing in confusion. 

“Is Castiel here?” 

“No.” Says Dean. “He left before we came into the sewers. Why?” 

Garth shakes his head a little. “Strange. I thought I”- He breaks off. Stares at Dean. His nose twitches. Eyes widening with something akin to realisation. “Oh…!” He breathes. Face splitting into a grin. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

“...Uh?” 

Garth eyes him knowingly. Dean makes the executive decision to get Garth tested for a concussion ASAP. 

“A little help over here!” Tia groans.

Dean gets back on the case. 

They do find the alpha, but not in the sewers. She used the teenagers as bait. Lured the hunters down into the sewers using their trail and holed herself up in some old apartment complex marked for demolition in the next few days. They only find her ‘cause one of the younger Nechs bleats as soon as Dean enters the room.

Sam shoves the coins in the alpha’s mouth. Eileen decapitates her. Dean makes sure Tia doesn’t go full crazy while she turns. 

Thankfully, her transformation’s halted by the lead Nech-fucker’s death, and they can all go home. 

No one seems to know why the others ran from Dean. 

He puts it down to good ol’ Winchester glory. 

*

The glory doesn’t last long. Never does. 

Two days later, Dean’s on self-inflicted bed rest. He hasn’t come out of his room since yesterday. Doesn’t dare. 

Eileen’s not here. She made up some excuse and left Sam and Dean to make the trip back to the bunker alone. Sam was stony-faced and quiet with Dean the whole way back, but Dean couldn’t care less. If he wants to get all butthurt, fine. As far as Dean’s concerned, they both owe him an apology. He’d be sorry for being a dick to Eileen if either of them realised how fucking stupid this whole thing is. 

He’s not surprised when no apology comes.

He’s also not surprised when he wakes up the next morning with a painful squeeze at the base of his skull and an increasingly familiar roil of nausea beginning to prod at his insides.

It’s not bad enough for him to stay in bed all day, but it is bad enough for him to take some advil and swear off drinking for the night. 

The next day is a different story. The squeeze at the back of his head has bloomed into a full on throb, and he knows he won’t keep much down if he tries to eat, so he doesn’t. He cracks open the last gatorade in the fridge and takes tender sips on it from his mattress. He plays Zelda on his switch and watches Game of Thrones and sleeps as much as he can before he starts to sweat and has to throw off the blankets. When he next looks at the clock on his bedside table, it’s eleven pm. Sam hasn’t come to check on him, which - fine. Figures. He’s still pissed. He’ll get over himself soon enough.

In the meantime, Dean will make trips to the kitchen in the middle of the night to refill his water bottle and pick at a block of cheese in the fridge and shower. 

He finds it takes a lot of energy to do any of these things, and when he climbs back into bed at two am with the intention of going to sleep, his muscles have already started to lock up and complain. 

This shit sucks. 

It sucks even worse when he’s woken up two hours later by his phone ringing. 

Dean snatches it off his bedside table, eyes sticking together with sleep, and hits green without checking the ID.

“Someone better be dying.” 

“...They might.” Comes a small voice. 

Jack.

Dean sits up in bed. Rubs his eyes. “Oh, uh… hi, Jack. Sorry. Didn’t know it was you.” 

“...It’s alright, Dean. I can go.” 

“No no no! It’s fine. Everything alright, kid?” They might. Jack’s first words hit Dean like a brick to the head. Fuck. “Is Cas okay?” 

“Yes. Castiel is fine. This - are you alone?” 

“At four am? Whaddya think?” Dean rolls his eyes at the unsure silence. “‘Course I’m alone, kid. What’s goin’ on?” 

“I, um… I wanted to ask for some advice. I'm struggling with something. And I thought you might - understand.” Silence. “It's to do with humanity.” He adds. For clarity. Dean smiles a little in spite of the stabbing pain in his temples and the horrible way his joints complain when he shuffles up against the headboard. 

“Sure, Jack. What can I do ya for?” 

Jack sighs. Long and suffering. “I have to make a decision. Something is - going to happen. It's going to - kill a lot of people. And I can stop it.” 

Now Dean's paying attention. “Uh huh?” He goes for casual. “So, stop it.” 

“If I do, it might upset the balance. Castiel says - says the balance is more important than anything.” 

“Are we talking, like, apocalypse levels of balance?” 

“No.” Jack says hurriedly. “Definitely nothing like that. Just. I'm not sure what to do.” 

Dean hauls in a breath. Knows whatever he says next is important. Remembers what Cas said. 

You have no idea how much he looks up to you. 

Dean can't fuck this up. 

“Look, Jack. I trust you, man. If you think you can fix whatever this is, then fix it. But if you wanna know what I think? Then… Yeah. It’s people. It's always the people. Saving lives? Nothin’ more important.” He huffs. Humourless. “Dedicated my life to savin’ people, Jack.”

“I know, Dean.” There's a short pause. “Thank you.” 

“Any time. You gonna swing by soon?”

“I'll see you for Christmas, remember?” 

Dean smiles. Nods, even though Jack can't see him. “Uh huh. See you then.”

“Bye, Dean.” 

Jack hangs up. Dean rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Chapter Text

“You have a fever.”

Cas comes to him the next night. Stands at the foot of Dean's bed, staring down at him unhappily. 

The dark circles under Cas’ eyes have turned bruise-like. He's pallid. Lax in the shoulders and fatigued-looking. 

“Not lookin’ so hot yourself, sunshine.” Dean croaks from the bed. Memory foam and blankets seeped in sweat. He could barely even handle gatorade today. He's sipped water when he can bear it. Swallowed back the bile which rose every time. Hasn't thrown up yet. Knows he will if this - if Cas doesn't heal him. 

“I've been busy.” Cas’ words are clipped. Like he's mad about something. Mad at Dean for being ill. Like he can fuckin' help it. 

“Then take a break.” 

“Why do you think I'm here?” 

Dean exhales. They glare at each other from across the room. 

“You gonna heal me or what?” Dean eventually snaps. 

A muscle in Cas’ jaw twitches. 

“You're angry at me for leaving.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “No I'm - what? Shut up. I know you had shit to do. Just - I'm sick of being sick. Heal me.” 

Why Cas is hesitating, Dean doesn't have a clue. But he is. Fingers twitching by his sides like he wants to reach out and touch Dean's ankle. But won't. Spending time with Jack to work on heaven and hell stuff always makes him a little nuts. A little more wary. Parent-mode, he guesses. 

“I don't know that I - should.” Cas mouths out the words carefully. 

“You should.” Dean asserts, “Unless you want me to start blowin’ chunks.” 

“I don't want you to be sick, Dean.” 

“Then heal me already.” 

Cas sighs. Gives in. Reaches out and presses two glowing fingers against Dean’s socked ankle. He exhales as he does it. Closes his eyes. They shine behind his lids. Cast warm shadows on the walls. Dean watches as he does it, a little enthralled by the way the muscles in Cas’ face relax. The way his lips part on an open sigh. 

The Grace wipes the fever clean from Dean's body. His temperature goes back to normal and his stomach stops churning, only to be replaced by a yawning hunger. 

He curls in on himself when he's healed. 

“Jeez, I'm starving.” 

Cas nods. Sombre-faced. “I can take away your hunger if you'd like.” 

“And take all the pleasure out of eating? Nah, thanks.” Dean laughs. The scratch in his throat and the rattle in his head are gone. The last two days scrubbed clean. Just like that. He bounces up from his bed and stretches his arms high above his head, t-shirt riding up his hips. He notices Cas tracking the movement in his peripherals. Sees him taking stock of Dean's figure. 

Dean grins. “I was thinkin’ burgers after I shower all this sweat off. You in?”

Cas’ lip twitches. “In. Definitely in.” 

And Dean might've been hallucinating during his fever, ‘cause Cas looks better than he did seconds ago. Miles better. 

*

Cas flies them to the house after burgers. 

Dean knows to expect it now. It's been days since the last time. And Cas - likes it here. That much is obvious. 

He seems to let go of a part of himself when they get into the bedroom. The more human part, Dean thinks.

It's night. Always night. Early dawn at the very most. Dean still hasn't seen what it looks like outside. Hasn't seen the true colour of the walls in the sunlight. 

Since they've been gone, more symmetry has been added to the room. 

There's matching bedside tables. Each topped with an old-style desk lamp. There are sconces in between the arched windows. The room's got more life. It's almost friggin’ cozy. 

“Should've waited to shower.” Dean says out loud. “Used the crazy bathroom again. The pressure on that second head is just - mwah.” He kisses his fingers. 

Cas isn't listening. He's fidgety. Eyes darting. Shuffling his feet. 

“What is it, Cas?” 

Cas’ eyes burn holes in his head. Shadows gather underneath them. 

“Nothing.” 

“Yeah, and I'm goin’ vegan. What is it?” 

Cas’ breath whistles a little as he exhales from his nose. Cards a hand through his hair. Messes it up more. Misplaces a few extra bricks from the skillful facade. 

“I've been worried about Jack. He has… a lot on his plate, so to speak, and after spending time with him over the last few days, I - I see how much of an enormous responsibility he shoulders. How much he takes onto himself. Blames himself, I”- Cas throws off his trenchcoat. Disarms another layer. Folds it and throws it onto the bed where it lands with a soft whumph. “I don't always know how to help him.” 

Dean thinks of the last conversation he had with Jack and, yeah. Everything Cas is saying checks out. Even so. 

“You can't always help him, man. He's gotta figure some things out on his own.” 

Cas’ brows draw together and he clenches his teeth. Glaring again. 

“Dean. He's only four.” 

“Pretty grown for a four year old though, ain't he?” His attempt to lighten the mood falls flat and heavy. “He's not an ordinary kid, Cas. It's not on you to parent him through everything. It's - life's rough. He knows. Doesn't need to be taught the way I did. The way Sam did. It's written in his frickin’ DNA.”

“He has the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.” 

“So do you, man.” 

Cas makes an odd noise. Somewhere between a laugh and a huff. It's derisive. Icy.

“Not like him. I never - I wasn’t wired to care the way you do. The way he does. I only cared about them because of you.” 

Okay. Shit. 

Dean crowds into Cas’ space. Ducks his head so Cas is forced to meet his eyes. 

“By them, you mean… us? Humans.” 

Trepidation scorching, Cas nods. 

“And when you were human, you - it never occurred to you to care as much then, either? It wasn't all me, Cas. Can't have been.” 

Cas shakes his head. Raises his eyes to the ceiling and back down again. 

“No, Dean, I - I was experiencing all the physical aspects of humanity but you know that I've never - that I'm not - I'm not - I can't”-

He's breathless. Overthinking. He sees the cogs turning behind Cas’ eyes. Vibrations of stress rolling off him in waves. Cas is a tuning fork which has just been struck. So Dean does the only thing he can think of and plants both of his palms on top of Cas’ shoulders, squeezing hard. Mutes the vibrations. 

“Cas. Breathe, man.” 

Cas closes his eyes. His shoulders move in forced, steady motions. At least he listens. When he opens his eyes, he says,

“I should take you back. It was rash, taking you here. I wasn't thinking straight.” 

“Don't.” 

No. Take me back, Cas. This is too close. We're too close. In this place. My brain doesn't work properly here. I don't know who I am in here. I don't know what I'll do. What kind of creature I'll become. 

Cas draws in a rough inhale. His shoulders tense under Dean's palms. Dean doesn't know what he's doing. Only knows he can't look away. Can't leave Cas on his own. ‘Cause he's messed up about stuff. About Jack. And being God's dad. Pretty big responsibility. Too big for one guy, angel or not. Which is why he wants so bad for Dean to be his dad too. 

Which is why Dean -

Can’t. 

“Use me.” 

Cas’ mouth didn't move. It wasn't him who spoke. It was Dean.

The darkness in Cas’ eyes widens as his pupils expand. “What?” 

“Use me.” Dean repeats. His mouth tripping ass over kettle to run faster than his brain, which protests with every syllable Dean's traitorous, treacherous mouth utters. “However you want. Take it - take it out on me. How you like it. I know you - like being in control. I think.” 

He squeezes Cas’ shoulders harder. So he doesn't run. He wants to run. 

The indigo in Cas’ eyes is gone. The black eats it all up. All the light. The doubt. Dean sees himself reflected back in Cas’ pupils. Sees the genuine concern on his own face. The hardened determination. To do something. Make this better. Make Cas stay. 

He can't take it when Cas leaves. 

“You don't know what you're asking for.” Cas rasps. His eyes rove over Dean's face. Linger on his mouth. 

“I'm asking you to use me, Cas. I can take it. I told you I can take it. Last time. If you… remember.”  

Cas closes his eyes. Suppresses another sharp breath. Dean feels him shudder under his grip. 

A light in one of the sconces flickers and dies with a soft, fizzing pop. 

When Cas opens his eyes, there's a thin ring of gold surrounding his huge pupils. His mouth is a hard line. 

“Dean.” He intones. A cavern of voice. 

“Castiel.” Dean replies. Voice hard. ‘Cause he likes the way Cas reacts to hearing his full name out loud. Likes the way his eyes widen even more. Glow even brighter. 

“Undress.” Cas says. It's rushed out, like he can't believe he gets to tell Dean to do this. 

Dean lets his hands drop from Cas’ shoulders and steps back a pace to begin peeling off his shirt and his sweats. The air has a bite to it. A chilly undertone of unlived-inness all empty houses carry. No one lives in this house. Not Cas. Not anyone. 

When he's down to just his boxers, Cas reaches out and puts a hand on his chest. 

“Stop. That’s enough.” There are faint spots of colour high on Cas’ cheekbones. He tilts his head as he demands, “Now kneel.” 

Jesus.

Dean's knees hit the hardwood floors before he can preempt the damage he'll no doubt feel from the impact later. 

For now, he doesn't give a damn. Cas is staring down at him with unconcealed wonder. His brow twitches. 

“Wait. Not here. Kneel against the end of the bed.” 

Dean nods. Stands. Goes to the end of the bed and kneels like Cas wants. Like Cas needs. 

Cas needs to feel this. To feel in control. Dean doesn't know how he knows this. Just does. It's like cracking open a bone and seeing the colour of the marrow inside. He's cracked open a little of Cas. Can see the hue of his need. And right now, it's Dean-coloured. So Dean can - mould to that. Shade himself in tones similar enough to whatever Cas needs from him. In this room - in this place - it's all gravy. 

Anything goes in exchange for Grace. 

Cas follows Dean's movements a moment later. Oxford's clacking against the wood. Calm. Deliberate. 

It's already working. 

Cas comes to stand in front of Dean. Above him. Arm's length away. 

“Are you afraid I'll hurt you?” 

“No.”

“Why not?” Cas asks. 

Dean makes his lame mouth work around words. The conversational part of him and the - uh - sex-adjacent parts don't usually occupy the same time frame. It takes a minute to get used to.

“Because you - won't.” Dean mumbles. “I know you won't.” 

Cas kneels in front of him. The whites of his eyes shine with Grace. Translucent gold. Morning sun through a foggy window pane. 

He tilts his head at Dean. Studying. “Unless you ask me to.” 

Dean bites his lip as the words fly straight to his dick. He doesn't know why this is so - intoxicating. Why his body responds the way it does to Cas talking like this. Looking at him like this. Like Dean's a meal he's about to devour. Or a bug stuck on a pin he's about to dissect. 

“Tie me up.” Dean says. Flushing hard at the outburst. “Please - before I”- 

“Before you what, Dean?” Cas tilts his head the other way. Closer. Breath ghosting. A tang of ozone and petrichor flavouring it. 

“Run away.” Dean admits, realising as he says it that there's no fresh Grace in his system. Not since before the burgers. It's still there, but it's not enough. Nowhere near enough to make him take this. Own up to this. Go back to his bed later with the knowledge that this transpired between them. 

“I'll try to leave. You - have to. Before I change my mind, man.” Dean resents the tremble in his voice, but Cas doesn't argue. He nods minutely before pressing his fingers against the slats behind Dean's head. 

Silk ropes coil around Dean's wrists and forearms, cinching him tightly to the frame. His back is forced up straight until his shoulder blades are pressed up against cold, unforgiving wood. 

The last addition - which does surprise Dean - is a gag around his mouth. Tied firmly around his head and slotting between his lips to sit, dry and rough, against his teeth. 

He makes a sound, and Cas presses his finger against Dean's mouth. Silencing him. 

Dean breaths hard, every pant exemplified by the thin material around his mouth. 

“I can take it off.” Cas offers. Raises a brow. Challenging. 

Dean thinks. 

Shakes his head. 

Cas’ smirk is tiny. Barely there. But real and involuntary and proof that Dean was right. He enjoys this. It isn't just about giving Grace for him. No way. He likes having Dean totally at his mercy. 

And Dean -

Fuck, Dean loves it. 

He guesses being tied up so many times over the years was bound to give him a complex or two. One which Cas is exploiting to the max. ‘Cause Dean lets him.

Would he still do it if Dean didn't let him? 

Dean thinks - wants to say no. He wouldn't. Cas would always ask first. But he's -

He's not sure. 

And that, unfortunately, turns Dean on even more. 

Which is so wrong and so fucked up on so many levels but goddamn if it isn't just more (and more and more and more) proof that Dean's beyond saving. 

Grace licks inside his ribcage. Purrs. Finds its home next to the pulsing ventricles of his heart. 

He shifts awkwardly on his knees. Loves and hates the hard scrape against his bones. Cas notices. A second later, there's a black, silk-covered pillow for him to kneel on. He makes an appreciative sound and Cas gives him a genuine smile now. Pleased. He strokes Dean's hair. 

Dean lets him. And lets him and lets him. Closes his eyes as the warm flat of Cas’ hand smooths over the curve of his skull again and again. 

In this state, Dean can't fight back. Can't even protest - he's gagged. It's so nice and so gentle and so the opposite of what he was expecting. A fear of it ties tight and knotted in his gut. 

You're supposed to hurt me, he thinks. You're supposed to hurt me and hurt me until I can't think anymore. 

Cas’ fingers scrape. Tug on his hair. Hard. 

“Is this what you want?” He growls.

“Ngh.” (yes) Dean gasps behind the gag. Neck exposed. 

Cas lunges forward with a snarl and mouths at Dean’s throat. Hot, wet, spit, open-mouthed, pressing, licking, teeth grazing, biting - 

Dean yelps as Cas’ teeth pierce his skin. Drawing blood. Moans when his tongue siphons Grace into the wound, healing it instantly. 

Cas’ hand tightens in Dean's hair. Softens again. Strokes. Claws. Rakes down the back of his neck, leaving long scratches in its wake. He palms Dean's shoulder blades, catching his knuckles between the firm meat of Dean's back and the unforgiving slats. 

Cas’ other hand trails along Dean's abdomen. Nearly tickling. Trailing up and up, catching on his nipple. He rolls one between his thumb and forefinger while he etches crescents into Dean's back with his nails. 

His mouth licks and bites and scrapes. There are animal sounds rumbling from his chest. In the darkness behind his eyelids, Dean lets the creature that is Castiel ravage him. 

By the time Cas’ fingers are slotting under the waistband of his boxers, Dean's hard enough to hammer nails. 

Cas frees his cock from the constraints of his pants and tucks the waistband under his balls. It stands to attention. Engorged and angry and woefully untouched. 

Dean whimpers when both Cas’ hands come to rest on either side of his dick. Thumbs pressed into the vee of his groin, lightly massaging. The backs of his hands stroking the inside of Dean's thighs. 

“Please,” Dean tries to say. It sounds more like, “Eef” through the gag.  

He opens his eyes. 

Cas’ dry lips are upturned in a half-smile. Eyes glowing and unreadable. His shirtsleeves are unbuttoned. The edge of a loose cuff brushes against his dick. It sends shockwaves through his pelvis. He bucks up into it, and of course Cas moves away. 

“I'm not going to make this easy for you, Dean.” Cas says. 

Like he ever makes this easy. He could drag it out for hours. Has done before. But Dean thinks - suspects Cas might not be able to wait that long. There's an edge about him today. An undone-ness. Dynamite next to a match. Dean's just gotta light it.

A second later, Cas grabs Dean's cock and begins to jerk him dry. 

It's rough and filthy and animal. Fast and hard and so unexpected that Dean chokes and snaps his head against the wood as an onslaught of pleasure begins to build in the pit of his abdomen. 

“Mmph…” 

He's not gonna last like this. What the hell is Cas thinking? He doesn't want it to be over this quick but he has no choice, he - he's so close - he - he -

Cas stops. 

Removes his hand. 

An involuntary whine rips out of Dean as he thrusts his hips and chases the orgasm. His dick twitches as the ebbing pleasure retreats. 

There's a minute where Cas doesn't touch Dean at all. Just lets him recover from his almost orgasm. Lets him breathe. Wiggle against his restraints as he tries to find a comfortable position but can't. 

Then he does it again. 

Dean's noise of protest when Cas removes his hand a second time is laced with genuine anger. And Cas - the Bastard - smiles. 

This happens three more times. 

Eventually, Dean starts to get fatigued. His body is in a constant state of waiting. Muscles clenched. Thighs trembling and pins and needles spiking the soles of his feet. His wrists burn where he's pulled hard against the ropes and his mouth has become horribly dry from the gag. 

He's about to pray for Cas to please fucking stop when the angel touches his shoulder. Gets his attention. 

“I need you to watch me.” He tells him as Dean's eyes start to flicker shut again. 

He does. 

Cas taps the underside of Dean's aching dick, the smooth base of the shaft just above his balls, with two firm fingers. The motion is so perfunctory, it's not even - arousing. But it piques his interest. 

Then, he brings his free hand up to Dean's eye level and makes an elusive gesture which is at first lost on him. He curls his fingers and then closes his fist before pulling up his hand. As he does, there's a tightening at the base of his dick. 

Cas is pulling an imaginary rope. Blocking the come. Denying him his release in a gesture so deliberate and obscene it makes his dick tighten around the invisible restraint. The other end of which Cas is holding tight in his fist. His eyes beam with Rapture. The first light of creation held finely in those gold-blue irises. 

The fucking biblical creature that is Castiel has all his attention trained on Dean's dick. More specifically, on denying him his orgasm.

Just because he can. Because he's powerful enough to do this whenever he wants. Dean couldn't do a damned thing to stop him, and he knows it. 

But the omnipotent creature that is Castiel always makes Dean want it first. 

Just because he can. 

It's this, Dean realises, which is almost as addictive as the Grace he's spoon feeding Dean on a whim. Knowing that whatever he does, however hard he tries, he is weak in the presence of this man. This angel. 

This angel who loves him. Who changed because of him. Who cared because Dean cared. 

It makes no sense.

Why? Why, why, why, why him? 

Tears well as Dean's thoughts overwhelm him. Tears and a barrage of come drawing tight in his balls. Making his cock twitch and drip pearly wet beads onto the satin pillow below him. 

The room swims. The tears fall. Hot and thick and too fast to stay behind his eyelids. Squeezing them shut makes them fall faster. 

Cas licks his plush lower lip. Swollen from its earlier attention on Dean's body. Biblical light blurs into lines and stars like the astigmatism Dean never got treated.

He hauls in a shaky, muffled gasp as he watches Cas watching him. 

He wants Cas to kiss him. 

He wants to kiss Cas. 

The ropes prevent Dean from moving forward even an inch. 

The gag around his mouth is tight. Digs in when he tries to move. 

Right. He's gagged. 

Kissing would be. Well. Not optimal. Like this. 

He stops trying to move and lets his head drop with a soft whine. 

Cas tilts his head. Gazing at Dean with such intense curiosity. Archaic fascination burning holes into his skull. 

Then Cas leans forward and licks, slowly and just with the tip of his tongue, from the bolt of his jaw where the tears cling and up to the corner of Dean's eye. Laps up his tears again. He makes a low, rough sound in the back of his throat as he licks back down. Replaces Dean's tears with his spit. 

And Dean doesn't. 

Doesn't mind. 

Likes it. 

Wonders for an insane fucking second what it would be like to go back in time and suck up Cas' tears the day he got taken by the Empty. Imagines if his "I love you, Dean" had been answered by Dean doing this to him instead. Wonders, uselessly, if it would have startled him enough to stop being happy. If it would have stopped the Empty. 

Cas' tongue is hot and gentle on his face. 

It just makes the tears come faster. 

Is Cas doing this? Making him cry with his Grace 'cause he likes the taste of Dean's sorrow? The salty tang of suffering on his tongue? Or does seeing Dean cry just turn him on for some reason?

If the force of Dean's impending orgasm is anything to go by, he'd guess the latter. 

“Mmph.” Dean complains as the sensations in his body heighten to such a dizzying extent, he's genuinely afraid he's gonna pass out. 

Cas pulls back. Pauses. Hooks two fingers under the gag and pulls. 

It floats free from Dean's mouth. Strays onto his dick and hangs there obscenely. 

“Please.” Dean pants. Mouth dryer than the Sahara desert. Eyes stinging and hot. Grace edging his come forward and stopping it all at one. “Can't, Cas. Can't.” 

Cas’ eyes are completely golden-blue. Dean squints against the light. Struggles to see the rest of his angel's features. Like stage-lights. He's the actor who can't see the spectators. Bathed in warm, blinding light. None the wiser to the intense scrutiny every cell of him is under right now. 

When Cas reaches down and touches him again, his hand is warm and slick. The scent of honey and thunder catches in Dean's nostrils. Fucking delicious. It's that massage oil again. 

He leans his head back as his mouth begins to salivate at the scent. Has the weirdest urge to taste it. 

Cas must hear his desires. He says nothing. He's become a creature of rapture and light. But he responds. 

He lifts two thick, oiled fingers to Dean's mouth while he jacks him with his other hand and pushes against the seam of his lips. 

The sweet taste explodes on Dean's tongue as Cas’ fingers breach his mouth. Firm and crooked up to rest against the flat of his palette.

He presses his tongue up into Cas’ fingers on a groan. Can't get enough of the taste. Sunshine. Honey. Citrus and fresh, prehistoric rain. 

It tastes like Grace. 

Dean sucks hard on Cas’ fingers and Cas jerks him through it. His hand moving faster and faster with every push and pull of his fingers. 

He's fucking Dean's mouth with his hand. 

It's this thought which sends Dean, finally, flying over the edge. 

Cas releases the Grace rope and all the come rockets out of him like a burst dam, spraying onto the oak floors with an audible splat and decorating the silk pillowcase. 

Cas squeezes and pumps his dick until Dean's whimpering from the oversensitivity. All the while his fingers move in and out of his mouth. 

Dean's sucked all the oil off, but the taste remains pleasantly on his tongue. Coating his throat. 

He groans and Cas removes his fingers. They remain joined by a long spit trail which breaks and falls down Dean’s chin. A nice, wet cherry on top of the Debauchery cake they've just baked. 

Cas draws back with a hiss. Pushes the flat of his palm against the straining bulge through his slacks for a hot, unbelievable second before wrenching it away and standing above Dean. Fists clenched by his sides. 

“Want me to…? I'll… if you… want…” Dean pants, the aftershocks of his orgasm scrambling his words. Turning his limbs to water. He doesn't even know what he's offering. 

He just wants Cas to come. Needs Cas to come. He'll do whatever it takes to make it happen. 

“Cas”-

“Don't move.” Cas orders through gritted teeth. Like Dean can fuckin’ go anywhere. The bonds haven’t slackened an inch. 

Cas marches around the bed until Dean can't see him. Can't move his neck that far back. 

He hears the mattress springs give. Cas’ laboured breathing behind him. Assumes he's kneeling. On the end of the bed. Behind Dean. Above Dean. 

There's the tell-tale clink of a belt-buckle being fumbled with, followed by the short, desperate zip of a fly being yanked down. A rustle of fabric and then. 

… 

“...Ah…”

Fuck. 

Cas is totally jacking off. 

Dean can hear - skin. The fast, harsh, jerking movement of his hand against his dick. His uncuffed shirt-sleeves flapping. Laboured breaths. A short choke. Right behind him.

“...Dean…” 

It's whispered in the dark. Said as if - as if he’s alone. Tryna’ be discreet. 

“Fuck, Cas…” Dean can't help but respond. If he had it in him - he knows he'd be hard again already just hearing this. He pulls against the restraints. Tries to turn against them to just fucking see -

If anything, the ropes tighten. 

“Cas, I”-

“Come for me again, Dean.” Cas grinds out. Dripping with arousal. 

“I - fuck, I would if I could”-

“You can”-

“No, I… Oh, god… ”

God damn fuckin’ Grace. 

Dean feels his balls filling back up. Too much. Way too much. His dick gets so hard so quick - he's dizzy. Blood rushing south all at once. 

Dean can't get a hand on himself. Has nothing to fuck up into. Has no choice but to buck his hips up into nothing and hang on for dear life as another orgasm rounds up and on him again. Like a sneaker wave. Too fast to fight. 

“Cas - Cas - fuck”- 

“Yes, Dean.” Cas encourages. His voice is wrecked. “Come for me. Come with me. Come.” 

Dean's abs burn with the force of holding himself up, thrusting up as the need to find release seizes every muscle in his body. His thighs quake and his dick jumps as he comes with more force than he thought possible. Long, thick ropes of the stuff spurt from him on a yell. 

And as he comes, so does Cas. 

Dean only sees the evidence of his orgasm. Watches it fall on the floor from over his shoulder. Joining his own puddle of come on the pretty wooden boards. On the silk pillowcase. One jet lands on Dean's thigh. Hot and sticky and fucking - fuck. So fucking good. 

He comes for as long as Cas does - which is to say, longer than he ever has in his life. 

Their voices meld in groans and gasps. Dying into pants. 

Cas’ knuckles graze the back of Dean's neck where he grasps the end board for purchase. 

The bonds fall away, and Dean's entire body slumps to the side. Exhausted. Humming with Grace and aftershocks of pleasure. 

Cas zips up his fly and fastens up his belt before Dean can think to turn around and - look. 

He's kind of glad he didn't. 

Not sure what he'd do with the information of - of knowing what Cas’ dick looks like. Wants to know but also. 

Doesn't.

Can't. 

Another impossible thing. 

He closes his eyes and lets the sweat and come cool on his body. Plays off his exhaustion pretty well, he thinks, as Cas gathers himself back up behind him. 

“So, ready for another road trip?” Dean manages before his elbow dies under his weight and he ends up kissing the floor with a thud and an “oof!”

Cas actually laughs. 

Dean does turn around for that. Cas’ nose is crinkled. The unearthly light is gone from his eyes and he's already got one arm back through his trenchcoat. Pausing to crack up at Dean's expense. It’s a great sound, Cas laughing. Dean’s missed it. So much so that he forgets to snipe at Cas for making fun of him. Often forgets how Cas’ laughter sounds until he hears it again. Low and deep and full of unbridled mirth.

And, yeah. 

So help him. Dean laughs too.

Chapter Text

Not for the first time, Despair arrives in the form of Jack. 

They’re past the Texas border, on the way to finish plotting the last outpost. They’re takin’ their time, Dean thinks. Spending one morning too many scoping out potential cases nearby. Dilly dallying over motels. 

And, so what? 

When are they both gonna get a chance to get out on the road again without Sam and Eileen breathing down their necks? 

Maybe when they actually build the damn outposts.

Hell of a road trip that’ll be. 

‘Til then, they’ve just got this. One last foray out into the middle of nowhere.

It’s here, on the I-45 between Houston and Dallas, that Jack calls out to Cas. Dean doesn’t hear it. It’s some kinda telepathic link. But Cas, riding shotgun, just says -

“Jack needs me. I have to go.” And he’s gone with a breeze and a flap of wings. 

Dean decides not to think too much of it. An hour down the road, he pulls over at the nearest rinky-dink motel and sends Cas his location. 

He whips up dust with his heel. Drinks a beer out on the curb and plays games on his phone while he waits for Cas to come back.

Even pulls out his laptop and waits for it to wheeze to life as it connects to the motel’s shaky wifi. Sees if there are any cases nearby.

There’s not. 

Cas doesn’t come back until dusk is brushing soft, blue hues over the horizon. He arrives with Jack in tow. Face set in stone. Doesn’t bother to knock to let Dean know he’s there before bursting into the motel room.  

Dean lowers his shotgun. “Dude, what the hell”- 

Cas’ eyes - glacial, crystal lasers - find Dean’s. And yeah. Something - something’s happened. 

“Have you checked the news lately?” He demands. Lip curled. 

“Castiel”- Jack half-begs behind him. Sending worried glances between Dean and Cas like - like shit’s about to hit the fan. 

Dean blinks. “The news? Why the fuck would I check the news?” 

“Maybe you should.” Cas stalks towards Dean, backing him up against the shitty little kitchenette. A bottle falls as he leans back to get away from Cas and his smitey expression. 

“Why?” He snaps. “Cas, what? What’s going on?” 

Cas is - 

Yeah.

Pissed.

Pissed at Dean. 

Whatever storm’s raging in him right now, he checks it. Pulls back. Face smooth as marble.

“You and I should go for a drive. I don’t want Jack to hear this.” 

“Casti”- Jack tries again. This time, he’s silenced by Cas’ expression. The poor kid’s face is torn up in all sorts of directions. 

“It’s alright, Jack.” Dean soothes. “Me and Cas’ll be back soon. Hang tight.” 

He snatches his keys up from the bedside table and follows Cas’ marching form out the door. The angel’s climbing in the passenger seat as soon as Dean’s unlocked it. And Dean just - drives. Heart hammering with dread. He doesn’t dare look at Cas as they go. He watches the needle nudge fifty as he drives. Watches it like he’s never watched it before. Seconds slip by like sludge. 

He can see Venus on the horizon. The evening star. Drives towards that. 

Cas is clenching and unclenching his hands in his lap. Mouth pressed in a hard line. Breathing hard through his nose. 

Finally, he says,

“Why didn’t you tell me you spoke to Jack?” 

Dean swallows. Struggles. “I didn’t - it was just - he just called me”- 

“Why?”

“To ask for advice, man! Jeez. What the fuck’s going on?” 

“And you didn’t think that might be significant? That he called you?” 

Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Don’t patronise me, Cas. Don’t fuckin’ dare. You’re the one who said I’m his father. That he. Looks up to me or whatever. Just. Fuckin’ tell me what happened.” 

Cas is scarily still for a minute. 

“Pull over.” Cas orders.

“I - what”-

“Pull over. We can’t have this conversation while you’re driving.” 

Dean huffs, but he does. Rolls up on the side of the deserted road. Fields stretch out for miles all around. Stars pepper the skies above their heads. Flung across the canvas of space like pretty jewels. Sun’s nearly all set. 

Cas slams out of the car. Paces up and down the roadside a couple times before rounding on Dean. 

“Hundreds of people are dead and Jack believes it’s his fault.” 

Dean freezes halfway out the driver’s side. Closes his door softly and stands there. 

Cas is glaring at him with some kind of - significance. And he still doesn’t fucking get it. 

“There was an earthquake.” Cas continues, carding a hand through his hair. Jaw tight. Twitching as he clenches his teeth. “In Indonesia. It happened late this morning.”

“When Jack called you…”

“Yes.” Cas bites. “There wasn’t supposed to be an earthquake.” 

Dean’s head is blank. He’s just. Standing there. Lost. “And how the hell is an earthquake his fault? And what’s that gotta do with me?” 

“Everything!” Cas asserts. Eyes pleading. Dean doesn’t know what for. “He called you because - because of the conversations you’ve been having. You made him believe he could change the course of a catastrophic event to save lives, but you - of course you didn’t think - you didn’t listen"- Cas breaks off, despondent. He hauls in a breath and glowers at Dean’s clueless expression. “It was supposed to be a volcanic eruption. Jack knew it was coming. Sensed it. It was going to hit an island off the coast of Japan. Hundreds would have been affected. So, he called you. Because you got it into his head that he’s - he’s an all powerful being and he can save anyone on a whim.” 

“He’s God!” Dean emphasises, frustration building the more Cas speaks. “That’s literally what God fucking does, Cas! Of course I told him to save people ‘cause that’s - that’s what we do.” 

Cas sighs. Long and low. And drops his head. “It is not. That. Simple. I’ve been trying to teach Jack - to teach you.”

“Teach me what, exactly?” Dean grits out. “‘Cause you clearly haven’t done a good job if I can’t even fuckin’ remember.” 

Cas makes a sound of disbelief. “You - I told you, Dean! That just because God created Earth, that doesn’t mean he can mess with it at will! It is a self-sufficient machine. Jack siphoned energy away from the volcano, but it just ended up somewhere else - hence the earthquake. Because that’s what energy does. It finds other places to go. It cannot be destroyed. Not by Jack. Not by anything. And now he’s - he’s distraught, because you told him he could save people!” 

“I didn’t know, Cas!” Dean yells. Throws his arms up. “How the hell would I know?” 

“Did you ask?” Cas snipes. Eyes narrowing. “Did you care? Did you not even think to tell me? I could have - stopped this. Helped him through it. Helped him learn. He’s young and he’s”-

“He’s not a fucking baby.” Dean snaps. “Jack’s God, dude. So, what? He made a mistake. We all do, that’s how we learn.” 

“Do your mistakes usually cost hundreds of lives?” Cas rounds Baby’s hood. Points at Dean. Dean bats his hand away. “This wasn’t Jack’s mistake. It was yours. Again.” 

“What, you’re still pissed about him getting a little wasted?” Dean scoffs. “Hate to burst your bubble, but that’s parenthood, man. Kids rebel.” 

“Jack is not a rebel.” Cas intones. Judgement and disappointment etched all over his face. “He isn’t a hunter. He wasn’t raised like you, Dean. To be tough and stupid and trigger-happy. That is not what he is."

“Fuck you.” Dean spits, turning on his heel. Going nowhere. Just getting away from Cas. “Fuck that. All I did was try to help.” 

“You didn’t listen. You told him not to listen to me.” There’s hurt. In Cas’ face. In the cold, plunging indigo depths of his eyes. It’s a hurt Dean resents. Wants to stamp out and laugh at all at once. 

“So, what? Do you want me involved in Jack’s life or not? ‘Cause one minute you’re saying he looks up to me and the next you’re punishing me for trying to help! I told him what any of us would, Cas. To save people. And, yeah, when it comes to humanity I told him not to take everything you say so seriously.” Dean admits. “‘Cause look at yourself, Cas! You’re not fuckin’ human!” 

“And yet at times I seem to understand far more about them than you.” Cas seethes. The air is still. Not even a hint of a breeze to carry their voices away. The words stay between them. Piling on top of each other like cards in Blackjack. “You are so deliberately blind to people, Dean. So determined to see only what you want to see. In me. In Jack. In your brother. Do you know how hard we’ve all tried to reach out to you and you just” - He stops. Shakes his head. 

And this is where Dean just - short-circuits. ‘Cause nah. What the fuck. “Cas, you’re a fuckin’ hypocrite.” He scoffs. “You don’t tell me shit. You never have. When things get hard, you bail. You leave with no explanation and you - you’ve always done that. Left me hangin’ and out the loop.” Cas frowns at him. Opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. 

“But somehow this is about Jack, huh?” Dean continues. “You’re mad ‘cause he came to me and not you. You’re mad ‘cause you’re worried I’d turn out to be a better father than you are and you’re mad”-

“This isn’t some sort of pathetic parental squabble!” Cas shouts. Voice breaking the old, Texan quiet. “Jack might see us both as his fathers but I can tell you with absolute certainty which one of us he is more comfortable speaking to. He’s afraid of you, Dean. You intimidate him. Your behaviour contradicts everything I’ve taught him to be. Everything he is on his own.” Cas takes a step towards Dean. “Your hardness. Your fear of feeling anything that isn’t violence or inane humour. He doesn’t understand why someone would do that. Why someone would deny their instincts so religiously. Press down everything which makes them good to - to become what you are so desperately trying to portray yourself as.” The next step Cas takes brings him right up in Dean’s space. “But at least I can assure you, Dean, that your father would be extremely proud.” 

The force of the smack across Cas’ face is blunt and ugly.

Cas is, physically, unaffected by it. His head turns a little with the force, but Dean just succeeds in cracking his own knuckle. Already knows it’s fucked. He’s more than familiar with this brand of pain. Socking an angel at full juice is never recommended ‘cause they’re made of stronger stuff than iron. 

He sucks in a breath through his teeth and holds his hand up to his chest. Holds the pain in. Staggers back from the angel. His angel. Not his angel. 

He feels like he’s been stabbed with an object which wasn’t designed to impale. The twisted blade of it sits right in his gut. Cold and deformed. 

“Fuck you.” He whispers into the twilight. It’s all he’s got. “All this time you’ve been edging at me”- Dean winces at his choice of words. Fumbles amidst the fog of terror and slow, rising dread. “Pushing my buttons.” He says firmly. “Testing me. Trying to prove - something. I don’t know what you want from me, Cas, but I’ve had enough. I can’t do this. I - can't.” 

Cas watches him. Face unreadable. 

“I love you.” Says Cas. Like it’s a death sentence. “But I often wish I didn’t. You are the knife I turn inside myself. ” 

“Then don’t.” Dean gasps. The pain blooms. From his hand. Up his wrist. Along his limbs. Settles in his chest. Throbs. “Don’t fuckin’ love me, Cas. Stop.” 

Cas shakes his head. “You don’t make it easy, Dean.” Gives a humourless half-smile. “Do you know how many mistakes I’ve made since coming back from the Empty?” 

Dean does. He’s made them himself. 

But they’re not gonna talk about this.

Not here.

Not now.

“Do you know how hard I’ve tried to make myself stop?” 

He thinks of Cas pulling back from him after every time (bar the latest two). The way he very deliberately does not kiss him. And Dean doesn’t either ‘cause that - that would make it -

More than what it is. 

Even though he wants to. 

“But how could I when you wanted it so badly?” 

“Cas.” 

“When you prayed for me in your sleep?” 

“Cas.” 

“When you thought of me every time you became aroused. Every time you masturbated, or thought of finding a woman to sleep with, or”- 

“Cas, fucking stop.” 

Cas tilts his head. Regards him with utter fascination. 

“You are so afraid of what we are.” He murmurs. 

Dean’s entire body is on fire. And he’s freezing. And his hand is broken and this is the worst moment of his life. 

“We aren’t anything, Cas. Get it out your fuckin’ head, ‘cause we’re not. Not. What you think we are.” 

Cas’ expression snaps from curiosity to contempt. “How can you still deny it after everything?” 

“Because”- Dean can deny it because. He has one trick left up his sleeve. The one thing he’s always used to lull himself to sleep at night when he starts thinking about it too hard. “Because of the fuckin’ Grace, that’s how.” 

Cas stills. Arms by his sides. Face blank. 

It’s a warning sign. One Dean’s seen before. Plenty. Right before the other worst moments of his life. 

“You really think I would’a done any of that shit without your juice in my system? Without your - your Grace meathooks in my brain?” He rasps, taking a step towards Cas now. Chasing the denial. “You really fuckin’ believed any of that was real? I would never have - ever - if you hadn’t put that shit in me.” 

Cas will see through the lie. 

He always does.

He’ll argue and he’ll heal Dean’s hand and they’ll bicker and drive back to the motel. Maybe tomorrow they’ll get pancakes again with Jack. If he stays. Dean will be silent. He’ll deny this. They don’t need to ever have this conversation again. It’s gonna be outta the way after this.

Dean consoles himself with that while Cas’ face remains blank and white and utterly -

Broken. 

“...You…” Cas says, and as he does, the blue in his eyes begins to blur. 

Dean doesn’t get it. He’s still waiting for the anger. For him to snap and - and call his fuckin’ bluff already. 

Cas’ eyes well with tears. 

I love you. 

Goodbye, Dean. 

No. Nononononono -

“Are you saying - I” - Cas tries to gasp. Hitches on a breath. Edge of a sob. “Are you saying I forced"- 

His voice breaks. He can’t finish his fuckin’ sentence. And Dean is so done and hates the tears so much that he says, 

“If that’s what you wanna get from what I said then fucking fine, Cas. I ain't gonna spell it out for you.” He kicks the dusty roadside. A brown plume coats his jeans. Turns his back and leans against the trunk. Curses. Rubs his eyes with his uninjured hand. 

Because letting Cas believe he raped Dean is easier than going to him. Easier than wiping his tears away and putting this right and telling the - the truth.

Whatever the truth is. 

Dean just knows it isn’t this. It wasn't rape. No fuckin’ way. But this would be so much easier if it was. It was so much easier to hate Cas than it is to - to have whatever it is they have now. At least he had a real person to direct his anger towards. He didn't turn the blade inward, then. He threw it at Cas. And Cas took it. Every goddamn time. 

But now, he - he's broken. Can't cope with a reality where he likes Cas loving him. Enjoys having sex with him. And. And he's so fucked in the head he wishes it was rape. How the hell does he begin to explain that to Cas? 

When he turns around to - try, Cas is gone. 

“Fucking - fuck!” Dean swears. Kicks the dirt instead of Baby ‘cause he’s not gonna take this out on his car. Even though the urge to dent the black metal is nearly overwhelming. “Fine!” Dean yells at the sky. “Just fuckin’ run away like you always do!” 

Coward. Junkless, feathered bastard. Dean prays as hard as he can. Then remembers the last time he prayed to Cas and feels heat burn his face and shame knock the blunt object in his gut sideways. 

“Fuck this.” 

He drives back to the motel one-handed. Which he hates doing. But he’s not waiting on some backwards dirt road for Cas to come back and - and solve this.

He’ll come crawling back later. He’ll fix Dean’s hand. And this will just be another stupid fuckin’ argument for the books. 

Dean stops at a liquor store on the way home. Picks up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and stomps back into the motel nursing his hand. Already two shots down. 

“Hi, Dean.” 

The small voice from the other twin in the room startles him. Dean reaches for his gun but it -

It's just Jack.

He forgot he was here. Waiting for him. 

“Shit. Hey, Jack. Still here?” 

Jack shrugs. Eyes glued to the TV. There's some cartoon playing. A re-run of Tom and Jerry.  

Jack's eyes are wide. He's chewing his lip. 

His knees are scrunched up to his chest and he’s wearing the horrible yellow hoodie they got him from Target. Ducky converse on the blankets. 

Dean decides now probably isn't the right time to tell him to get his shoes off the bed. 

Instead, he perches on the end of the other twin and takes another swig of Jack.

Ha.

Jack and Jack.

It's not very funny. 

Dean toes off his boots and shimmies up his bed with a full body sigh. 

“Your dad ran off.” He admits. “He's pretty mad at me.”

Jack ducks his head and stares at the ducks on his shoes. “I know. I told him it wasn't your fault.” 

Dean snorts. “Thanks. It was, though.” 

Jack shakes his head. Hunches his shoulders higher. 

“I didn't respect the balance.” Jack concedes, hanging his head. 

Dean doesn't know what to say to console him. While Jack watches TV, he scrolls on his phone and pulls up the news. 

It was a huge quake. Richter seven point five. A lot of people died. 

Was it more than if the volcano had just erupted like it was supposed to? 

How populated was the area?

Could they have prepared for it? Known it was coming? 

Dean throws his phone on the bed. Face down. Drinks as Jack watches more cartoons. 

Hours pass this way. Neither of them move much. Or talk. Dean thinks he. Should. 

Maybe not right now, ‘cause he's half a bottle down and he can't stop picturing Cas’ face. Cas’ tears. It's driving him fuckin’ nuts. He's torn between fury and guilt. Both at Cas and himself. 

Maybe they'll talk in the morning. 

Yeah.

Morning sounds good. 

“I think - I need to go.” Jack says sometime before midnight. Chewing his lip hard. Threading and unthreading his fingers around his knees. 

“Yeah. You go.” Dean agrees. ‘Cause he ain't exactly good company right now. He can always call him in the morning, after all. They don't have to speak face to face. 

There's some talk show on. The audience laughs and the host may as well be speakin’ Chinese. Fuck if Dean understands what's going on. 

Jack leaves, and Dean drinks until he passes out. 

He doesn't call Jack in the morning. Or Cas. He stays in bed until late afternoon. Until his stomach complains and his tongue feels like sandpaper and he's forced to chug a bottle of water and snack on some nachos he got from the grocery store yesterday. 

They're the wrong flavour and they don't sit too well. 

Cas still isn't back. 

Dean checks his phone. He has a notification from an app he downloaded to count his steps.

2,086 yesterday. 

His supposed goal is 10,000. 

Fuck it.

Dean showers until there's no hot water left. Lets the icy spray seep into his skin for a few seconds before shutting the water off. 

His knuckles are purple, nearly black. He's relegated to using his left hand for everything. Wincing any time he brushes his right against anything or accidentally reaches out to grab something with it. 

When Cas doesn't come crawling back that night either, Dean scours the web for hours and actually manages to find a potential hunt. Possible possession case. 

He'll have to drive a few hours back down the I-45 towards Houston but it’s better than sitting on his ass drinking JD until he blacks out again. He sets off before the sun sets and arrives in the town before dawn. Naps in Baby. Wakes up with the claws of a biblical migraine scraping the inside of his skull. He digs a loose advil out of the glove compartment and takes that. Ducks into the nearest diner and downs three shots of espresso before braving the case. 

He should've known it wasn't for him when it took so long to find something. When the link he found it on was an ask on frickin’ Reddit. 

The teen boy ain’t possessed. He's just regular crazy. Salt and holy water don't do shit. He ain't saying the lord's prayer backwards or showing any usual signs. He thinks he's the messiah. 

Dean gives the boy's confused mother the relevant numbers she should call. Points her in a better direction for help. And leaves. ‘Cause sometimes that’s all their job is. Back-alley counselling and a phonebook for the nut house. 

Disappointed, pissed and sporting a very real headache, Dean makes it back to the motel right before the first wave of fever hits him. 

He shivers through a hot shower. Dresses. Coughs up mucus into his hand and cracks open the next bottle on the menu. Prays to Cas. 

I hope you're happy wherever you are. Putting me through this. My head fuckin’ kills. My hand's even worse. Come back already, bitch. 

Cas doesn't come back. 

Dean sits in his car and drinks. He turns his head to glare at the empty passenger seat and spots what Cas left behind. Wedged between the seat and the door. 

It's the latest book he's been reading. Blind, drunken curiosity makes Dean reach out and yank it from its prison. 

Letters to Milena. Sounds fuckin’ gay, Dean thinks, snorting to himself at the inane thought. And then the irony. Pot, kettle black and all that. He thumbs through the pages. Cas has written in this one. Underlined things and made notes in the margins. 

The book falls open on a page where Cas has highlighted just one line.

“You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.”

*

The rinky-dink motel is on the edge of a rinky-dink town with a few little rinky-dink bars. 

It's in one of these bars that Dean finds - whatever her name is. 

They crash into the motel room. All tongue and teeth. Her breath tastes of tequila. He makes a fist in her head of coily hair and pulls a little, eliciting a high, pleased moan. 

He keeps his other hand - bandaged, now - firmly on the curve of her waist. Under the brown leather bomber she's got on over her purple mini dress. 

Dean decided he'd liked that combo. Bomber jacket mini dress. An edge of masculine over the feminine. Kinky hair spilling all over it. Inviting him in. 

He hadn't really looked at her face. Doesn't need to in the dark. Doesn't need to know her name either. She'd been too shy to make the first move, but opened up immediately when he'd come over after spotting her looking at him for the fifth time in as many minutes. 

She wanted him. In that way he could tell she thought he was out of her league. Dean knows he has that effect on people. He's used it to his advantage in situations like this countless times. And not for the first time, thought: you have no idea how wrong you are. 

And tonight it's what's-her-name who's pulled the short straw thinking she's hit the jackpot. 

They make quick work of getting undressed. Dean's hazy with it. The thrill of not having done this - with a woman in - fuck, well over six months. Maybe more.  

This is - the cleanse he needs. He's gotta get it out of his system. Get Cas out of his system. 

He hasn't kissed anyone in so long. Hasn't kissed and meant it for even longer. 

Remembers when he wanted to kiss Cas. Would've, if he wasn't gagged. 

Shut up, shut up, shut up - 

Dean climbs above her on the bed. Presses a knee between her thighs. She opens up for him. Presses her heel into the small of his back. She's wet. Ready. Keening. Waiting. And he's - 

Not. 

“Fuck. One second.” He curses and leans back. 

He can't even get a condom on like this. 

Sitting back on his haunches, Dean jacks himself a few times. Tries to pump some life into his broken dick. 

“I - I don't usually”- 

“It's okay.” She says softly. “Happens. Need a little help?” She offers. 

And Dean can't think of anything worse than getting a blow-job from this nameless woman. 

She peers at him through the neon-dark. He can't meet her eyes. She leans forward and places the back of her hand against his forehead. 

“Um, Dean? You're burning up.” 

It's funny she remembers his name. 

Everything is - this is wrong. It shouldn't be like this. He can't even - he's ruined. For everyone else. Cas has ruined him. He can't even get hard without Grace in his system now. 

Dean catapults himself off the bed with a mumbled “be a minute” and slams into the bathroom. Pulls on the dim yellow light. It buzzes above him. Interrupting his upset, ragged breaths. He glares at his face in the dirty mirror. Shiny sweat beads his upper lip. Dark circles bruise his eyes. There's a yellow tinge circling his irises. Subtle. Could just be the shitty bulb.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

His mouth is dry. He dunks his head under the tap and gulps down water. Ill-advised but what-fucking-ever. There's a pallid hue to his skin. His joints ache and the headache he's been drinking to keep at bay has caught up with him. His insides - hurt. 

Hurt hurt hurt. 

And not in the: I feel like shit for hurting my best friend way. 

In the: there's something seriously wrong with me way. 

Dean emerges from the bathroom with the full intent of trying again, but what's-her-name has gone. Quietly slipped out while Dean had a crisis of masculinity in the bathroom. 

It takes him a minute to spot the gift she's left him on the bedside table. An open packet of Tylenol and a note which reads: Take 2 every 6 hours. Sorry x 

There's no number. 

Dean's not surprised. 

Ignoring the weird gift, he reaches for the bottle instead. The tacky, burning flavour washing away any need for fuckin’ Tylenol. Jesus Christ. 

Still naked, he tangles himself up in the sheer, scratchy sheets and drinks periodically with the TV on in the background. 

He isn't sure when he starts watching it. 

He's outside of his body. A floating mass in the sheets. Not thinking. About anything. 

There's some kind of cooking show on. They're halfway through making a soufflé (Dean likes soufflé. He was never any good at baking it but he thinks his mom was) when the camera pans over to the tiled floor and stays there. Pink and blue square tiles. Set tiles. No one has pink and blue tiles in their kitchen. He blinks and there's a bed there on the screen. On top of the pink and blue tiles. Plain and wooden. Similar shape to his bed in the bunker. He bets this one doesn’t have memory foam though. He loves his memory foam. Misses his memory foam. Memory foam. 

Dean watches himself on the TV. On the bed. Naked and tangled in the sheets. Pink and blue tiles all around him. He watches himself squirm on top of the blankets. Getting his toes caught. Knows the Dean on the TV - his stomach hurts. It pangs and aches. The picture swims and there's another figure there. A man. Naked. Big. Nameless. Faceless. He doesn't have a face. Dean registers how wrong that is as the man takes his ankles and wrists - somehow both at once - and contorts him into shapes he's not supposed to be in. 

The man fucks Dean. On the bed. On the pink and blue tiles. On the TV. 

Ah, he thinks distantly. This is just like hell. But with pink and blue tiles. Yeah. The tiles are the only notable difference.

He doesn't feel the man fucking him. Is distantly aware of the pounding. The detached smack of flesh against flesh. But just like then - in hell - he doesn't feel it. 

He watches on the TV as his body is twisted and changed. Another man comes when the other leaves and fucks him as well. One man punches Dean in the stomach as he fucks him. Over and over until Dean's groaning. Drooling spit and bile on the pillow and clutching his abdomen with his broken hand. That hurts too. But somehow not as much as his insides. He's fucked over and over by different men. They sweat all over him. Breathe down his neck. Spear him open. Spill his guts over the pristine white bed.

Dean wakes up and barely makes it to the bathroom before actually spilling his guts into the toilet. The Jack Daniels repeats on him horribly. It's a taste he's all too familiar with. Vomit laced with whiskey. A taste he's come to loathe and appreciate in equal measure, ‘cause it means his body is trying, at least. Fighting to keep him from poisoning himself. 

He's sick until he's a shaking, wracked mess on the sticky bathroom floor. He doesn't feel - real. Maybe he's still drunk. 

When his throat is sore and acid stripped, Dean forces himself to drink a few sips of the bottled water he got himself the other day. It churns inside him. Water's never made him sick before. 

Then he makes himself shower. Scrubs off the layers of sweat and flecks of vomit. Rubs shitty motel soap into his eyes until they sting and stream. 

He shakily makes his way back into the motel room and manages to pull on some clothes. Drawing in a hiss as he forgets about his fucked hand and tries to flex his fingers. He makes it into boxers and a t-shirt before collapsing onto the bed. 

Glancing over at the bedside table, Dean studies the Tylenol and the note. Takes two. Slams the box down and reaches for his phone. 

It's dead.

Doesn't matter. His eyes can't bear the screen anyway. 

The TV chatters in the background. 

There's no bed. No pink and blue tiles. No soufflé.

Dean doesn’t wanna go back to sleep. Doesn’t wanna dream again of things which might have happened but also might not have. 

The Tylenol works for all of an hour before he's ripped from bed and forced to the bathroom again. Expelling every drop of liquid in his stomach. It goes on for hours. From both ends. 

Dean's pretty sure he's gonna die. He can't remember ever being this ill. Pestilence didn’t fuckin’ put him through this. Death has been kinder in so many ways. Gave him pizza once. 

Now his asshole and his throat burn and he's dragged his sheets to the bathroom floor. When he's not vomiting or shitting out his insides he’s curled up in the blankets. Shivering. Colder than ice. Cold from the inside. Then too hot. Sweating more than he ever has. 

He's losing so much fluid. 

It takes him until early evening before he can crawl to the fridge and chug a few gulps of icy water. 

That comes back up too. 

Cas, he begins to pray. Delirious with fever. Castiel, come back. 

Cas doesn't. 

Dean drinks more water. Vomits it back up minutes later. Doesn't dare eat. Can't imagine what food will do to him. 

Can't remember a time where he didn't feel like this. 

This sickness - for the short period it's lasted - has become his entire world. The pain in his stomach. In his kidneys. It's blinding.

By the time Dean is brave enough to hobble back to the bed, he's exhausted. And it's dark again. 

Every now and again there's a rumble of an engine outside. A distant chime of laughter. Every sound is so distant. Always has been. He can't go to them. Can't plead for help from these strangers who don't know his face. Don’t care for his name. Have their own busy lives to be getting on with. 

He can't intrude on their lives more than he already has. 

His phone is dead. There is no one out there to help him. And Dean - 

Dean is so, so tired. 

Not just now.

But always.

He is tired of being tired. Seeing the world through half-closed eyes. Snapshots of life. Compiled into a day and a day and a day. 

He's tried - tried to enjoy it. Sometimes. Lately.

But it only works when there's Grace inside him. And that's pathetic. Because he's nothing without it. And there's nothing anyone can do to replace the yawning, gaping hole it's left behind in the cavern of his chest. 

Even if they could - if they offered - Dean wouldn't want it. 

You don't think you deserve to be saved. 

Cas was the first to ever see it. Acknowledge it. Throw it out in the open like the ugly thing it is. 

It isn't a feeling anymore. It isn't an insecurity or a passing doubt. It's not the lines in his face when he looks in the mirror or the tear scars framing his eyes or the hundreds and hundreds of raised bumps and lines flung across his body like a fuckin’ Jackson Pollock.

It's a knowing. 

Dean knows he doesn't deserve what he's had. The small things he's been given. The love - so much love - from the innocent few who've given him shelter from the storm. However briefly. However carelessly. Who is he to demand that again? Of a stranger? Of a friend? 

He's used up his sympathy points. More than enough times. He's in sympathy debt, he's pretty sure. 

He doesn't deserve it. Any of it. 

When did it start? 

The first time he cried, maybe. The first time his dad ever got mad at him. When his mom died. When he picked up a gun at six years old. When he stole from a convenience store for the first time. Killed for the first time. Touched a man's dick and felt nothing but the cold press of crumpled paper in his fist minutes later. Did it start in hell? Or before then? When he took Sam's chance at a normal life away from him. It could've been then. But it was probably before. 

When did Dean stop deserving it?

He doesn't know. All he knows is the simple fact it's true. He is cripplingly aware of the space he takes up in others’ lives and he needs it to. To vanish. 

Dean doesn't deserve Cas. Not his protection and certainly not his love. 

Dean was born to whither. He was the first pancake in the pan. A fuck up. Broken somewhere in the making of him and nothing anyone tried could make him right. 

And heaven knows they tried. 

And now his body is realizing what his mind did years ago. It just took a while for it to catch up.

Dean forces his body - cracked open and rotting from the inside - to lie back on the thin mattress. Makes his smarting eyes stay open. Glues them to the ceiling in the neon-coated darkness and focuses on a bloated lump in the popcorn textured wallpaper. 

The lump's brown around the edges. Black in the middle. Prob'ly some water got trapped in there a long time ago and never made it out. Just stayed in the ceiling and turned its surroundings to mold. If he keeps his eyes open long enough, he'll get to watch it burst. Spill its molded guts right on top of him. Into his mouth with the rest of the rot. 

It's just a tiny thing. A blip in an ocean of white. A cyst. Blemish. A nothing no-one nowhere will ever think about. 

Dean will. He'll think about it all night. 

Dean watches the darkness gather around that one tiny spot until it feels like someone is pressing a damp, cold cloth against the wall of his stomach and his ribcage. 

Shivers wrack him from head to toe, but he doesn't give in to the instinct to curl up on himself. Fights his screaming muscles. Forces himself to remain laying back, watching that tiny spot in the ceiling until he can’t anymore. 

Fights and fights and fights until he remembers. There’s -

-

There's no point. 

Is there? 

Dean listens to the roar. Blood in his ears. Rushing and pounding. Listens as it slowly dies and the reverent quiet washes over. 

He lets his eyes fall closed.

Yeah.

There's no reason. To fight this. 

None at all. 

So, he gives up. 

Chapter Text

Once, when Dean was about fifteen, he, his dad and Sam were passing through Arkansas on a hunt. Thirty miles outside of Pine Bluff. A nowhere place full of nowhere people. 

It was pretty unremarkable, and Dean only remembers it ‘cause of this one afternoon where their dad took them for a rare outing to the town's most mediocre diner for burgers. He was in a good mood. It was nice, Dean remembers, seeing his dad smile at them. Telling Dean he'd done a good job looking after Sam while he was away. 

It was summertime. 

They were leaving the diner and two guys walked past. One was - well, he - was wearing a skirt. Dean remembers the skirt. Tartan. Red. Eye-catching. Pleated. High. Exposed thighs dusted with curly dark hair. He was wearing make-up, too. And the other guy looked so normal by comparison. Muscle shirt. Jacked. Baseball cap on backwards. And they. And they were holding hands. 

The one wearing a skirt had a busted lip. 

“Fuckin’ fags.” John muttered after they walked past. “Askin’ for it, in a place like this. Should know better.” 

Dean made the mistake of turning around. The guy in the skirt was looking at the back of his dad's head. Glaring. But his posture was all - shrivelled. Defeated. Dean thought that was weird for someone so tall. The other guy put his arm around his shoulders and ushered him into the diner. And Dean can't remember if his dad said anything else about it. Doesn't think he did. Thinks he would've remembered. But he does remember Sam trailing behind. So young, but - uneasy. More uncomfortable with whatever had just transpired than Dean was.

Dean was just confused. ‘Cause, yeah. His dad was right. 

Why the fuck would you dress like that in a place like this? A busted lip was getting off easy. 

It never occurred to him to question who had socked the guy in the face. Or why. Never occurred to him to ask why his dad was so comfortable dishing out comments like that. Not caring if they heard. Not caring if they hurt. 

*

They find Dean in the same position he gave up in. 

Lying on his back. Staring straight up at the ceiling. Praying for the end to come. And soon. ‘Cause he can feel the razors in his gut tearing his insides to shreds. 

It's like the hellhounds found a way to shrink themselves down to the macro level and get into his veins. Chew him up from in there. Where no one can see the damage. Where no one can think to step in. Save him. 

But it's fine, he remembers, ‘cause he doesn't wanna be saved. 

So why can he hear voices? 

“...ean… Dean!” 

It's Sam's voice. Muffled. Kinda distant but swimming into focus with every desperate syllable of his name. 

“Shit, man. Dean, can you hear me?” 

“He can hear you, he's fiiiine, just give him a sec.”

Now there’s a familiar voice. A cocky cadence Dean hasn't heard in -

Yeah. Some time. It has him fumbling with numb fingers for - something. A weapon. He's gotta protect Sam - gotta -

Sam grabs Dean's twitching hand. “Dean! Wake up, man. Please.” 

What's wrong with Sam? Why does he sound like that? Dean's fine - he's -

He's gonna throw up. 

The impromptu heave yanks Dean's body up of its own accord, and it's only at the last second that he manages to angle himself over the bed. Vomiting all over the floor rather than the bed and his own lap. 

There's not much in his stomach to dredge up. Bile, mostly. Some water. His body makes a valiant effort to expel it nonetheless. 

He's choking on it. Feels like he can't breathe. He spits the remaining fluid out of his mouth. His throat feels like it's been scraped with sandpaper. 600 grit. 

“Good job I'm standing over here. These are new shoes.”

“Shut up, Gabriel.” Sam gripes. 

Gabriel.

Dean peels his eyes open through the gunk. 

“... Sam? Wha…t's…goin’ on…?” 

“Dean. Drink this.” 

A ring of plastic is pressed against Dean's lips. Moisture beads on his tongue. Cold and fresh. He gingerly takes a sip as Gabriel - fucking Gabriel who is meant to be dead - says,

“Ooooh, I wouldn't if I were you.” 

Dean drinks the water. 

It stays down for all of a second before being projected right back up. All over the floor. Onto Sam's hand. 

A dry sob is dragged from Dean. Forced out through the sheer convulsions. His eyes sting with tears. They stream down his face. Leaving burn marks. 

Sam pats his back. Makes these awful hushing noises while Dean swallows and gasps and heaves. 

He tries to push him away. Every muscle in his arm screams. His bones rattle in his body. He's a loose bag of marbles. Glass on the brink of shattering. He's fucking terrified. 

“What the hell is happenin’ to me?” He rasps. Hauling in air ‘cause his lungs are gonna break.

Gabriel strides into the room, making a great show of wrinkling his nose. He kicks an empty bottle of JD with his foot. It tinkles across the floor, but sounds like peeling bells to Dean's ears. 

“Hell of a party here last night, Deano. Why wasn't I invited?” 

“You're dead.” Dean grunts. Memories hitting him like bricks to the head. 

Gabriel laughs. High and clear. Grating. A sound too big for this awful, dim room. Sam sighs. “I'm sorry, Dean. I asked him to stay in the car but he wouldn't”-

“Why the hell's he here? What's happening?” Dean's heart is thudding out panicked punches against his fragile ribcage. It's gonna crack under the force. Any second now. 

“Oh, Deany, Dean, Dean. Deep hole you dug yourself here. But luckily for you, my nephew’s one kicker of a God, and I've been spending the last few months on a well deserved vacation! Bali girls are somethin’ else.” Gabriel pauses to crouch down opposite Dean. Golden-brown eyes fixing on him. Knowing and smug and enjoying this way too much. “So imagine my surprise when my baby brother drops in out of nowhere and cries on my shoulder about how he's violated the love of his life and fallen further than Lucifer himself.” He grimaces. “Guess I missed a few chapters while I was down in Empty City, huh?” 

Dean, not knowing it was possible, goes even colder. His teeth chatter so hard they're gonna come loose. Fall out his mouth and join the puddle of vomit on the floor. 

“...Cas… is he…” 

“Oh, he's so not okay.” Gabriel scoffs. “Thanks to someone.” He stands up. Tuts. Hands on his hips. 

“Gabriel.” Sam warns through gritted teeth. 

Gabe flaps his hands. “I know, I know. Jack pulled me out and he can throw me back in, potato, potahto. D'you want my help or not? ‘Cause I guarantee you there's no one left in the cosmos who can solve this pretty little dilemma. You boys killed ‘em all.” 

Sam helps Dean sit up. Every vertebrae in his back complains. Notch by agonising notch. He groans with the effort. Stomach churning at the movement. 

“M'sorry, Sam.” He moans as he dips his head between his knees. Drawn up to his chest. Sincerely hopes he hasn't shit himself during the night.

He hasn't.

Small fucking mercies. 

Sam takes two long strides over to the kitchenette, throws open a cupboard barely hanging on by its hinges and retrieves a stained, blue plastic bowl. Places it gently at Dean's bare feet, expression wrought with worry. 

“How long have you been like this?” 

Dean grunts. Doesn't dare lift his head. ‘Cause - ‘cause Gabriel definitely - he knows. He fucking Knows what they did. Dean can feel it hanging in the air like the nastiest water balloon, suspended over his head. Ready to burst. And Gabriel's holding the pin. 

“Dean. Talk to me.” Sam pleads. 

Gabriel makes a thoughtful sound. “Sam, you couldn't torture this information out of Dean. Trust me. He ain't gonna spill.” 

Sam throws confused frowns between them both. 

“What is this? Dean, you have to”-

“I have no idea.” Dean coughs. The effort to talk alone is making him nauseous. He closes his eyes against the light. ‘Cause it hurts. Existing hurts. “I dunno. I just - I was sick last night and I woke up like this.” 

It's mostly true. 

“Gabriel, you gotta heal him. Cas isn't answering me and I - we don't have another choice.” 

“No can do.”

“Gabriel!” 

Gabriel sighs. Throws his hands up in the air. 

“Fine! But don't say I didn't warn you.” 

Gabriel's gonna use his Grace. On Dean. The realisation hits him in waves. The first is relief. The second is terror - for some reason - but. It's ‘cause it's - that’s not right. It's Cas’ Grace he needs. Not Gabriel's. This is wrong. Wrong wrong wrong -

Gabriel presses two fingers to Dean's clammy forehead. His eyes glow. And a pain like he's never felt rips through him. 

Dean's vomiting into the bowl before he even knows what's happening. Gabriel jumps back with a disgusted sound while Sam rubs his back. Saying shit like,

“It's okay, Dean. Get it out, man. Get it all out.”

It's so fucking awful. So fucking humiliating. And there's nothing he can do to prevent it.

Once this bout is done, Sam stands and rounds on the archangel. 

“What did you do to him?” 

“Just what you asked. I tried to heal him.” He waggles his fingers. His eyes glow bright for a second. “Just good old Grace. Nothing more nothing less.” He winks. “The good stuff. Ain't that right, Dean?” 

Dean groans. “...Don't.” 

The only thing worse than what's happening to his body is the idea of Sam finding out - anyone finding out about - it. Everything. 

“Don't what?” Gabriel mocks. “Let your brother know what's really wrong with you? Clue him in on all the naughty little things you and Cassie have been getting up to in our absence? ‘Cause he has to know, Dean. If you're gonna survive this. Evolve, as it were.” 

Dean manages to open his eyes. Uses the headboard to hold himself up. ‘Cause his neck won't. It wobbles as he shakes his head. Begging. 

“Don’t.” He croaks. “Please.”

Gabriel cups his ear. “Please? Sorry, was that - did Dean Winchester just say please?” 

Sam has paled. His jaw twitches as he stares at Dean. 

“It’s Cas’ Grace, isn't it? Eileen was right. You're in withdrawal. You got addicted and you…” he breaks off. Shakes his head. “Dean… why didn't you just call me?” 

“Oh, but it's so much more than that!” Gabriel rubs his hands together. Delighted. Fucking prick. “What we have here, gentlemen, is a real life, bone fide angel bonding ritual.” 

*

A bonding ritual. 

Bonding. Ritual. 

The words float around Dean's shattered mind like dead flies in a half-drunk beer. 

But this is Gabriel. The literal fuckin’ trickster. He could very well be lying. Probably is. 

Dean glares. Squints against the blurry light. Gabriel's smug silhouette. 

“Bull.” He manages. 

“Well,” Gabriel starts. And it's always the Well. “I say bonding ritual, but what I really mean is incomplete bonding ritual. Nah, maybe botched is a better word. Because ooooh, brother.” He laughs. “You botched it, Dean. You botched it real good.” 

“What kind of a bonding ritual?” Sam asks at the same time Dean swears he's gonna kill Gabriel as soon as he can make his limbs work. He's got an angel blade in Baby's trunk. And if Jack brings Gabriel back he'll just have the pleasure of ganking him all over again. 

Gabriel pulls up the only other chair in the room. Shitty plastic thing. He anchors himself to it like a throne. 

“I'm so glad you asked, Sam.” He pulls a cigar out of his inside pocket and lights it with the tip of a finger, puffing plumes of foul smelling smoke about the room. Dean retches into the bowl. “Oops. Sorry.” Says Gabriel, and extinguishes it with the same finger. “What was I saying? Right. Bonding ritual. Yeah. So, how much d'you know about angel mating rites?” 

Dean's stomach is gonna go next. Right out his pie hole and into this ugly blue bowl.

“Nothing.” Sam says. Academic light switching on above his head. “Literally… nothing. Angels mate?” 

Gabriel gives Dean a significant look. “It's usually fairly simple. Y'know. Angel on angel stuff. All highly top secret, of course. I should kill you as soon as I tell you this. But I like ya, so I won't.” He winks at Sam. Sam gives him a hard look. Gabriel clears his throat. “You're not gonna like this, Deano.” 

Dean doesn't need to say how much he already doesn't like this. His body's doing a pretty good job of saying it for him. 

“Don't.” He says - uselessly - anyway.

Predictably, Gabriel ignores him. 

“Bonding rituals are rare amongst our kind,” Gabriel begins sagely, directing most of the info at Sam. Dean may as well be a vegetable. Rotten lettuce. “I haven't seen one in - oh, a good few millennia at least. As you might know, your bog standard, run of the mill seraph like Cassie ain't exactly the highly emotional sort. Well,” he gestures to Dean, “he wasn't. Before you. Point is, the only angels who ever successfully completed a bond were much higher ranking ones than Castiel; Garrison-grade expendable Commander number one over here. And higher ranking Angels - the capital A kind - were far and few between even before Heaven was fucked to hell and back. I should know.” 

“What's that have to do with Dean's sickness? And his Grace addiction?” 

Dean grinds his teeth at the word. Addiction. It isn't like that. He's not a junkie. He needs Cas’ Grace - he - 

It's his. 

Gabriel holds up a hand. “I'll get there. How're you holdin’ up, princess?” 

Dean gives him the finger. It hurts to do. Gabe only chuckles. 

“I'll admit, I knew somethin’ funky was goin’ on with you and my brother long before his little love confession.” 

Sam does an honest to god double-take and Dean groans over the bowl. 

“Love… Confession…?” 

Gabriel's next laugh is even worse than the last. “Oh, you didn't know? Sammy. Come on. This is golden! I should've come to hang out with you guys way sooner.” 

“...stop. Fucking stop…” 

“Y'see, right before Castiel got sucked into the Empty to join yours truly over here, he had a precious moment to himself with Dean. Ain't that right, Dean?” Gabriel continues. Relentless. Crosses his legs and presents Dean's worst secrets to the room like he's listing itineraries. “Cas gave this whole spiel about how Dean was the most selfless man in the world, the most caring, loving, yadda, yadda, before professing his undying love and kicking the bucket all in one fell swoop.” 

Gabriel's juvenile tone does nothing to lessen the twist of the blunt object stuck in Dean’s gut. It mixes his intestines around. Guilt, guilt, guilt, with a dash of Cas’ tears and the sound of his gravelly voice: I love you. 

I love you but I often wish I didn’t.

You are the knife I turn inside myself. 

“Dean, is that true?” Sam asks in a small, but not unkind voice. “Did Cas really tell you he loves you? Like… loves you loves you - not. Y'know…”

Dean does not look up. Can not look up. Keeps his head firmly locked between his knees where the world swims and turns. He's the axis it spins on now. 

Gabriel clicks his fingers. “We're getting off topic. Ritual, remember?” Sam nods dazedly, cogs turning behind his eyes at lightning speed. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. “So, tell me Dean, if any of this sounds familiar to you. Now if I remember right, the ritual requires that a lot of Grace needs to be transferred between the bonding pair before anything more - ahem - intimate happens. Now I know you don't have Grace, but Cas does … would you say he's given you a lot? Maybeeeee more than he's given anyone else?” 

Dean's moan echoes in the bowl. He spits. Dry heaves as another round of sickness knocks him down. 

“I'll take that as a yes. How many of your bodily fluids has Cassie consumed now? Don't be shy, Dean. You can tell me. Cas already has, and you know how he is. So straightforward. Pays great attention to detail, our dear old Cassio. It's what made him heaven's best strategist. And I'll bet my left nutsack it's what makes him so good in bed, too, if his accounts are anything to go by.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. He can't believe this is happening. This is his worst nightmare. His worst. Nightmare. 

He's been in hell this whole time. Alistair is here. In this room. Crafting the most creative torture for Dean yet. 

He hears Sam choke above him. 

“I'll list them shall I? And you tell me when I hit one he hasn't had a taste of and we'll go from there. Okay? Tears, sweat, blood, semen, spit, piss”- 

“STOP.” Dean shouts. Hoarse. Flaying his throat to get the command out. 

“So no water-sports. Gotcha.” 

“Gabriel - what”- Sam has never sounded so baffled in his life. 

Dean curls up around the bowl. Presses his forearms against his ears. Dull sound. Dull pain. 

“And listen, Dean. I'm a little disappointed in you. This whole time we've known each other you've always been such a casanova, y'know? Such a lady's man. Reliable for a tumble in the sheets if nothing else. But you didn't reciprocate once, did you? You've been blue-balling Castiel for months! I knew you were a slut but I never pegged you for a pillow princess”-  

It's Sam who throws the punch. Dean's been meaning to. He just hasn't found his legs yet. 

There's a smack and the tell-tale crunch of Sam's knuckles breaking under the archangel’s cheekbone. 

Dean raises his head with herculean effort. Sam's clutching his fist to his chest. Face contorted in rage and agony. Gabriel rubs his cheek with a put-upon wince. 

“Maybe I deserved that.” 

“You deserved worse.” Sam seethes. “I brought you here to help. Not to torture him.” 

Gabriel narrows his eyes. “You didn't bring me here, Sam Winchester. I'm here because my brother is in pain and I'm tired of watching yours monkeying around with him! Castiel does not deserve this. No one does. You have no idea how significant a bonding ritual actually is, do you?” 

“Maybe we would if you explained it properly.” Sam meets Gabriel’s golden-brown gaze. Unflinching. Chin high. And if Dean weren't so mortified with his own circumstances, he'd be proud of Sam for standing his ground. Pretending his hand doesn't hurt like hell. Dean would know. It just so happens the pain in his fractured knuckles is subsumed by the pain everywhere else. 

Gabriel sighs. The first to avert his eyes from Sam's.  

“In order to complete a bonding ritual, both parties must consume three of the other's bodily fluids.” He tells them without a preamble. “There's the Grace transfusion, too, but I'm not sure how that'd work here to be honest. What with you being human and all. We'll worry about that later. One of the fluids is usually wing oil - it's pretty essential for bonding partners actually. Marking your partner with your scent is a pretty big deal among angels. But you'd know all about that, Dean.” 

Dean's sluggish. Slow. Ruined and stupid with sickness. But at the mention of oil, his olfactory memory jolts into gear. 

Honey. Petrichor. Ozone. Cas. 

“Motherfucker rubbed wing oil all over me?” He slurs. Barely coherent. Forgetting to be embarrassed as he's forced to make room for the barrage of abject horror which slams through him. 

Gabriel grins. “Oh, yeah. You stink of the stuff. Had me gagging the second I walked through the door.” 

And it - fuck. Fuck. It starts to make sense. Why the Nechs ran away from him. Why Garth thought Cas was coming through the tunnels. ‘Cause he recognised Cas’ scent. He could smell him. All supernaturals with a heightened sense of smell could. It's. It's all fucking over him. 

Garth knew Cas had marked Dean as his own. He fucking - congratulated him ‘cause he thought - shit. He totally thought him and Cas were, like, angel married.

The Nechs smelled an angel and shit themselves. Went running for the hills, ‘cause who wouldn't? 

And Dean - oh, fuck. Dean licked the stuff off Cas’ fingers. Consumed doesn’t even begin to describe the way Dean enjoyed sucking it onto his tongue. The way it coated his throat. Sank like ambrosia into the heat of his stomach. 

“I'm gonna fuckin’ kill Cas.” Dean growls. Kills his throat. His blood pumps, torpid and lifeless, through his acidic veins. There's adrenaline in there somewhere. Trying valiantly to get him up and about. Hunter's instinct. Rallying him to action.

But he can't.

‘Cause he's ruined. 

Cas has fucking ruined him and he - 

“Cas didn't know.” Gabriel says. More gently than he's said anything else. It's real. Truth. He's a tricky son of a bitch but he ain't lying about this. 

“How could he not know?” Dean challenges. Eyes burning with the effort to stay open. Tears springing despite his efforts to hold them back. He's not crying. His body is just falling apart. 

“Do birds know why they sing?” Gabriel opines. “Do chickens know why they lay eggs? Does water know why it flows? It's the natural order of things, Dean. Castiel was compelled to scent mark you because it's in his nature to do so. He drank your blood and your tears - and, yeah, your frickin’ semen - because he was urged to by the bond. The poor idiot didn't even know bonding rituals were a thing until I told him yesterday. He wouldn't have come anywhere near you if he had.” 

And why the hell does that hurt? Out of every outrageous piece of information Gabriel has dolled out today, why is it this knowledge - that if Cas had known what it meant then he wouldn't have touched Dean - which twists the blunt object so deep inside him he's convinced it's gonna come out the other side? 

“Cas was the commander of a garrison, Dean. He was never meant to bond with anyone. Not even another angel. He didn't know because he never had a need to know. Trust me, I'm the last person who wanted to give him the birds and the bees talk but” - he shrugs - “that's just the way the cookie crumbles.” 

Sam has been gaping this whole time. Watching the conversation with a mixture of genuine fascination and utter dismay. He gathers himself. Swallows hard and pins Dean down with a worried look. 

Dean can't bring himself to meet his brother's eyes. He knows. He knows he knows he knows it was more than the Grace it was physical it was significant it was everything Dean's never been, never could be because that just isn't allowed in their world and this is going to change everything forever and he fucking knows. What they did. Have been doing for. God, months. 

Where's the plausible deniability in that? 

A heavy, long silence. 

“How can we reverse it?” Sam says into the quiet. 

A beat. 

Gabriel: “Excuse me? Did you listen to a word I just said?” 

Sam nods. Eyes glazing over as he stares down at Dean. “There's gotta be a way to - go back. Change it. Reverse it or - lessen the effects”-

Gabriel stands from his plastic throne. 

“Sam.” He says sombrely. “This isn’t witchcraft. It’s nature. This bonding ritual, once it’s started, can't be stopped. Not for anything.” 

Dean gulps back the bile rising in his throat as a fresh sweat breaks out on his forehead. Stretching across his skin like clingwrap. Locking the fever in. 

“What if we just never complete it?” He asks. “Won't it just - die off on its own?” 

Gabriel offers Dean a sad half-smile. “No. The bond won't die. But you will if it's not completed. Both of you will.”

Chapter Text

The worst part of Grace withdrawals isn't even how it fucks with Dean's body. It's how it fucks with his head. 

‘Cause Dean finds himself in states of mind he's never been in before. Even in hell, he'd held his own. Fought back. Spat in the faces of sneering demons and carved out his own fetid space there. 

This hell is different. 

Every time Dean stirs from varying degrees of unconsciousness, he - he doesn't know who he is. What happened. Where he is. 

He wakes in darkness to the sound of voices arguing - whispering in the corner of the motel room. 

They stop when they hear him moaning. 

“Dean? Y'okay?” 

Sam. 

Dean doesn't need Sam. 

“Where…’s… where’s Cas?” 

“...Cas isn't here, Dean.” 

“Why? Get him.” 

Someone sniggers. Dean tries to get up. Cries out when his muscles spasm and lock. Bends forward and heaves into the bowl placed under his face. He's shivering so violently again he can't speak and the only person who can stop it is -

“Need Cas. I need”- 

“Woah, no you don't.” 

Sam catches him. Dean squirms. 

“Feisty for a dead guy, ain't he?” 

“He isn't dead!” Sam yells behind his shoulder.

“He will be if you don't”-

“Shut up, Gabe. We're gonna fix this.” And then, closer to Dean's ear. “We're gonna fix this, you hear me, Dean? I-I'm doing all the research I can. Eileen has been in the library reading all night. We'll find answers, just - hang in there, man.”

Dean does not hang in there. 

The next time he wakes up, he cries. Big ugly sobs, tearing up his insides with every breath. 

Every time he comes to, he vomits. There's nothing in him to bring up except acid, and by the time he's done his voice is a thin rasp. Unrecognisable. 

Food doesn't stay down. Water doesn't stay down. His bones rattle under his skin. He shivers and sweats and pukes and has to be hauled to the bathroom and back every time he needs to relieve himself. He tries to stay on the cold, grimy linoleum floor every time. Sam always drags him back to the bed. 

There are rare moments where Dean is lucid, and he's aware of each agonising second passing by like sludge. Like his blood. Thick and lazy and slowing down with each painful breath. 

In one such moment, Dean finds himself focusing on the blotch in popcorn ceiling. Ugly and brown and bloated. He thinks it’s night. Can’t tell. The darkness could simply be the unconsciousness always creeping at the edges of his vision. 

“Sam?” It's barely even a croak. If the room weren't dead silent, Sam never would have heard him. 

A creak from the other twin opposite Dean’s. 

“Yeah?” Sam rasps. Heaving himself up off the bed and to Dean's side in a moment. “Hey. Hey, what can I get you, man?” 

“...Sorry. Didn't know you were sleepin’.”

“I wasn't.” Sam lies. His phone screen lights up in his hand. Blinding, blue light in the darkness. Dean shuts his eyes. 

“How long's'it been?”

“Since I found you? About, uh… sixteen hours.” 

Is that all? Jesus. Dean feels like it's been days. Days and days of this torture. 

“How did you find me?” 

Sam gives a sheepish laugh. “Hunter app. On your phone. I installed it for you, remember? Fine-tuned the GPS down to the nearest yard while you were away.” 

Dean grunts. Turns over on his side and faces the wall, curling in on himself as his insides continue to tear him apart. A stabbing, unrelenting, searing ache in his belly. He's never felt anything like it. His mouth is dryer than sand. 

“We should try and give you some water again.”

“No.” Dean groans. “No, please…” He doesn't have the capacity to care anymore. About how pathetic he sounds. When he moans. When he cries. Curls in on himself and wishes he still had a mom to comfort him. Hold him until he peacefully slips away.

He's gonna die. 

Cas won't, he thinks. 

Cas is at full juice. He - he can’t be touched by shit like this. Disease. Withdrawals. It can't hurt him. After all, Dean wasn't the one giving him Grace. 

Dean didn't give him anything. 

He crumbles into the bed. Muscles screaming and spasming as he shakes. 

“Fuck. We need to take him to the hospital.” 

“If you would listen to me”- Gabriel starts. A foreboding voice in the dark corner. 

Dean forgot he was here. 

“No, he - he's dehydrated. He won't last like this. He needs an IV. I've gotta - we've gotta take him”-

“Sam”-

“No! That isn't a solution. It's not the answer. More Grace won't help him, Gabe. It'll just make him worse.”

A sigh. 

Dean hears Grace. It's the only word he hears. The only thing in the world he cares about. It lights up an area of his brain like floodlights in a stadium. 

“Grace…” He whispers. “Sam, I need - I need”- 

“No. C'mon, Dean. We gotta get you in the car. We're taking you to the hospital. Right now.” 

“But - I need -”

“You should listen to your brother, Sam.” 

Dean's being manhandled again. Lifted. Everything inside him lurches and protests but he has no strength to fight it. None at all.

“I know what he needs.” Sam is saying. Voice strained as he drags Dean from the bed. “And it sure as hell isn't more of the stuff that made him sick in the first place.” 

Dean's head falls back. Neck too weak to support it. As it does, the world spins and tips. He keeps falling. Dropping down down down. Back underground. Back to hell. Falling upside down. There’s nothing tethering him to earth anymore. 

He doesn't exist without Grace. 

Low, urgent voices blur around him. He falls through clouds. Wet and cold and stinging. Grey, thick clouds. There's leather under him. Squeaky. Old and weathered. The rumble of an engine. 

Baby. 

It feels familiar. Is familiar. But not to this Dean. Another Dean. Different Dean. A living, healthy, strong Dean. Not the hysterical, useless empty, shaking shell lying in his place. 

Dean feels every bump in the road as he drifts in and out of consciousness. There are no more voices. Just the engine. The hard rush of other cars passing by. Breakneck speeds. Too fast. Too harsh. 

It's gonna rip his skeleton from his skin. The soft dark creeps in closer around the edges of his consciousness. 

Please, he begs it. Take me. 

Take me. 

He thinks he hears Sam's voice somewhere. Distant. Stay with me, Dean! 

Not real.

This is real. 

The overwhelming dark. It holds him tight. Numb. Suffocating in a familiar, hopeful way. 

Dean, during his many deaths, has never seen a light at the end of a tunnel. 

It was all bullshit, he surmised, and confidently. No one's an expert on death quite like Dean.

So why can he see lights now? 

Two, golden orbs in the distance. Winking at him from the endless black. Inviting. Waiting. 

Dean tries to stumble forward. He's naked and laden down by a great weight on his back. He falls forward onto his knees. His legs can't bear the weight of whatever it is he's carrying. And he crawls towards the lights. 

The ground is goopy and sludgy beneath his fingers. It bubbles and oozes between his fingers. Coats his sore knees as he crawls. 

He thinks -

Thinks this might be the Empty. 

Of course.

Cas went to the Empty because of him, so it only makes sense that now he's dead - the Empty would claim him instead. 

Jack didn't force it after all. He negotiated Dean’s life for Cas’. And damn, Dean can't even blame the kid. He'd do the same. 

Even so, why the lights? They must mean something. He knows they do. But he can't - can't walk. Can't run. The weight dragging behind him is unbearable. 

Dean digs his nails into the sludge and hauls himself forward. 

As he gets closer to the lights, he sees - sees they're not lights.

They're eyes.

Cas’ eyes. 

“Cas!” Dean cries as Cas’ figure, dimly illuminated by his golden gaze, swims into view in the empty dark. 

He's standing still. Facing Dean, but not looking at him. Like he's in a trance.

“Cas, it's me! Cas!” Dean yells. His throat is on fire. The weight behind him drags and drags and his back burns as his muscles scream with the effort of moving this thing - this burden - behind him. 

“Cas…” He begs, “Help me, please. ” He's close enough to reach up. Grab the stained, frayed edges of Cas' trenchcoat. But as he's about to touch it, Cas moves. Not - normally. It’s like Dean blinks, and Cas is a few steps away. 

He tries again. Each drag of his knees becoming harder than the last. 

Cas ignores Dean's pleas. His eyes, so golden and hopeful to him before, burn coldly. And he remains out of reach. 

Dean can't go on much further. His body is - it’s giving up. 

“Cas…” He sobs. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Cas.” He collapses forward as his knees buckle. Can’t remember what exactly it is he's apologising for. Knows it’s important. It's bad. 

He stares down at his arms. Smeared with black. The body of the Empty. Digesting him whole. Finally, he glances over his shoulder and sees the things he's been dragging behind him. 

His back is flayed, the skin rent open where two, huge messy protrusions have grown between his shoulder blades. They - they're not wings. They should have been, he thinks. Could have been. 

Instead, a mass of bones, webbed together in broken patterns, grow deformed and broken from his spine. Rags of flesh and viscera and blood cling to them. Mangled and wrecked. Semi-formed in places. Nothing more than strings of bluish veins in others. 

The broken, malformed wings twitch under his attention, and as they do, an agony like Dean's never known lances through his body.

He screams. 

Dean wakes up screaming. 

Trying to. 

It comes out as little more than hoarse, broken shouts.

He's immediately restrained. Bodies swarm around him. White coats. Nitrile gloves.

Words exist for this place. This white, clean space with too-bright lights and too-strong smells. The words exist, but Dean can't find them. He just knows he hates it. So he fights. Fights the bodies and the multiplying arms thrusting out to contain him. Hydra in scrubs. 

There's a short, sharp sting in his right arm and everything goes black again. 

Fear of the destroyed wings is the last thing he feels as he's dragged back into unconsciousness. 

*

Dean hears music. 

Just one note.

Beep. Beep. 

Kind of erratic. 

Beep….. beep beep… beep. 

Kinda annoying actually. Fuckin’ alarm. 

Dean groans and moves to swipe the off button. He's prevented from doing so by a number of things. 

The first is the fact that he's strapped down. Wrists and ankles lashed to a bed frame. It registers that the mattress he’s lying on is not memory foam. Which is also very wrong. 

The second thing which prevents him is the pain. A thick, dull ache in his right side which sends his head spinning. 

The third, is that it's taking a crazy amount of effort to open his eyes. 

At first he's sure they're glued shut. But they're just heavy as fuck. It's taking everything he's got to open them. 

Beep…beep…

Fuckin’ beeps are driving him insane. 

“Shutup.” He manages. His throat hurts. Glass inside it. He coughs. 

“Mr Winchester? Hello?” 

A female voice. Pitched low. Not unfriendly, not kind. Neutral. 

The scent of disinfectant invades his nostrils right as he realises where he is. 

Hospital. Right. 

Sam wasn't kidding. 

His back.

He jerks as he remembers his - the nightmare. The wings. Not wings. Deformities. 

There's nothing behind him except slightly damp cotton and a solid mattress. 

Dean cracks open his eyes. Squints immediately against the fluorescence. 

He makes a bleary sound. 

“And he's awake.” There's a smile in her voice. The woman. 

Dean gets a look at her.

And oh, right. He's still hallucinating. ‘Cause she's not just any woman. She's the woman. Chick from the bar. Kinky dark hair scraped into a half-pony. White coat instead of a bomber jacket. Scrubs in place of the mini-dress. Dean thinks it was purple. 

“I wanna wake up now.” He says. Wincing as each word slices up his throat. This is a cruel and unusual punishment, he thinks. Even for Alistair. Confronting him with his failed hook-up attempt in one of the worst settings imaginable. 

“Good news is,” Says what's-her-name, “you're awake.” And then, with a knowing quirk of her mouth. “Bad news: You're awake. How're you feeling, Dean?” 

Dean blinks at her. Registers the square glasses perched on her nose. Lack of make-up. It's definitely - yeah. It's her. It is. But she's - 

“You're a nurse?” 

“Doctor, actually. But you remember my face at least, so your memory is working fine.” She scribbles something on a clipboard. “As for the rest, we've got a ways to go. Your brother's in the cafeteria. Want me to send him in before we have a chat?”

There are words. She's saying words. Doctor what's-her-name from the bar. Dean doesn't comprehend the words.

She gave him Tylenol. 

Jesus Christ. 

“This is actually real.”

“Points for observation. How about I go grab your brother, okay?” 

Doctor Tylenol leaves him with a reassuring smile and makes for the door. As she opens it, the hubbub of hospital noise briefly leaks into the room before it swings shut again. Leaving Dean in relative silence.

Beep… beep… 

He blinks hard. Eyes dryer than his throat. Takes in the machines and the drip he’s hooked up to and the velcro restraints cradling his wrists and ankles. They don't hurt. 

Don't hurt enough, is the answering thought which reminds him of the last time he was trussed up. Dry-mouthed from the gag. 

Cas. 

Cas is gone. 

He left, because Dean, he - 

- Beep beep beep -

Dean glares at the machine and grinds his teeth as the blips become erratic and panicked. 

He lets his heavy eyelids fall closed and draws in a deep, shuddering breath. The beeps slow down as he forces himself to breathe in and out. In and out. 

Cas. Breathe, man. Cas’ shoulders under his hands. Firm and rising and falling with each, steady breath. The whisper of ozone-scented air around him. The Grace, pooling deep and hot in Dean’s chest. 

God, the Grace. He misses it. Misses everything that came with it. So fucking much. Needs to feel its solid, warm hands wrapping around his wrists. Arms snaking around his middle. Voice low and so self-assured against the shell of his ear. Purring through the fog of bliss in his mind. Golden clouds amidst black feathers. 

Dean exhales hard and makes himself take stock of the wires and tubes coming out of his body. The monitors stuck to his chest and the clean, white cast encasing his right hand. 

He struggles as he tries to parse out his nightmares from reality. What happened in the drunken haze after Cas left and what - didn't. 

The failed hook-up happened. The unfortunate existence of Doctor whatever-her-name-is confirms it. The cooking show - the pink and blue tiles on the TV and Dean getting fucked by faceless men. Yeah, that probably - didn't. Sam and Gabriel. Real. Happened. And now he has to face Sam again, knowing he knows what him and Cas have been doing. All this time for months and months and - 

There's a cosmic lurch in Dean's stomach. He braces himself. Surprised when he doesn't immediately puke everywhere. 

He inwardly thanks whoever gave him anti-emetics. Then realises it was probably Doctor - the woman. Her. He wracks his brains for her name. Evie? Ellie? 

“Hi, Dean.” 

He's shit out of luck. Doctor Maybe-Ellie returns with Sam in tow. He's pale. The lines of his face pinched and drawn. He needs a shave. The polystyrene coffee cup looks minuscule in his huge hands. 

“Dean.” He says, voice laden with relief. 

“What the hell, Sam.” Dean manages to croak the accusation. The last time he woke up in a hospital with Sam looking at him the way he is now -

Maybe it was worse. Then. 

But it was only worse ‘cause Cas was dead and he wasn’t too. 

Sam shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Dean, you… I didn’t know what to do.” 

“It's a good thing you brought him when you did.” Says the Doctor. And then, catching Dean's expression, says, “You can call me Miriam by the way. Or Doctor Marshall. Whatever you prefer.” She smirks. 

Miriam! Of course. 

Dean clears his throat. “Right.” 

Miriam takes Dean's chart from the end of the bed and flicks through the notes. 

“You wanna sit down?” She asks Sam. “This is gonna take a minute.” 

Sam spares her a haunted look and takes the seat by Dean's bed. Steadfastly avoids his eyes. 

“I've got your latest blood results here.” She tells them. “Most of the big ones were good, but it's your LFT's I'm worried about the most.” She peeks over her glasses at Dean. “Your bilirubin levels are significantly elevated. You notice any yellowing of your eyes or skin lately? Any itchiness?” 

Dean remembers his crisis in the motel bathroom when she - when Miriam was there. Probably wondering what the hell she'd been thinking, hooking up with a guy like him. 

Dean stares at the cannula in his restrained, left hand. 

“Yeah. My eyes were a little yellow. Yeah.” 

“Mhm.” She nods. “Have you been feeling any pain?” Dean nods. “What kind? Where?” 

“Uh, s-stomach. Upper right side.” He nods to indicate. Can't use his hands. She writes something down. 

“Is it tender? Aching?” 

“Freakin’ hurts.” Dean mumbles. “Tender, yeah.” 

She hums again. Chews the end of her pen. Writes some more. After a short silence, she lowers her clipboard and slots her pen into the front pocket of her scrubs. 

“Dean, I suspect you're suffering from alcohol-induced hepatitis. It’s known as ALD - alcoholic liver disease - more commonly. It looks like your liver is severely inflamed. Thankfully, I don't think it's too serious. As in, I don't believe you're suffering from Cirrhosis.” She glances up. Notices his blank look. “Late stage liver disease.” 

“Yeah I know what Cirrhosis is.” Dean blurts. “You think I got fuckin’ hepatitis?”

She blinks at his outburst. “Yes, Dean. I do. Your brother filled me in on some of your lifestyle habits while you were unconscious”- Dean glares at Sam - “and unfortunately it's more common amongst people who have a long history of drinking. Especially binge-drinking. Does that sound like something you might have done in the past?” 

You know damn well it is. Dean thinks. She'd watched him drink. Commented on his choice of whiskey and thrown back the shot of tequila he'd bought her with a carefree laugh. 

He shrugs. “Doesn't sound like me. How about you, Doctor?” 

Her lip quirks. Sam, scandalised, says,

“Dean!” 

“It's alright, Mr Winchester.” She tells Sam. “I'll give you both a minute to process what I've just told you before we discuss treatment options, alright?” 

Doctor Miriam Marshall leaves the room, and a heavy silence falls between them.

“Well, obviously it's not hepatitis.” Dean scrapes out eventually. 

“Isn't it?” Sam bites. “The Grace in your system could have been hiding any number of things. Blood tests don't lie, Dean.” 

“Fuck's sake, Sam. This ain't rocket science. You heard Gabriel. It's ‘cause of the - the fuckin’”- he can't even bring himself to say it. “The bond shit, alright? I'm gonna die without Grace. That's it. All there is to it.” 

Sam's knuckles are white on top of his knees. 

“Dean if you could just hear yourself”- he closes his eyes. Grits his teeth. “You sound just like I did.” 

Dean glowers at his brother through the permanent teary haze coating his eyes. Everything is a little blurred. A little bluer, greyer than before. Colours all bleeding out. 

“The hell you talkin’ about?” 

Sam exhales on a hard breath. “Remember how I spoke when - when I was addicted to demon blood? When Ruby had her hooks in me? It's the same, Dean. I don't get why you didn't just - call me. Confide in me. Anything. I would've understood”-

“Woah, woah. Slow down. Listen to yourself. This is Grace we're talking about. Not demon blood. And - and it's Cas! Christ, dude, you're makin’ it sound like he did this to me on purpose. He's not Ruby. We aren't - it isn't”- 

“It doesn't matter whether he meant to or not. He's got you hooked on the stuff, Dean. You're not yourself and you haven't been for some time.” 

“No, I guess you prefer me walkin’ around the bunker like a corpse. Drunk and depressed outta my mind.” 

Sam's face falls. “Of course I don't want - that isn't what I meant. I just”-

“What're you gonna do, huh? Take me to Sioux Falls and lock me up at Bobby's? Sit outside the door until I stop screaming? Get your own back?”

Dean makes himself stop talking. Clenches his jaw hard. Sam doesn't deserve this. 

Maybe he does a little, though. S'not like he cared before now. And he doesn't - doesn't get it. “I've been a demon, Sam.” Dean reminds him. Voice hard and ragged. “I've lived through hell and purgatory and two fuckin’ apocalypses. This isn't like any of that. I can't - I won't survive this. It isn't like the last time you took me to hospital. Some surgery and antibiotics ain't gonna fix this. If you don't believe me, then you should at least believe Gabriel.” 

Sam started shaking his head somewhere around ‘hell.’ 

“There’s gotta be another way.” He says steadfastly. “There is. We're gonna free you from this, Dean.” 

Dean can hear the shudder in his voice. The denial. Self-reassurances. 

“I have to make a call.” Sam stands up. Leaves the room without another word. The metal bed-frame creaks as Dean's limbs pull against the restrains to follow him. 

Even if he wasn't tied down, he doubts he'd have the strength to stand. Doubts he'd have the strength to do anything at all. 

“Cas…” He prays out loud. The permanent tears in his eyes burn a little hotter. “Please come back, man. I - I need you.” 

It isn't enough and Dean knows. Knows these aren't the words Cas needs to hear. 

Knows they aren't anywhere near close to the truth. 

*

Miriam returns with a nurse in tow and hooks Dean up to a couple different drip bags. Prednisolone. 40mg. Dean thinks his dad might’ve been on the same stuff once. 

She checks his temperature. Doesn't flinch when she touches his clammy skin. Undoes his bindings. The velcro comes off with a loud ssshhhwip.

“Why the cuffs, doc?” Asks Dean, rubbing his wrists after the nurse departs. 

“You were a little combative when you woke up the first time. I'm not sure you knew where you were.” 

Huh. So that was real. Great. 

“Sorry.” Dean mumbles. Finds he can't really meet her eyes now it's just the two of them. 

“No need. I've seen much worse.” Miriam arranges pieces of equipment in a kidney tray on the trolley the nurse wheeled in. “It'll take a little while for the medication to work,” she explains, “but you should start to notice a difference soon. We’ll move you onto oral tablets once your stomach can handle it.” 

“I'm not puking my guts up anymore, so that's the main thing.” Dean sighs. Glances over at her. “Thanks for the Tylenol, by the way.” It didn't do shit, he doesn't add. 

Miriam straightens up. Tucks a non-existent hair behind her ear. 

“I apologise for taking off the way I did, Dean.” She says earnestly, “if I'd known you were seriously sick”-

“What, you would'a given me a pity fuck?” Dean laughs without humour. Miriam purses her lips. 

“No, I would have tried to do more to help. I definitely wouldn't have given you Tylenol, that's for sure.” She grimaces. "Bad for your liver."  

Dean scoffs. “Nice bedside manner, doc. I'll give you that. Y'always get your patients naked before you treat ‘em?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Not as a general rule. Are you finished sassing me or should I up your codeine?” 

“I'll take anything you got to knock me out. A stiff drink or two preferably.” 

She fixes him with a hard look. “Hilarious. Though I'm not sure your brother found your jokes quite as amusing if his face leaving here a few minutes ago was anything to go by.” 

“And that's your business how?” 

Miriam sighs and flicks through Dean's notes again. 

“Look, Dean, I'm sorry you're having a difficult time. I really am. But I can either talk to you about your future options to prevent this happening again or I can assign you a different doctor. I'm beginning to think I should've done that in the first place.” 

Dean sighs. “No, just - sorry. It's been a, uh… kind of a rough time.” 

Cas’ eyes, blurry, the petulant blue of the sky, flash behind Dean’s eyelids when he blinks. 

Miriam sits on the edge of the seat Sam had occupied. 

“Yes. Your brother said.” 

“What did he say?” Dean snaps. Hurts his ruined throat doing it. 

“That you've lost a lot of people. Suffered with depression in the past. Frequently used alcohol to cope with your situation. He also suspects you're having alcohol withdrawals alongside the hepatitis.” 

Dean huffs an ironic laugh. “Does he.” 

“It's fairly common for anyone in your situation to suffer the same symptoms, Dean. There's no shame in it. We have a lot of services available. The alcohol cessation clinic for example”-

“Yeah, yeah I know all about your damn services.” Dean interrupts. Scrubs a hand down his face. Spiky around his chin and jaw. Sam's not the only one who needs a shave. “I ain't doin’ no AA shit, okay? This ain't - this ain't that. I need to get outta here. Pronto.” 

“Oh, really?” Miriam says. There's no hint of sarcasm in her voice. No derision. “Where will you go?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Need to find a - a friend. He'll sort me out. Just” - he looks at her and rolls his eyes. “Give up the whole doctor act, okay? I'm fine. I'll be fine. Y’don't have to pretend to care.” 

“I am a doctor, Dean. It's my job to care.” 

“Yeah, but when we met, you”- he gestures to her vaguely. “I dunno. Didn't know you were a doctor.” 

Her mouth tugs up at the corner. “It didn't seem like a relevant detail at the time. I should've known my first attempt at a casual fling would wind up something like this.” She sighs and removes her glasses. Rubs the lenses on the corner of her white coat. Peels off the nitrile gloves and drops them in the kidney tray. “Tell me about your friend. What's he going to do for you that the hospital can't?” 

Dean scoffs. “Oh, you got no idea.”

She narrows her eyes. “Try me.” 

“He's got magic powers.” Says Dean. “He's an angel. If he was here right now, he'd heal me just like this.” He touches two fingers to his forehead. 

Miriam sighs. Shoulders dropping. “Nice. Well, when you get in contact with him tell him to stop by, won't you? We've got a lot of patients who could do with a miracle right now.” 

Her sarcasm washes off Dean like milk on glass. 

“I’ll pass on the message.” He says as Miriam gets up, checks the tubes attaching him to the drip-bags and machines one more time, and leaves. 

“Y'hear that, Cas?” Dean directs at the ceiling. “I’m not the only one who needs you. Y'should swing by if you've decided to start caring about humanity again.” 

Despite the bite in his tone, Dean waits. And waits. Waits for the breeze. The ozone. Undertone of honey and thunderstorm. 

He waits. For a sign. A signal. A rejection, even. 

No dice.

Chapter Text

Dean's dreams are disturbing. 

Often, he's trapped. No, more like - locked out of a place. Somewhere he really needs to be. Banging and banging on a black wall with all his strength, knowing that behind it is the one thing he needs - the one person he needs - to survive. To live. Because surviving without him would mean nothing. Has meant nothing. Existing forever without him would be worse than dying. 

And when he wakes up, he still feels closed off. Impossibly far from. It. Him.

Cas. 

Fuckin’ bond. 

He doesn't dream of the deformed wings again, but his back spasms periodically. 

Sam brings him tonic water. Says quinine is good for cramps. Dean doesn't know what the hell that is but he drinks it anyway. For the first time in his life, wishes there was gin in it. 

On the second day, he remembers to ask for his phone. Has the bright idea of calling Cas, ‘cause he might not have answered a single one of Dean’s prayers, but hell. Sure. Maybe a text will do the trick. 

His heart sinks when Sam reveals he left Dean's phone at the motel in the rush. And he doesn’t give Dean his when he asks. ‘Cause he knows what he’ll do. And Sam’s nothing if not a stubborn bastard. 

On the third day of his hospital visit, Dean wakes up to find Eileen in the chair by his bed. Holding his hand. She's either been crying or she's about to cry. Her dark eyes glisten as she looks at him. Upper lip wobbling a little. 

“‘Sup, Eileen.” He croaks. The IV keeps him hydrated but he still can't handle water by mouth beyond a few tiny sips. He's barely eaten. It takes a strong dose of anti-emetics to keep anything down. Miraculously, the pain in his upper right side has started to ebb off. But otherwise, he feels as shitty as he did before. Bones loose. Muscles withering and seizing at the slightest movement. 

Every time he goes to sleep, a big part of him hopes he won't wake up again. 

“I'm sorry, Dean.” Eileen whispers. Squeezes his hand. “I shouldn’t have gone about - it. The way I did. It wasn’t…”

Dean squeezes back. The little he can. He shrugs. 

“S'okay. You were right. Me and Grace? Yeah. We got a thing.” 

She sniffs. Laughs. Mouth twisted in a pained smile. “Yeah. Y'don't say.” And then, “Sam and Gabriel filled me in on the gory details.” 

Dean lifts his head up a little. Blinks back the sleep hanging heavy over his head. 

“You spoke to Gabriel?” 

She nods. Her expression is more significant than her silence. 

Dean falls back against the pillow with a whole body sigh. “You know.” 

“Yeah.” Says Eileen. Weighty. “I know.” 

Dean lets his eyes fall closed and tries not to think too hard about how Gabriel would have broken the news. “I knew before they told me, Dean.” 

And that. That makes him reach for the bowl on the bedside table. 

She gazes at him. All sympathy and meaningful looks. 

“Look, you and Cas have always been”- 

“Don't.” 

Eileen must be feeling extra guilty, because she stops. Lets Dean's hand go. 

“Nearly forgot. I brought you something.” 

She reaches down to the duffle smushed up by her feet and unzips it, pulling out Dean's old Metallica hoodie. He reaches for it unthinkingly, bizarrely comforted by the feel of the soft, faded material in his hands. It smells faintly of his favourite fabric softener. Peony Breeze or something. 

“Shit. Thanks.” He means it. 

Eileen shrugs. “I brought you some books, too.” She takes them out. Puts them in a neat pile on the side table. They're all the books from Dean's room. Old, stolen library books with yellow, frayed pages and tears near the spines and coffee stains dotting some pages. Well read. Well loved. 

Cas’ stolen copy of 1984 is sandwiched in the middle of the pile. Slotted seamlessly into Dean's tower of issues. Indistinguishable from the rest. 

A hard lump forms in Dean's throat. He swallows it back and directs his gaze at the ceiling. 

“Y'didn’t have to come all the way here.” He murmurs. 

Eileen nods. “I did. I wanted to.” She sighs. “Besides, someone has to work on Sam. He - has his traumas. He's projecting a little.”

“He compared me and Cas to him and Ruby.”

Eileen pulls a face. “Yikes. But I mean…” Dean glares at her. She holds up her hands in surrender. “There are similarities. In so much as the nature of your - um - activities.”

“I'm not above rolling out of this bed to scratch at your ankles, Eileen.”

She laughs. “I'm sorry. But you gotta admit”- she clears her throat. “Anyway. I’m working on Sam. I don't think it's possible to reverse or cancel your bond with Cas. There's not much written lore on the subject, but everything I've found points to this being pretty permanent. Not to mention everything Gabriel said. And if anyone’s gonna know…” 

Dean sighs. “Yeah. Figured.” He frowns. “Where is that feathered clown anyway? He was with us right up until Sam took me to the hospital.” 

“Um…” Eileen looks away from him. “I don’t - he’s been around. Back and forth, y’know.” She shifts in her seat. And years of pretending to be FBI taught Dean a thing or two about when people are excluding details on purpose. 

“What, Eileen?” 

She drops her head. Meets his eyes. “Look, Dean. Like I said, I'm working on Sam. He still thinks there's a way to… reverse this. And he doesn’t think either you or Cas can be objective about it. He's, uh, he’s warded the bunker against angels.” 

Dean’s insides go cold. “Why? What if Cas needs - what if he's in trouble”-

Eileen shakes her head. “I don't know, Dean.” She sighs. “I haven't seen Cas. I promise. But I know Gabriel is with him. And I told him to call me if - y'know. If anything. So it’s not like he doesn’t have anyone. Sam’s just - he thinks he’s doing the right thing. For you.” 

Dean's throat clicks as he swallows and averts his gaze from Eileen’s.

“This isn't all Cas’ fault.”

“...I know.” 

“He - he didn't mean to. Do this.”

“Yeah.” 

Dean shuts his eyes. The drugs in his system numb most of the pain. His liver disease is improving, according to Miriam. But this - this hollow, empty feeling he gets whenever he thinks about Cas - is worse than anything. All the lean weight he'd built up during hunting and location scouting has fallen off him. Meat off the bone. He doesn't have to suck in his stomach much to count his ribs. 

“I need to see him, Eileen.” Dean manages. Says it to the ceiling instead of her. 

“...You're gonna have to look at me if you want me to read your lips, Dean.” 

For Christ's sake. 

He looks at her. “I need to see Cas.” He sucks in a huge breath and continues, “I don't care if Sam disapproves. We - we need to complete the bond. Just so we can - survive. At this point. We can deal with the other stuff after.” 

Eileen blinks. “You think Sam's not budging on this because he doesn't approve? Of, like, your relationship?” 

Dean grimaces. “It's not a relationship. I mean it's - you know what I mean.” 

“Dean,” Eileen laughs a little in disbelief. “Sam wouldn't care if you started wearing leathers and brought a new man home every weekend. I mean, he might be surprised, yeah, but - fuck, man. It isn't that aspect of it which bothers him. If anything, if this had gone any other way, I think he'd be”- she breaks off. Shakes her head. “If you were happy with Cas? Loved him? He'd be thrilled.” 

Loved him. 

This bond. This thing. This profound, miraculous thing which only happens to angels once every few millennia according to Gabriel. Is it love? Is it different? Is it more? 

Dean has never. Isn't. Finds it impossible. Can't explain what Cas means to him now, given everything. It's so much. Fathomless amounts of meaning. And that's before he even thinks about the - the Grace. He knows the Grace is part of it. Knows it triggered shit to happen. But it's not. It's not about the sex. 

It's just about him. Cas. Being close enough to breathe him in. See the states behind his eyes. The tell-tale signs. A flicker at the corner of his mouth could mean the difference between elation and despair. And Dean's always thought - always wanted to think - he's the only one who noticed them. The small signs. 

And it's been that way since the start. But to call it love - 

To call it love like Cas does. So simple. Such a small, four letter word with so much power. So much violence. 

If Dean loves Cas, he'll lose him. ‘Cause that's just the way things go for them. Almost everyone he's ever loved is dead. And for a while that was true for Cas, too. 

His stomach lurches. Cosmic movement as he thinks. Tries to stop thinking. He wastes more water as ever-ready tears cling to his eyelashes. 

“It's this that scares Sam.” Eileen continues. “Losing you. Watching you suffer again and again. He blames himself, y'know, for last summer.” 

Dean frowns at her. “Whaddya mean?” 

She smiles softly. Reaches out to grasp his hand again. 

“Sam watched you nearly drink yourself into an early grave. Then he had to listen to you begging him to let you go when you got hurt on that hunt. He thought it was over when me and Cas were brought back. Thought it was - the happy ending we all deserved.” 

“It should've been.” Dean whispers. “But I - I fucked up, Eileen.”

She shakes her head. “No. It's just never that simple for people like us. And you and Cas have always been. How do I put this? Intense.” 

Dean attempts a laugh. It rattles, hoarse and shattered, in his throat. “Yeah.” 

“Sam was waiting for you to tell him that you'd realised you were crazy about each other. Instead he hears from Jack that you guys split off and you're back on the bottle. He blames himself for not asking sooner. Not checking. He didn't believe me at first, when I told him my theory about your Grace addiction. And then when you kept getting sick, he - he said he was gonna handle it. In his own way. But jeez, Dean. Trying to talk to you about anything is like poking at an angry werewolf.” 

Dean listens without interrupting. Without so much as a twitch. ‘Cause to hear that Sam thought - all this time - that he and Cas were - 

“I know.” Dean says. “I know he blames himself. I can't fuckin’ stand it. If he'd just worry about himself for a damn change”- 

“Then where would you be?” 

Rotting in a motel bed by now. Where I belong. 

“If it hadn't been Sam, it would’ve been one of us. Me or Claire or Jody or Jack. Any one of the people in your life who care about you, Dean.”

Her voice is all soft. Loving. Dean can't escape people loving him. No matter how hard he tries. 

He pulls his hand away. “I gotta sleep. M'sorry.” 

“It's okay, Dean. We'll still be here when you wake up.” 

And ain't that just the problem? 

*

The realisation, when it hits, hits pretty damn slow. 

Dean learns that Miriam got divorced last year. And she went to the bar that night ‘cause her eldest daughter encouraged her to go out and meet someone. And, of course, she met Dean. 

While she talks - about her divorce, about her daughter - Dean thinks of Cas. 

Dean turns on the TV in the corner of the room when he needs background noise to distract himself from his thoughts or the ever-increasing weakness in his limbs. He doesn't concentrate. Can’t. ‘Cause all he can think about is Cas. 

When he opens his eyes in the morning, the first thing he does is look for Cas. Turn his head to the empty chair by his bed and wait for Cas to show. For him to have been there for a while, waiting for Dean to wake up. 

The chair remains empty. And the blunt object in his gut twists deeper and deeper. 

Sam comes frequently. Drops off more of Dean's clothes for when he's well enough to be discharged, which isn't looking like any time soon. He avoids Dean's eyes. Brings him gatorade. Looks a little more stressed and on the brink with each visit. 

Eileen is still working on him. Whatever the fuck that means. 

And Dean knows. Knows he's dying. The drugs do a great job of masking the worst symptoms, but it's getting more obvious with each passing hour. His body is just. Giving up. Shutting down. 

By day six at the hospital, he's so exhausted he can hardly bring himself to open his eyes for more than a few hours. 

The rest of the time, he dreams of Cas. 

Cas in a dark place. His back to him. Running his hands up and down the length of an invisible wall. Searching for a crack. A fissure. Anything. 

Sometimes, Cas bangs on the wall with his fists. Other times he leans his forehead against it. Shoulders down. Posture slipping as his own will diminishes. 

Dean calls out to him in his dreams, but there’s no sound in there. No way Cas can hear him. 

He's not in any location Dean recognises. He's not really - anywhere. It's not even a space, he thinks. Not in this dimension, anyway. 

Dean surmises that the bond connecting them has made his subconscious think they're one and the same. It wants Dean to believe that Cas wants him. Is trying to get to him.

But if that were true, he'd be here. 

So, with nothing else to do and a whole lot of thinking and realisations happening, Dean prays.

A lot. 

Cas. Please. I'll do anything. Please just come back so we can talk. Please please please.

When I die, I will haunt your ass so hard. Just you fuckin’ wait. 

Hey, Cas. We should get burgers again when this is over. Or I could cook us somethin’ up. Tell me what you want and I'll make a menu. I'm so fuckin’ bored. This TV only shows the weather and WWE. 

Cas. I'm gonna die soon. I can feel it. Are you dying too? In my dreams, I think you’re dying with me. 

The content of the prayers depends on the state of mind Dean's currently in. Varies from minute to minute. Depends what drugs Miriam's got him hooked up to. Depends if the TV's showing the forecast or the wrestling. 

The weather is getting worse. And so are the spasms in Dean's back. 

Claire and Kaia arrive before the storm does, and he doesn't think he's ever been less pleased to see the couple in his life. 

“Hey, Dean.” Kaia waves sheepishly from the doorway as Claire strides right into the room to stand over him in a way he guesses is supposed to be menacing. Big frown slapped on her face. 

“You look like shit.” She declares. 

“Speak for yourself.” Dean croaks, nodding at the sling holding her arm together. 

She shrugs. “Eh. You know how Wendigos be. More importantly, what the fuck happened to you?” 

Claire is cast in hues of grey. The wind and rain whip up the trees into blurry smudges through the window behind her. Her blonde hair is pale and stark. Nearly white. The colour's just - leaving. Going. Painting the world reaper-grey. Is it Dean or has the world always looked like this?

He manages to raise a brow. “You don't know?”

She snorts. “Oh. I know, alright. But I wanna hear your side.” 

Claire sits heavily in the chair by Dean's bed. Folds her legs. 

“Can you, like, dial back on the aggression? Head's killing me.” 

Claire huffs. Scowls at him harder. 

Kaia remains awkwardly in the doorway. Shooting Dean somewhat sympathetic smiles every time he looks to her for an explanation. 

“This was supposed to be the first semi-normal Christmas we've ever had, dude.” Claire says. Bearing the crux of the problem. “You think I wanted to spend it in some dingy hospital in the butt-fuck middle of nowhere Texas?” 

Dean blinks. “It's Christmas?” 

Claire rolls her eyes as Kaia says, “Tomorrow. Yeah.” 

Dean pounds his head against the pillow. Closes his eyes. Machines beep in the background. The wind whistles through gaps in the double glazing. 

“Shit. We were supposed to be at Sioux Falls by now.” 

“Y'don't say.” Claire gripes. Without preamble, she reaches into the bag slung over her good shoulder and pulls out a crappily wrapped package. Throws it on Dean’s bed. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas. I was gonna wait, but who knows if you’ll even be alive to get it?” 

Truthfully, Dean's never given less of a shit about Christmas. He's on the brink of death. Cas is gone. Barred from the bunker. Sam's going nuts. And everyone in his life seems to know that him and Cas have been doing gay shit on the side. Death can't come soon e-fucking-nough. He glares at the package. It’s misshapen. S'got cartoon cats with santa hats on it. He doesn’t pick it up. 

“What the hell is this?” He snaps. Holding back the urge to cough. “You waitin’ for an apology or somethin’? You think I asked for this?” 

WWE is on. The shouts and screams come through the TV's shitty speakers as thin, tinny cries. 

Claire gives him a deadpan look. “Some remorse might be a good start.” 

Dean scoffs right back. Stares at the small screen on the opposite wall ‘cause the package is looking at him. Makes him feel yet more guilt. The last thing he fuckin’ needs right now. 

“I got plenty of remorse to go around, barbie. Don't you worry about that.” 

Claire shakes her head. “Seriously? A pity party? You're smarter than this, Dean. You're better than this.” 

“Claire…” Kaia warns. 

For the first time in days, Dean feels a dredge of that same frustration which made him lash out at Cas. A smidge of spite - just enough to give him the energy to glare at the young woman in front of him. A child in his eyes. What the fuck would she know about something like this? She hasn't lived a fraction of Dean's life. She doesn't know what it’s like. What this is like. This impossible bullshit. 

And she has Cas’ wintry stare. 

It lights a fire in him.

“Talk to me when you're grown, Claire.”

She points at him with her good hand. “You're supposed to be fighting. You've been through worse than this. You”- She pushes a strand of hair out of her face. “You're not meant to give up this easy, man!” 

“Oh, yeah? Then tell me what the hell I am meant to do. I don't have Cas on a frickin’ leash. Believe me, if I did, I'd drag his ass down here and end all this now but the bastard doesn't want anything to do with me! He's done. I'm done. We're done, Claire. Sorry to rain on your nutcracker princess fantasy parade but that's just how it is.” 

“You're full of shit.” She fires back. Tears blurring her glare. Fuck's sake. Why do they always fucking cry at him? Why can't they just be mad? Disappointed. Pissed off. They’re hunters for Christ's sakes. If Claire can't handle a loss now - especially someone of Dean's calibre who was bound to go in some nasty supernatural way - then how the hell is she gonna cope in the future? 

She won't. 

She'll break.

Just like Dean did.

Does. 

Which is why he can't do it anymore. 

Why he's better off outta the picture altogether. 

John would agree. John would call him weak. Soft in the head. Spineless son of a bitch.

And that's when Dean feels it. The iron slice which separates the part of his consciousness that is his father from the rest of him. His dad’s voice. Living as a separate entity in his head. A parasite. Demon on his shoulder. Harsh and low and cigarette-scented, pushing in from all sides. Reminding him what a good hunter looks like. 

Dean doesn't want to be a good hunter anymore. 

He wants to be a good person. 

The lump in his sore throat grows as Claire rises to her feet to storm out. 

“Claire. Claire.” Dean rasps. “Wait.” 

She stops facing the door. Turns. One of her tears has escaped. 

“I don't give a fuck about Christmas, Dean. I give a fuck about my family.” 

Kaia reaches out and touches her hand. Just two fingers. Gentle, reassuring, but not overbearing. 

Cas would do that, Dean thinks. If he let him. 

“I know.” 

Claire is shaking a little. Mouth a hard line. 

“I just want - I want a - a family again. A real one.” 

Dean closes his eyes. Lets the hot tears prickle and escape. Couldn’t hide them now even if he had the will to. 

“Me too.” It's a whisper. Loud and clear in the grey, death-scented room. 

He raises his arms. Best he can. The muscles constrict and squeeze and burn but he doesn't give a fuck. He needs this. They need this.

Claire gets the hint and marches right over to the bed to flop over him in an awkward, slinged hug. Her package crunches between them. Soft and unobtrusive. 

“Don't you dare fucking die.” She says, voice muffled and a little higher than usual in the blankets. “I’ll kill you.” 

“I'll try.” Dean says. “Promise.” Kaia lingers awkwardly by the bed. Her own eyes a little moist. “C'mon, Kaia. Bring it in. I won't bite.” Dean tries. 

“I will.” Claire says, shoulders lifting as Dean gives a wet, throaty laugh. 

Kaia hugs Dean from the other side of the bed, and then he's surrounded by two crying hunters. Their hands knotted together across his chest. Two girls. Two girls in love. 

And Dean - Dean never questioned it. Their relationship. Claire being gay was just. Yeah. No one really gave a fuck. Of course she could be gay. She was allowed. Young enough to - know. Who she was. What she wanted. 

Dean's never known what he wanted. 

Or. He knew. 

Knew and couldn't bear it. 

“Jesus… what’d you girls eat on the way here? You’re crushin’ me, guys.” 

They pull away sniffing. Quiet, sad giggles. Wiping tears away.

“Sorry, old man. Forgot your withered bones can’t take it anymore.” 

Dean rolls his watery eyes at Claire, but - she’s smiling at him now. The small pucker of her lips holding a whole host of sorrow behind it the anger had so cleverly masked. Dean knows better than anyone how quick the anger is to go. Strong while it’s there. But never for long enough. 

Kaia picks up the package and holds it out to Dean. “You should open this.” 

Dean takes the soft gift and looks between them both. “Now? You sure?” 

They nod. He tears open the wrapping paper and unfolds the t-shirt folded inside. 

“The fuck is this?” He squints at the t-shirt. The picture on the front and the text - “No. You - no.” The shirt - the monstrosity - depicts a cartoon teddy bear holding a sign saying, ‘I Wuv Hugs.’ “I am gonna kill both of you.” Dean tells them seriously as they guffaw into their fists. 

“Hey, this was Sam’s idea. So it’s his gift, technically. You should see the one Jody ordered for Cas.” 

Dean shakes his head. Ignores the sting at the mention of Cas. 

“We’re all getting one.” Kaia tells him, “It was gonna be a whole thing.” 

“Cas was in on it, too.” Claire chimes in, eyes sparkling a little. “Pretty sure he bought Jack’s. I got Kaia’s.” 

Kaia opens her leather jacket, revealing a glittery, pink t-shirt depicting a disturbingly realistic kitten sat inside an old, farm-style wagon filled with flowers and rainbows and other girly shit. Above the picture, it simply reads: Pussy Wagon. 

Dean barks a laugh. The movement strains his sick lungs, but it’s worth it as they all crack up like idiots in the hospital room. And suddenly, the world feels a little less grey. 

Dean finds he can’t hold back the grin stretching his face open as Claire and Kaia fall into giggles, leaning on his bed. Shoving each other off it. Throwing each other frickin’ heart eyes all over the place. 

Cas gave him this. 

Another family. Another chance. 

Without Cas, Dean wouldn’t have Claire or Kaia. He wouldn’t have Jack. He wouldn’t have anywhere near the amount of people who care enough to beg him not to die. 

Dean wants to tell Cas so badly how much this means to him - this second chance at something resembling a life - that he’s nearly choked by it. 

And, like a thorny flower blooming inside his chest, the realisation takes full form. Reaches out and fills the space in Dean's heart and lungs and stomach until he can barely breathe. 

He's in love with Cas.

Always fucking has been.

Chapter Text

When Dean learns Cas hasn't been to see Claire, Kaia or Jody either he starts to worry. Desperation makes him pray to Jack, too. His guilt towards Jack is a different beast altogether, but that’s - he’ll deal with it. Find a way to make it right. Somehow, right now, making up with God feels easier than making up with Cas. 

Jack, unsurprisingly, doesn’t answer. And that’s when Claire tells him the last time anyone saw him he said he was going to Indonesia. To help the victims of the quake. ‘Cause he - he’s good like that. 

It's always the people. Saving lives? Nothin’ more important.

But with Jack gone and Cas AWOL, Dean starts to seriously consider how the hell he’s gonna get him back. He starts to think about - about why Cas left the way he did. About what he must think of himself,  never mind Dean. 

Cas is no stranger to leaving without a goodbye, but -

He thinks he raped Dean. 

Dean - let him think that. 

“Cas.” Dean prays as soon as Claire and Kaia have migrated to the cafeteria for mandatory coffee sludge. “Cas, you didn't force me. Okay? I-I would have stopped it. If I didn't want - those things. I mean, we - we should have talked about it. We're both fuckin’ idiots, man, okay? Just - come back. Please. I don't care if you never wanna see me again after just - please. Let's talk about this. For real.” 

Dean shuts his eyes and breathes hard. The tiny flicker of hope that Cas is listening, hasn't shut him out for good, diminishes and diminishes as time wears on. As the wind beats against the windows, harder and harder. Rattling and ricocheting and fucking screaming at him. Dean doesn't realise his face is wet until Miriam swings open the door, for a moment filling the room with more, unbearable noise.

Dean ducks his head. Hides his face and presses his palms into his eyeballs. 

“This storm’s getting a little concerning.” Miriam says heavily. “How are you feeling?” 

“Worse.” Dean replies. Sickening colours kaleidoscoping in the darkness. 

She nods. Pulls out his chart and flicks through it. 

“I'll be honest, I'm… confused. Despite the reduced inflammation in your liver, your symptoms aren't improving at all.” 

“No kidding.” Dean grouses. “My head's on fire.”

“It's like your body is rejecting everything we put into it.” And then, lower, “I've never seen anything like this…” She chews her lip for a moment. Studies the notes. Dean feels a stab of guilt when he looks at her - takes in this put together woman with a daughter and a divorce and a PhD. How many other women were there like her? How many others did he look at and think “easy skank” before using them for a tumble in the sheets and forgetting about ‘em after a week? How many were doctors? Nurses? Paramedics, carers, teachers and people with lives and loves and hurts just like him?

And hell. Even the easy skanks deserve some fuckin’ credit. ‘Cause throughout it all, Dean was the easiest skank of them all. 

“I need to”- Dean wheezes. “See. Bathroom. Please.” 

Miriam puts the notes down and makes her way to Dean’s bedside. No urgency. No alarm. Calm and precise, she helps him out of the bed. His grip on the little wheely stand holding the IV bag is white-knuckled as he strains to stay upright. Hunched over on himself like - like he’s eighty years old and spent his life pickin’ potatoes or some shit. He can’t straighten his spine. Can barely lift his head, his neck’s so weak.

“You’re doing really well, Dean.” Miriam tells him as she guides him to the bathroom. “Yep. This way. Don’t trip on the - yeah, there ya go.” 

It’s humiliating. Lonely. He’s withering. Can’t even fuckin’ stand up on his own. 

Miriam switches on the light in the tiny bathroom attached to his private ward. Fuckin’ luxury. But when he catches sight of himself in the large plastic mirror opposite the shower, he figures he’s only been separated so his appearance doesn’t scare the other patients. 

Dean’s rattling breath catches in his throat as he gazes at his reflection. So much worse after just one day. 

He’s so pale his skin’s almost translucent. Veins sticking out - blue and pink - through the dark circles under his eyes. He’s lost so much weight he can see the detail of his collar-bones, stark and sharp. His hair’s overgrown. Dark and greasy. Beard forming around his jaw. Adding shadows and deepening the hollows in his face. Dean swallows.

“Can you… help me undress?” 

Miriam pauses. “Dean. You don’t have to”-

“I gotta see.” 

She purses her lips. “...Alright.” Helps untie the cords around his hospital gown. It slips off his shoulders with no resistance. Miriam gathers it up and politely looks away. Busies herself with adjusting the shower curtain as Dean stares at himself in the mirror. 

He’s wearing boxers, but with all the weight he’s lost they’re ready to drop right off his hips. There are weird black marks, bruises and patches of skin around his armpits and legs and neck that seem to have appeared overnight. Dean peers at them. Frowning. They don’t hurt when he presses them. 

“What is this?” He rasps. 

Miriam turns. Clears her throat. “It’s err… necrosis.” She sighs. “Areas of the skin which have. Started to, um. Die.” Dean doesn’t need to say he already knew what necrosis was. “It started around your lymphatic system but it’s spreading.” She shakes her head, lost for words. “Dean, I-I’m so sorry. I have no idea what’s causing this. I’ll keep booking scans and doing tests and we’ve already got in touch with various specialists, but if I knew”- She breaks off. Wrings her hands. And Dean knows what he needs to do next. 

“Hey, Doctor Marshall?” He says. “I think you, me and my brother need to have a talk.”

*

Miriam takes the talk pretty well, all things considered. Sure, she pales. Fiddles with her bracelet as Sam talks her through the angels, demons, ghosts, vampire crap of it all. 

He doesn't explain everything. Dean would be dead by the time they were done. But he says - enough. 

Miriam exhales shakily at the end. 

“So - this. Your… symptoms. You're addicted to Grace? Like… The Grace of God?”

He hears the disbelief in her voice. “Uh. Kinda.”

“Not kinda.” Says Sam. Voice hard. “Very.” 

Dean thinks about what Eileen said. That Sam would be happy if he - loved Cas. Should he tell him now? 

Dean thinks - maybe not. Not yet. Nestles deeper against the pillow he’s wrapped his old hoodie around. The faded material is soft and familiar against his neck. He could almost be back at the bunker if he closes his eyes. 

Miriam puts her fingertips against her temples. 

“So, God's real.” 

“The last one died.” Says Dean. “The new God is Lucifer's son”- her eyes widen - “but don't worry. He's nice. Really good kid. He's our - um. Adopted son.” 

She looks between them both. “Huh?” 

Sam shrugs. “It's kind of a three-way thing.”

“Ew, dude”- 

“I don't mean - jeez.” Sam huffs. “Me, Dean and Cas - the angel. The… Grace. Guy. We, err. Raised him. Are raising him. His name is Jack.”

“God's name is Jack? And he's your kid?”

“Yeah, but Cas is pretty determined to do the whole parenting thing on his own right now…” Dean mutters while Sam rolls his eyes. All the while, Miriam glances between them like she's officially entered a different dimension. 

She shakes her head. “This is nuts.” She takes off her glasses and collapses into the chair. “But I'm not completely surprised.” 

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

“You’re not?” Asks Sam. 

She raises a brow at them both. “Sam. Dean. I've been a doctor in the deep south for fifteen years. I've seen some weird shit. Bites that don't match any animals in our catalogue. Odd, unexplainable diseases that pop up in minutes”- Dean and Sam telepathically communicate: pestilence - “and a whole host of other mysterious ailments and injuries which suspiciously match up to local folklore. It's actually kind of a relief. Knowing none of us were crazy this whole time for thinking it.” She frowns at Dean. “Never heard of anyone getting hooked on Grace, though. That's a new one.” 

“Yeah.” Dean agrees. “S'not exactly common.” 

They sit in silence for a minute. All turn to the window as the wind howls and the skies darken. The clouds thicken and swell. 

“There's more. To this bond.” Dean says, watching the gloomy sky roll and swirl. “I feel… everything. Every noise. Every vibration in the frickin’ floor. My back is twitchin’ like crazy. And my dreams and my head…” He inhales. Listens to the beeps of his unsteady heart monitor. “What else did Gabriel say?” 

Sam's face hardens. “Dean”-

“Okay.” His last ditch attempt to get Sam to be reasonable - to listen. It’s over. “I want a house meeting.” He says. “Now. Everyone we've got.” 

Sam blinks. Miriam watches the conversation, lost for the first time since Dean's known her. 

“You want…?”

“Get Eileen.” Dean orders. Sounding braver than he feels. “Claire. Kaia.” 

“But Dean”- 

“I need everyone, Sam. Now. I'm not asking.” 

Frowny and wide-eyed, Sam nods. Pulls out his phone and texts and calls the others to come and gather in Dean's hospital room, which suddenly feels a lot smaller with the six of them in it. Outside, the lights in the corridor flicker. The forecast is on, the news-reader's voice yammering away in the background. Warning everyone in the area to stay inside. Freak storm's coming. A couple tornados too, which is weird for this time of year. 

Dean ignores it as he collects his thoughts and the others gaze down at him with a mixture of apprehension and pity. His Christmas gift lies at the end of the bed between them (I Wuv Hugs).

“Thing is, I don't have long.” He tells them all. Knowing it's true. 

“Dean, don't say tha”- Sam's cut off by the withering look Dean gives him. 

“You guys got any leads on reversing the bond?” Claire asks Sam and Eileen. Eileen shakes her head as Sam grits his teeth at floor. 

“None.” Says Eileen. 

Dean draws in a deep breath. “First things first… you all know, right? About… me and.” He gulps. Nut up, Winchester. “About me and Cas.” 

The group look around at one another. 

“Yeah. You guys are boning.” Claire deadpans. “We know.” 

Dean glowers at her. She meets his eyes with a challenge. 

He sighs, “We didn't bone, okay?”

“Do the details really matter at this point? You guys have been hooking up. So what? And I'm fifty dollars up ‘cause of it so I owe you one.” Claire winks at Kaia. 

“You guys bet on”-? Dean takes a deep breath, “You know what? It's not important.” 

Miriam steps forward. “Um. Should I leave?”

“You can stay. It's fine.” Won't matter if she knows, Dean figures. She might even be able to help. Medical knowledge and all. Whatever. 

“I called you all here ‘cause I need you to see. Need you to get it.” He swallows hard. Shards in his throat. Veins stick out in his arms. Blue-green against his stark, pale skin. “This is it for me.” 

Claire's face darkens. “You promised”-

Dean holds up a hand. She slams her mouth shut, but still glares. 

“If me and Cas don't tie this shit up in the next couple days, we - we ain't gonna make it.” He looks at Sam now. “You heard Gabriel. We ain't gonna.” 

“We don't know that for sure. There’s still time.” Sam argues. Hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. 

“Doctor Marshall?” Dean beckons her forward. “Whaddya got?” 

A little shy, Miriam steps away from the bulk of the group to grab his chart. She clears her throat and reads:

“Well, for starters, your blood pressure is going down by the hour. I've put you on a steady dose of Metaraminol which should've started working days ago but it's not helping. Your kidney function test results are concerning at best. Not to mention…” She flicks through the pages. “Um. Everything else. You have a persistent indirect inguinal hernia on your left side. Abdominal haemorrhaging. You’ve got pleurisy in your lungs which looks like it’s well on its way to developing into pneumonia. Your ultrasounds come back worse with every session and aside from your hepatitis symptoms, nothing is improving. You're developing infectious lesions around your lymph nodes, not to mention the necrosis. You have internal bruising from unknown sources and”- she glances up at Dean, expression pinched - “right now, all signs point to, err… overall organ failure. It's slow, but… It's happening. And nothing we're giving you is slowing it down.” 

An awful, heavy silence descends over the group. 

“Groovy.” Dean says into the doom. “You get it now, Sam?” 

Sam stares at him. Eyes ringed red from exhaustion. Wringing his hands. 

“Dean. I- I am trying everything” -

“I know. I know, Sam. But you're still not getting it. I need Cas to survive. I’m not just sayin’ that ‘cause of the stupid fuckin’ bond, okay? So… we need to find a way to get in touch with him. All of us. I’m… not sure how, but I thought maybe, if we all prayed at the same time or” -

“You don’t have to do that.” Sam interrupts. 

There’s a pause. A long one. And Dean - Dean looks at his brother’s face. The guilty twist of his mouth. The pleading way his eyebrows draw together. Puppy in a cage kinda look. He thinks, if his head wasn’t so fogged with drugs and disease, he would know what Sam was trying to tell him already. 

“Why not?” 

Sam opens his mouth. And as he does, a nurse throws the door open, eyes-widening when she sees all the people in the room. They’re definitely exceeding the visitor limit.

“Doctor Marshall? We’re evacuating the hospital. Storm’s coming right toward us. Transport’s on the way to take all the patients to the leisure centre in the next town over.”

Miriam darts into action, throwing Dean a worried look. “I have to go. Hang tight, Dean. Someone will be back to get you. I suggest the rest of you get out of here as soon as possible.”

She leaves with the nurse, hurrying to attention as the hospital’s evac procedures begin. 

Outside, the sky has turned black. 

Sam’s gaze hasn’t moved from Dean. 

“...Shouldn’t we?” Says Claire, thumb pointed towards the door. 

“Wait.” Says Sam. “This - it’s my fault. The storm isn’t - it’s not-” Dean watches the movement of his throat as he swallows hard. Guilty guilty guilty. 

“The hell did you do, Sam?”  

A black wall. Cas runs his hands over it. Searching for a fissure, anything. 

“This storm is - it’s Cas.” 

Dean’s breathing hard. The machines beep and beep and beep. Beside Sam, Eileen’s shoulders drop. She knew. 

“What do you mean it’s Cas?” 

“I was trying to do the right thing, Dean. Keeping you separate - I didn’t want”-

“You warded the hospital against angels. Didn’t you?” It hits Dean like a brick to the head. 

“Sam!” Claire exclaims, lurching forward to get up in his face. Kaia holds her back with a hand on her slinged shoulder, but the glare she gives Sam isn’t any less venomous. 

Dean closes his eyes. Sees it as clear as fucking day. The wall around the hospital, erected into the etheric plane. Stopping Cas or Gabriel or any angel from entering. 

“This whole time… Cas has been trying to reach me this whole goddamn time.” 

Dean doesn’t know whether to weep with relief or despair. His dreams - they weren’t just his subconscious - they were real. He was seeing Cas’ attempts to break through the barrier. Feeling his hopelessness as he tried and failed again and again and again to reach Dean. He heard every one of his prayers. Screamed out to him through the wind and the rain and every arsenal nature has to offer. 

As if hearing Dean’s realisation, a boom sounds outside. Powerful. Shakes the fuckin’ foundations. In the distance, Dean hears shouts. They all look out of the window in alarm. The trees are bent sideways. About to be ripped from the ground. The glass shakes in the panes. 

“Sam. You have to break the sigils. Right now.” 

Sam nods. Pale. “Okay.” He sucks in a deep breath. “Okay, Dean. I - Okay. I’m sorry.” He turns on his heel. Regret bunched in his shoulders. Determination to put it right propelling him forward, right into the fray of hospital staff busy gathering patients and supplies as they prepare to get everyone out. Eileen follows him, but not without throwing an apologetic glance Dean’s way first.

And this time, he doesn’t blame her. He can’t. He knows she was trying to help. Working on Sam. 

He gets what she meant now. 

Claire and Kaia rush to Dean’s bedside. Start pulling off wires and monitors.

“The hell you two doin’?”

“Getting you out of here!” Claire says. Hunter’s will driving her. 

“No.” He grabs hold of her wrist. “Claire, I gotta stay. Cas is coming”-

“Yeah, and he’s gonna destroy the whole hospital by the sounds of it.” Kaia asserts with a nervous glance outside. Another colossal boom sounds. Closer this time.  

“Sam’s breaking the sigil”-

“And Cas isn’t stable right now.” Claire tells him. Removing her wrist from his grip with no effort at all. “Think about how you feel, now put that in angel terms. Guy’s pissed. And - sick. He probably has no control over his Grace. We gotta get you out of here first, and then me and Kaia can try and talk to him”-

“No!” Dean shouts. Shreds the last of his vocal cords doing it. “Just - get me outta this friggin’ bed. I’ll handle Cas.” 

“But Dean, you’re”-

“Claire.” Dean shout whispers. All his voice can manage. “Please. Trust me. He won’t hurt me. He won’t. I - I can feel”-

The wall breaks. Crumbles apart under his fingers. Atomises. And all the force he’s been held back from exerting, all the rage and the want and the determination and grief, rushes forward exponentially. Nothing can stop him now. 

The rain transforms into a deluge. Pounds on the windows with enough force to break them. Wind whips and twists and paws at the building.

Dean doesn’t have to be asleep anymore to see what Cas sees. Feel what Cas feels. His vessel is here. Nearby. But he’s barely - aware of it. Stuck somewhere between a celestial state and this dimension as his emotions overwhelm him. Sam’s broken the sigils. Cas is here, and so is the storm. 

“He won’t hurt me.” 

Claire gazes down at him. Blue eyes - the mirror image of her long dead father’s - wide with panic and doubt. She shares an indecipherable look with Kaia. 

“Fine. But we’re not leaving the hospital.”

“Help the others.” Dean says. “Please. Make sure no one gets hurt.” 

Displeased, Claire reluctantly nods. She and Kaia make their way to the door. 

She points at him with her good hand. 

“Don’t fuckin’ die. You owe me a Christmas.” 

Dean manages a weak smile in response. Then they’re gone. 

He closes his eyes and breathes hard through his nose. Mucus and gunk rattle in his chest. His throat’s constricted. He breathes through it all. Lets the sound of the storm raging outside envelop him. 

Cas. He prays. He can’t talk anymore. His voice is gone for good. Cas, I’m here. 

The wind whistles, high and keening. The TV flickers and static rolls across the screen. Lights and machines stammer and jumpstart. 

Dean hauls himself up. Old, dodgy knee stiffer than ever. Every muscle trembling to sustain his meagre weight. 

He drops down from the bed. Lands too heavy. Crumples to his knees. Fuck. Pounds his fist against the floor as he struggles to get up. 

Cas. I’m trying. Trying to come to you. Find me. Please. 

Wherever he is, whatever state he’s in, Cas is struggling as much as Dean is. He can feel it in the connection between them. The storm’s voice begs Dean to come closer. To find him. Just as Dean begs Cas. 

“I can’t.” Dean sobs. Hoarse breaths. Inaudible. “I’m trying, Cas. I’m trying.” 

The tiny movement is too much for his broken body. It’s worse than crawling through the Empty. Hauling broken wings behind him. They’re here, too. Somewhere. Invisible in this dimension but as heavy and as attached to him as they were in that nightmare world. 

We’re going to die.

It’s not his thought or Cas’. It’s a thought they share as one. 

Cas will perish in the storm. Strong. An explosion of power, releasing billions of years’ worth of energy - all of his Grace - all at once. And Dean will die quietly. Curled around himself in this empty room. Hysterical and useless. With nothing left to offer the universe but a final whimper into the void. 

“Cas…” Dean cries. Hot, thick tears blurring his vision. Forming a tiny pool on the floor in front of his nose where he’s slumped. “I’m so sorry, Cas. I’m too far gone, man.” 

A clash of thunder shouts Dean’s name. Cas’ tears stream down Dean’s hospital window and flood the parking lot outside. 

“I’m sorry… Cas, I… I lo…” 

Dean closes his eyes. 

“Oooh, no you don’t.” Two arms hook under Dean’s shoulders. For a second he’s weightless, relieved from the burden of his body and deformed wings. “That’s usually the kinda thing you tell someone face to face, no?” 

Dean blinks up through a haze of tears. Golden-brown eyes swim into view. A self-satisfied smirk. 

“...Gabriel?” 

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Save the dramatics. C’mon, I’ll be your ride. My brother’s waiting for you.” 

He doesn’t wanna believe it. Believe that he’s - being saved. But here he is. Held aloft by an archangel. He’s still dying. But it’s - this could.

This could work. They could make it. 

Gabriel carries Dean out of the ward like he’s nothing. Arm slung around his torso as Dean’s ankles drag on the ground behind them. His wings, too, he thinks. Somewhere. Dragging. So close to breaking off altogether. Dean will die when that happens. When his wings break, the rest of him will too. 

“Where… is everyone?” He croaks as they traverse the deserted wards and corridors. A mess of gurneys and equipment. 

“Gone. And no one can get back in, even if they wanted.” Dean glances up at him in question. Gabriel winks down at him. “You’ll see.” 

And he does.

When they reach the double doors, there’s nothing a few metres ahead except a wall of dark grey, swirling clouds. Gabriel opens the doors with a wave of his hand, and as he does, a wall of sound crashes over them. 

Cold, winter wind lashes at Dean. He squints into the roar. The whirlwind of everything that is Cas around them. 

And then, barely visible amidst the storm of his own making, is Cas.

His vessel. 

Dean can only make him out thanks to the two, bright spots of gold. His eyes. Shining like twin suns through the towering parapets of cloud and rain. 

“Cas!” He tries to shout. He has no voice anymore. The feeble whisper is snatched by the wind. 

Gabriel gently releases Dean. “Go.” He says, “You have to go to him. Wake him up, Dean.” 

Dean staggers a few steps forward. Manages, with the few dregs of strength he has left, to turn and look at Gabriel. 

The archangel’s face is a barricade of emotion. He gazes out into the storm, worry for his brother, the only real family he has left, etched onto every plane of his face. It’s one of the few times Dean’s stared into an angel’s face and understood how truly old and other they are. He catches Dean watching and dredges up a smirk. Young again. As close to human as an archangel could ever be. 

“C’mon, Winchester. You gonna let a little rain beat ya?” And with a final nod, he disappears. 

Dean’s on his own. His weak heart pumps thin, malnourished blood as hard as it can. His legs quiver and threaten to collapse on him again, but he keeps walking. Step by agonising step. Bare-foot across the wet, icy concrete. Hospital gown about to be torn off him by the wind as he steps through into an impenetrable wall of cloud. 

Sensing his presence, the clouds part with each step he takes. The eye of Cas’ storm follows his every move, encircling him in its hellish cries but never battering him with it. 

As he gets closer to Cas, his steps become more confident. Broader. 

Cas’ eyes glow a wild gold. Turned upright toward the sky. His neck bared to Dean, palms facing slightly outward. His trenchcoat whips around his legs. Tie threatening to come loose as he’s assaulted by his own storm. 

“Cas.” Dean says. Or prays. The wind moves faster. Strokes around his calves. Snakes around his arms. “It’s me. I’m here. Please, please, wake up, Cas. I need you.” 

You’ve said those words before. 

It could be Cas’ voice. It could be his own. He can’t tell the difference anymore. 

Above Cas, the sky is black and gloomy as the vortex thickens around them both. 

Dean drops to his knees at Cas’ feet. 

“Cas - I know I - I’ve said some things. Things I regret. Things I wish I could take back more than anything. And I know you feel the same, but you - you just gotta believe me this time. I’m - I’m gonna show up for you, because I” - Just say it. Fucking say it. “I love you too, Cas. I love you, man. I always have. And I… I always will.”

For all he can only whisper, he may as well be shouting. Declaring it to the entire universe. The warmth and fear and elation that soars in his chest when he says the words he’s held himself back from admitting for years. Dean understands it now. The true happiness Cas felt when he admitted this very same thing. The weight of it, plucked free from his chest after all this time. This is why the Empty took Cas when it did. Because there’s no other happiness quite like it. It’s so penetrating, so potent that it’s - Dean likens it to grief. But instead of squeezing his heart, it just. Lets it go. Lets it beat and beat and beat freely. Repeating the words in his veins like a mantra. 

But Cas -

He doesn’t. 

Doesn’t move.

Dean drops his head when Cas doesn’t react. When his vessel remains still, pointed upward toward the swirling death spiral leaning heavy on all sides now. Enclosing them in a circle which draws smaller around them with each second. 

“I love you.” Dean repeats, eyes tight shut. Tears escape anyway. Joining the lacerating rain soaking his face. “I’m sorry I - I didn’t say it sooner. Soon enough. I’m sorry, Cas. I love you. I love you. Get it? There’s no coming back from this, man. Y-you’re it for me. I fuckin’ love you.” Now he’s said it once, he can’t stop. Can’t stop and it changes nothing. He’s killed Cas in his stubbornness, and he’s gonna die too. Both of them, pulled apart by a hurricane they made together. And it’s -  

…And it’s warm. 

A strip of light, bright enough to turn the inside of Dean’s eyelids pink, falls across his face. 

He blinks against it, holds his hand to his brow to shield himself from the glare. 

Above them, the clouds have parted enough to allow the full force of the winter sun to penetrate through the gloom. The light shrouds Cas, reflects off the puddles surrounding them and bathes them in a golden pool as the storm melts and disperses around them. But not before Dean catches sight of the mirage cast on the sunlit mist. Huge, magnificent shadows grow behind Cas, spread out in full glory. Golden clouds amidst black feathers. His wings. 

The shadows vanish as the clouds do, and then it’s just Cas and the sun and a frickin’ honest to god halo surrounding him. Surrounding them.

Cas’ eyes dim as the sun returns. Like it’s taking back the light he stole from it. The gold fades in his iris’, replaced by blue and blue and blue and then it’s Cas. Cas, inside his vessel, gazing down at Dean in shock and disbelief. Cas, looking at Dean. Seeing him. Pacific blue rimmed with gold. Jaw slack. Stubble thicker than usual. And he’s beautiful. 

The second Cas is back to himself, he collapses on the concrete opposite Dean, knees buckling beneath him. 

They fall into one another. Hold each other up. Both of them the only thing stopping the other from becoming a heap on the ground. 

Dean buries his face in the juncture between Cas’ collar and his jaw. He’s warm. Like the rays of the sun above. Warm and real. Sharp stubble grazes his cheekbone. He welcomes it. Presses into it harder. Feels the rapid-fire thrum of Cas’ pulse against his skin. 

“Dean.” Says Cas. And where Dean’s voice was wrecked, Cas sounds like he’s been chowing down on glass for every meal. 

“Cas…” Dean croaks. Gets both his arms around Cas’ broad middle. Hauls him close. Closer, closer. The bond - no - he wants him closer. Needs him closer. Needs their atoms to fuckin’ fuse. Cas holds him back in equal measure. Shoulders trembling. Wild horses couldn’t drag them apart. 

And this - the way they are now - kneeling on the ground with no regard for their surroundings. For the freezing temperature. For the onlookers forming around the parking lot. The bruises forming on their knees from the hard ground under them. It - it reminds Dean of the day Cas came back from the Empty. And they held each other. Cried into each other. Just like this, for unknowable minutes. And he realises he felt just the same then as he does now. So uncaring of anything else. Anyone else. Cas is everything to him. Now and forever. 

He’s just gotta prove it.

Chapter Text

The parking lot swarms with confused onlookers. Cars are strewn everywhere. Windshields destroyed. Various bits and pieces of metal thrown about amidst branches and small trees ripped from their beds. 

Dean and Cas are oblivious to it all. Holding each other on the wet ground. So caught up in one another they’re barely aware they have company. 

This time, it’s Cas who breaks away first. Only enough to reach out and cradle Dean’s face in his hands as he gazes at him, eyes and lips and all of him just. Inches away. Dean could lean forward and - 

“I’m sorry.” Cas rasps suddenly. Drawing away which - wrong. Dean can’t think about much right now but he knows it’s wrong. For Cas to leave. Even a millimetre. He tightens his hold. Cas’ eyebrows draw up. Devastatingly confused. “I didn’t ask - to. Hold you.” He gets out. Voice broken. Same timbre as that day. 

Are you saying I - forced -

“No, Cas.” Dean says, no more than a gravelly whisper. “No, you - you don’t have to ask for this. Never.” 

Cas tilts his head, peering at every aspect of Dean’s face like he’s - like this is unfamiliar to him. To be told he’s allowed. And that’s so fucking sad and wrong that he thinks he has to ask for permission. To just hold him. Dean did that.

He meets the angel’s eyes, pouring all his intent, all his fuckin’ love into it. He’s wrecked. Still closer to death than he’s been in a long while. But this is all that matters right now. Proving to Cas he’s - different. From then.

Cas draws in a shuddering breath. His eyes drop to Dean’s lips. Stay there. 

“Cas, I…” 

“DEAN! CAS!” 

The cries barrage across the parking lot as five figures run toward them, breaking off from the crowds of confused doctors and patients and nurses. Sirens blare distantly. Oh, yeah. The rest of the world still exists. Dean kind of forgot. 

He resents it right now. The world. For existing while they’re trying to fuckin’ - have a moment.

Nevertheless, he’s distracted, and he turns to watch Sam, Eileen, Claire, Kaia and Miriam bolt across the parking lot towards them. 

He doesn’t let go of Cas though. Can’t. They’re magnets. Something cosmic is holding them together. A starved, gigantic force. Dean couldn’t fight it if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to. 

“Dean!” Sam cries in relief, dropping to a crouch next to him and throwing his arms around Dean’s neck.

There’s a low, almost - snarl. Vibrating through Dean where his chest is pressed up against Cas’. Sam springs away from him in alarm. 

“Cas…” Sam says, eyes widening as he stares down at the angel with mounting fear. And Cas is - frickin’ growling at him. 

Dean would laugh if he wasn’t. Y’know. Destroyed. 

Sam swallows. “Cas, I - I’m sorry.” Holds his hands up. “I know you must hate me right now, and I - I get it. Okay? But. But put yourself in my shoes, man. I was just. Doing the right - what I thought was right.”

Cas glares at Sam. Eyes wild. Inhuman. Right. He’s not all here. Still fragile. The bond isn’t complete. Not by a long shot. The pair of them are surviving on sheer will alone at this point. It’s like when he left his vessel last time. It always takes him a while to settle back in. So the snarling. Growling. Whatever that is, it’s - part of what makes him Cas. When he’s not, like. Got his human face on.

“Cas?” Claire says gently before Dean can. 

Cas’ eyes snap to her. And it’s like, for a second, he doesn’t recognise her. 

And then he does, and his gaze softens. 

“Claire, I…” Cas attempts to reach out to her. Sways away from Dean a little. Nearly falls on his ass. 

Dean almost goes with him. They manage to straighten up at the last second, but it’s clear how weak they both are. How being apart has nearly destroyed them both. 

And it’s also clear, from the way Cas’ poisonous glare drifts right back to Sam, who he blames for it. 

And hell. Have at ‘im, Dean thinks. That’ll teach him not to set up wards against Cas ever again. 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right, no matter which way Dean tries to turn it. But that’s a problem for later. And Sam knows it. He flicks his gaze between them both unhappily. Shoulders hiked up. Twisting his hands together. 

Yeah. He can wait, Dean thinks. Let him stew in it. 

Miriam leans down, stethoscope at the ready, and she’s about to reach out to Dean when Cas curls in closer to him. Looking a little too growly for his liking. 

“It’s okay. ‘M okay.” He assures Miriam, sounding anything but. 

“Dean, you walked right into that storm. We all saw it.” She argues. Full doctor mode despite the dirt trailing the hem of her lab coat and her frizzy hair falling out of its neat half-pony. "There’s no way you’re okay. And in your state”- 

“Listen, Miriam - this - this is Castiel.” Dean hoarse-whispers. “My… the person I told you about. The angel.” 

Miriam’s eyes fall on him. Mouth dropping open a little. “Oh. Hi.” 

And, yeah. What the hell else d’you say to a celestial being of a billion fuckin’ years old?

“He’s gonna heal me.” Dean assures her, “I’m gonna be okay.” 

Cas scowls at Miriam. Nose twitching. Ignoring Claire’s attempts to check on him. “We need to leave.” He says. Abrupt. 

Eileen steps forward. “Is that such a good idea? Looking at the pair of you, I… I don’t think”-

Cas’ stormy gaze swivels back to Dean. “We have to leave. We can’t be. Here. Dean.” 

“Okay. Okay, Cas.” Dean’s hands rove over Cas’ face before he even realises he’s doing it. He thumbs over the sharp ridge of Cas’ cheekbones. The soft bow of his brow. The corner of his mouth. Smile lines smooth under the pads of his fingers. He wants to keep touching. Wants to get his mouth on him. As soon as possible. Needs - 

Fuck, Cas hasn’t even given him any Grace yet and that’s - it’s crazy he’s only just realised. 

He just needs Cas. 

“Guys. You can’t just take off. Not like this.” Claire says. Pretty sensibly. ‘Cause yeah. Can Cas even fly? 

Given the way his eyes dart about in panic at them all, Dean thinks he’d give it a good try. 

“You need medical attention.” Miriam agrees. Gives Cas a pointed look, which he returns with a scowl. “Both of you.” 

“No.” Cas grinds out. He grips both of Dean’s elbows. Hard. 

“Let us take you back to the bunker at least.” Says Sam pleadingly. Hands still up in supplication. 

And Dean might be kind of out of his mind right now and he might hate Sam a more than a little bit, but it’s - they need this. They need to show people that they’re - good. Gonna be. 

“Look,” He tells Cas, taking his chin between his thumb and forefinger and urging him to meet his eyes, “No one’s trying to separate us anymore, okay? We’re okay. We’re together. We can go back to the bunker at least. Please, Cas. We have to - we have to sort this out.” 

Cas’ expression nearly breaks him. Panic and distress written in every line of his beautiful features. Like an animal caught in a cage. Dean thinks, maybe, Cas doesn’t fully understand where he is. If his visions were anything to go by, Cas has been holed up in another dimension for the better part of a week. This isn’t easy for him. 

Finally, just when Dean thinks he’s gonna fly off the handle, Cas nods. The barest movement. But it's enough.

Getting them both to the cars is another challenge altogether. 

With neither of them being able to walk without assistance, Miriam arranges for two wheelchairs to be brought over. Amidst the chaos of returning the other patients to their wards after the ‘freak’ storm, it takes a good minute, and Dean finds just getting into the chair a painful and draining experience. Judging by Cas’ expression - all screwed up and squinty - it’s the same for him. 

Kaia pushes Dean’s chair and Claire pushes Cas’. And the whole time, Dean and Cas just - stare at each other as they rattle across the hazardous parking lot. Arms hanging over the sides of the arm rest. Not enough strength to lift and reach out to one another, but reaching all the same. 

We’re gonna be okay, Cas. Dean thinks as hard as he can. We’ll be back to normal soon. Just wait. 

Cas’ face flickers as Dean’s intentions register, and he can’t tell if it’s a good flicker or - something else. ‘Cause if Cas doesn’t trust him anymore, that’s -

Yeah. It’s the worst. Dean won’t pretend the blunt object in his gut doesn’t twist a little deeper when he thinks about it. 

It just means he’s gotta work extra hard to earn it back. 

*

Wisely, they ride with Claire and Kaia in the back of Claire’s rusty old ‘95 Subaru. On unspoken agreement, Sam splits off to drive Baby and Eileen gets into her own hatchback. 

It’s not a good idea to have Sam in the same vehicle as Cas right now, and there’s no way Dean and Cas can be separated so - yeah. Subaru it is. Besides, having Claire around seems to calm Cas down a bit. Not that her presence is enough to stop him glowering at Miriam when she comes to the door with a ziplock bag of meds for them to take home. Dean’s hoodie and t-shirt bundled in her arms. 

“I really shouldn’t be allowing you to leave.” She grouses at them through the rolled down window, passing Dean the supplies. He lays them down on his lap as Claire helps Cas adjust into the seat beside Dean. She hands him a slip of paper. “Here. My number. In case you need anything. I don’t imagine you tell every doctor the things you and your brother told me.” 

Dean snorts. “Damn right. And thanks. For everything.” 

She gives him an uneasy smile before backing away from the car with a wave. Beside him, Cas inches closer. Claire and Kaia leave them in the back while they inspect the worst of the damage the storm did to the car. Dean spotted a couple of missing hubcaps on his way in (you can take the man out of the mechanic but you can’t take the mechanic outta the man. Or however the fuckin’ saying goes) but aside from that, she’s not as damaged as some of the cars he’s seen around here. 

“Dean.” Cas hums low beside him, sidling closer. “Did you have sex with that woman?” 

The bottom of Dean’s stomach drops out. “'M sorry, what?” 

Cas, still glaring out of the window at Miriam’s retreating back, curls possessively around him. 

“I can smell her all over you.”

Fuckin’ angel scent shit. Right. 

“I-I didn’t, Cas.” Dean swallows. Honesty. Be honest. “But I… nearly did.” Cas freezes. “After we had our argument, I - spiralled a little. Drank too much. Went out and met her at a bar. Didn’t know she was a doctor, but - but we didn’t. I couldn’t do it, man.” 

Dean waits for the explosion. Doesn’t dare meet Cas’ eyes as he retells a simplified version of one of the worst nights of his life. But Cas just drops his head down on Dean’s shoulder and gives a whole-body sigh. 

“Good.” 

And that’s it. 

For now. 

‘Cause either Cas is content with that, or - the more likely scenario - he just doesn’t have the energy to keep going. Dean sure doesn’t. They slump into one another as Claire and Kaia get back in the car and buckle up for the long ride home. 

Kaia puts the radio on low as she hauls them out onto the highway. Claire complains about not being able to drive and curses the Wendigo who broke her arm. Kaia laughs at her while the sun dips out across the clear sky. Glaringly orange. Dean closes his eyes against it and lowers his head, barely registering the moment he buries his nose in at the top of Cas’ head. Soft, dark hair tickling his mouth and chin. He breathes in the heady scent of ozone and honey and it’s like. Instantly. Some of the pain just sort of. Melts away. Eases out threads of fatigue nestled deep in his bones. 

Cas huddles in closer, pressing their thighs together. His own face tucked up in the crook of Dean’s neck. He brings his hand on top of Dean’s over their laps. Twines their fingers together and squeezes. Enveloping. Crushing. 

Dean shuts his eyes. 

“M’sorry, Cas.” It’s a whisper. Too quiet for Claire or Kaia to hear, but. Said right into the crown of Cas’ head. Lips grazing his scalp. Can’t get close enough. 

Cas’ grip is strong enough to break bones. It’s a good thing he’s got hold of his left hand, Dean thinks, instead of his busted right one. 

“Not yet.” Cas responds. Hoarse and cracked. “Not now.” 

So Dean doesn’t. 

*

When Dean wakes up, it’s because they’ve stopped for gas. It’s dark now. Someone’s laid a scratchy old horse blanket over him, and Cas is.

Cas is asleep. 

He’s drifted further down in his unconscious state, head nearly resting on Dean’s lap. Whole body leaned across the back seat to get in close to him. Feet crossed against the door. Both hands tucked up, one still holding onto Dean’s for dear life. He breathes, heavy and deep and warm, across Dean’s knees. Dean shifts a little so he can support Cas’ head with his forearm.

Cas grumbles in his sleep and immediately adjusts himself so he’s closer to Dean than before. The side of his face smushed right into the crook of Dean’s elbow. 

And Dean just. Dean wants to cry. ‘Cause Cas isn’t supposed to be sleeping. Much less looking to Dean for comfort while he does.

I love you, he thinks as hard as he can as he gazes down at the sleeping angel, I’ll protect you. 

Kaia’s in the driver’s seat playing candy crush. She swivels around at the sound of Cas’ sleepy grumbling. 

“Oh, hey.” She whispers. “Y’okay?” 

Dean nods. “Yeah.” He whispers back. “How long’s he been out?” 

“Couple of hours. Same as you.” 

Dean takes this in. Inhales deeply. “Should we be worried?” 

Kaia gives a half shrug. Eyes softening when she looks down at Cas’ sleeping form.

“Nah. I don’t think so. He’s been through a lot. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Probably needs some rest after the storm he conjured up.” 

“I guess.” Dean agrees doubtfully. He rubs Cas’ wrist with his thumb. Feels the steady, deep-sleep pulse beating right back. 

Kaia frowns. “He… hasn’t healed you yet?” Dean shakes his head. “Why not?” 

“I dunno.” Dean says honestly. And then, “I think he’s afraid to. To use his Grace on me. After…” 

Kaia sighs. “Yeah. You guys are gonna complete the bond though, right?” 

Dean swallows hard. The lump in his throat hurts. Despite everything being better now that Cas is back, Dean’s still fucked. And without all the IVs and the codeine and shit, he’s feeling it bad. But he can’t ask anything of Cas. Has no right to after the shit he said. After the way he treated him. 

“I - I want to complete it.” Dean says. “But I wouldn’t blame Cas if he… doesn’t.” 

Kaia straightens up. Puts her phone down, plunging them into semi-darkness. Lit by the neon blue dials on the dash. 

“But.” She says, “You guys’ll die.” 

Dean gives a humourless laugh. “And ain’t that always the way?” 

Kaia looks at him oddly. “So you’re saying if Cas didn’t wanna do it, you’d be okay with dying as a result?”

It sounds insane when she says it like that. 

“I…” He exhales hard. Holds himself close to Cas. “I think he’ll do it. Just to make sure I live, if nothing else. But if he didn’t wanna, I’d get it.”

And there’s something else, too. 

Something which has been apparent since Dean lost Cas the first time. 

He doesn’t care to live in a world where they’re not together. 

Whether that’s the bond talking or Dean’s host of pathological attachment issues, so be it. It’s the damn truth. 

Claire comes back after paying for the gas. Good arm stacked with snacks and candy and jerky. 

They head back out, and Dean wedges his hoodie underneath Cas’ head and his arm. So he’ll at least be comfortable if he slips down while Dean sleeps. ‘Cause Dean can’t stay awake. 

His eyelids slip shut as the engine rumbles and rattles beneath them. Numb, warm quiet seeps into his bones. 

Vaguely, he wonders why this sleep feels different from the last. 

*

The last time Cas entered Dean's dreams, Dean was - well. A lot different from how he is now. All pent up rage and balled up fists and manly sorrow. Tears mixed with whiskey in the dark. Bar fights and salt and burns and sleeping in Baby while he wondered how the fuck he and Sam were gonna survive, let alone live.

It's funny how little the pier and the lake have changed since then. How serene the water looks.

There isn't even an echo in this small world. Just the sound of the birds in the trees and crickets in the thick rushes lining the lake.

Cas is standing on the edge of the pier, facing the water, hands in his pockets.

Dean walks up the boardwalk towards him, relishing the clunky sound of his boots against weathered wood.

"Nice day for fishin'." Dean comments as he comes to stand by Cas' side. Not quite touching but not quite. Not. Fabric brushes. He could skim the back of his hand against Cas' thigh if he wanted to. Doesn't, for the sake of boundaries or whatever the fuck. 'Cause they've always been so great with those.

"I heard what you said to Kaia." Cas intones. Dean suspected as much.

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

Cas' jaw works as he squints across the water. Thinking thinking thinking.

"It was difficult to wake up. Is difficult. We're dying, Dean. Being close to you... it isn't enough anymore. We... went too far. When we separated, something snapped. We've entered the event horizon of the bond. It'll consume us both if it isn't satisfied. And it currently - isn't."

Dean sighs. Feels the weightlessness in his dream body and tries to remember a time when this was real. Being healthy, that is. Not being constantly aware of every organ in his body at every second of the day.

"Figured as much."

Cas ducks his head to stare at his reflection but there isn't one. Neither of them cast a mirage on the peaceful water. They're ghosts in this place.

"You were right. I won't let you die." Cas says. "But I..."

Blunt object. Stabbing. Twisting. All of Dean's worst fears manifesting into - into exactly what he deserves.

"It's okay, man. You don't gotta say it." He chokes. "We - we can complete the bond but you're not - you don't have to stay"-

Cas faces him. Expression worn.

"Dean. Of course I want to stay. I love you. I - can’t bear to be without you. But what I want hasn't exactly served us well, has it?"

Dean shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

Cas' face crumples. He makes a small sound of anguish and places his face in his hands.

"You're dying. I - because of what I did"-

"Because of what we both did. And you said it yourself, we’re both dying, Cas. Not just me." Dean argues. Steps forward and takes both of Cas' wrists in his hands 'cause he can't stand this again. This self-blame. "I'm no bonding ritual expert but I'm pretty sure it takes two to tango, man. This shit ain't one sided. We did this to each other because we both - obviously we both wanted it. Badly enough. I just… didn’t realise it until it was. Nearly too late. I hope not too late. Please tell me it’s not too late, Cas." He didn't mean to beg. It just comes out. 

Cas lifts his head, eyes filled with hope and doubt and disbelief in equal measure.

He lets Dean hold onto his wrists. Hold him. Closer. Boundaries be fuckin’ damned. 

“Of course it’s not too late, Dean.” Cas croaks. That blurry, sorrowful smile eating up his features. Deepening the lines on his face. “But how can you know this is what you really want?” How can you know I’m what you really want? And Dean’s pretty sure this bond thing makes the borderline mind-reading trick go both ways, ‘cause for a minute he’s sure Cas said that out loud. 

“I want you.” Dean tells him. Both feet planted firmly on the imaginary ground. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone, Cas. I’ve wanted you so bad for so long that it - it tore me to pieces inside.” Dean’s laugh is a little hysterical. “Didn’t you hear me? I love you. I wasn’t just - talkin’ outta my ass to stop the storm. I really fuckin’ love you, Cas.”

Cas’ breath shivers on an inhale. His whole body goes tight, shoulders drawn up. A tear spills over. Two. 

“You - can’t just say that, Dean. Not if you don’t”-

“I mean it.” 

Cas is breathing hard. Eyes unfocusing. Hope being replaced by more disbelief. More and more. He shakes his head.

“No, Dean. You don’t have to”-

Dean can’t stand it anymore, so he kisses him. 

More like shoves his face onto Cas’, pressing their lips together in a crushing collision of mouths which kinda hurts - even in the dream world - but he doesn’t care. He needs to prove to Cas how much he means it. How real this is. Years and years of pushing him around, telling Cas he’s not good enough, broken - it’s. It’s done. It’s enough. 

Cas gasps against Dean’s mouth, too shocked at first to do little more than make a sound of pure surprise. And then he’s. He’s pushing right back. Pure force. And his mouth is hot and soft. All pillowy lips and scratchy stubble. Exactly like Dean imagined. Better.

Dean winds his arms around Cas. Gets his fists all bunched up in his trenchcoat. Yanks him closer. 

He pulls his face off of Cas’ with a smack. Breathless.

Cas stares at him, and Dean could swear the sun shines a little brighter, a little warmer, over the lake. 

“I - have been”- Dean says, between breaths, “A class A douchebag, Cas. I get it, okay? I should never have said that shit. It was wrong and everything I said that day was a pile of crap and - and I will apologise for it over and over until the day I die. But, please - if you believe anything I tell you, don’t let it be that. Let it be this.” He takes both hands and plants them on the sides of Cas’ neck, thumbs brushing the smooth, straight curve of his jaw. “I. Love. You. I am - I am in love with you. Whatever that makes me, I”- He breaks off, huffs and laugh and now, of all times, thinks of his fucking father. “I don’t care. I’ll deal with it. Point it, I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Not without you.”

It’s less than articulate. Dean’s no poet. But the way Cas is gazing at him right now, awestruck and besotted, you’d think he’d just recited fuckin’ Shakespeare. 

Cas swallows hard. Closes his eyes. Breathes in deep and shaky. 

“We have to. Stop. Being so cruel to one another.” He says heavily. Opening his eyes to watch Dean. Clear and cosmic blue. “The bond has been there since I pulled you out of hell. We have nurtured it and abused it more than any two people ought to, for far longer than was right. We’ve - hurt each other, Dean. So much.” 

“I’ve hurt you ”- Dean begins to argue. 

Cas gives him a smitey look. Dean shuts up. 

“Not true. I’ve betrayed you in the past. I've discovered every possible way to break you and - sometimes I used it. I've lied to you. Used you for my own gain. Even when I knew it was wrong." He huffs a small, sad laugh through his nose. "It takes two to tango, Dean.” 

Knowing he’s right, Dean ducks his head. Tightens his grip around Cas’ neck. Feels the thick, corded muscle bunch under his hands. Taking it. Wanting it. 

“Yeah.” He agrees, voice breaking. “We have to. Stop. Can't keep doing this to each other, man.” 

And then Cas is holding him right back, both big, warm hands cupping Dean’s jaw. Making him meet his eyes. 

“And when we do this,” Cas says, words heavy with meaning, “complete this bond, you - you have to be prepared for how… for what I am. You see me as an angel in a man’s body and little more. But really, Dean… I fear that you would - change your mind. If you truly saw me.” 

Dean’s eyebrows take a hike up his forehead. “Really? That’s what you’re worried about?” 

Cas blinks. “Aren’t you? I’m”- He steels himself. “I’m very much - not human, Dean. It’s become more difficult to mask as of late.” 

“Yeah, and that’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you.” Dean laughs. "Chrysler building, right? You compensating there, Cas?" 

Cas rolls his eyes and smiles, tilting his head and gazing at Dean with such adoration, he thinks he’s gonna melt. 

"If you're inferring that I am recompensing for the size of my penis"-

"Please never say penis"-

"Then I'll have you know it is significantly larger than the standard American average."

"Okay. Sure, Hugh Hefner." He can't help but laugh. Finds he has to look anywhere except Cas' face, which has broken into a smile of pure mirth. 

"One question though," Says Dean, steadying himself with a breath. The air tastes sweet. Like the edge of fall. "Why haven't you - y'know - healed me? I - I'm not gonna make you use your Grace on me again. Okay? It's - it's your choice, and I get why you wouldn't want"-

"Make me?" Cas echoes, bewildered. "I... I was waiting for you to. To give me your consent." He ducks his head. Squeezes his eyes shut. "It hurts. Very much. To feel you suffering. To watch your body - die. But nothing is worse than the idea that I - that I've used my Grace to"- his voice breaks before he does. And, yeah. Dean suspected this was the issue. 

He exhales with relief and holds Cas tight to him. Chest to chest. Presses their foreheads together and shuts his eyes. Pretends this is - real. Physically. It could be. If everything wasn't glowing faintly. If his body didn't feel so light. 

"Didn't you listen to the part where I told you all of what I said that day was bull? It was an excuse, Cas. A horrible fuckin' lame excuse 'cause I was too much of a coward to admit I liked the shit we were doing." 

Cas stares at him. Eyes flitting between Dean's. Manic disbelief written across every line on his face. "How can you know you truly liked it when you've never - without my Grace"-? 

Dean shrugs. "Guess we'll just have to try it, won't we?" He pretends his stomach doesn't do a full frontal flip as he says it. Winks at Cas. Widens his grin when the angel flounders in response. Blinking and blushing and looking away from Dean as if he hasn't made him come on command alone. "And in the meantime, you - you don't have to ask. To. Use your Grace on me. Unless you wanna. But the"- Dean sniffs. Says the next part to their conjoined hands which sit, wedged between their chests, "the answer will always be yes." 

Cas presses into Dean as much as Dean presses into him. "I am sorry for the comment I made about your father. That was unnecessarily cruel." 

Dean snorts, remembering. "It was pretty bitchy, yeah. Broke my hand on your face for that one." 

Despite the regret tightening the corners of his mouth, Cas smiles at him. All sad and hopeful and - yeah, Dean can admit it now. Beautiful. He's just fuckin' beautiful. Ain't no two ways about it. 

"I will do my best to heal you when we wake up. The worst of your physical symptoms are fixable for now, but - it won't last if we don't complete the bond. My own symptoms... Let's just say they've been a little more, um, multi-dimensional." Cas' face reddens for, like, the third time during their conversation. It's cute as hell. Makes it hard to concentrate on what he's actually talking about. Dean's doomed for this man. So, so doomed. "Staying awake for longer than an hour or two will be difficult. My tether on my vessel is weak, and I - it has to be soon."

Dean nods. "Okay. So what do we do? I really don't wanna die in a Subaru, Cas." 

“We have to hold on.” Says Cas. “Just for a couple more hours until we find a motel. I'll keep you here. Unconscious, to preserve our energy until we arrive. And then we can”-

Dean’s heart speeds up. “We can complete it.”

Cas nods. The pink colouring his cheekbones deepening. “Do you… know what the ritual entails?”

“Uh,” Dean thinks back to the day Sam and Gabriel found him. It’s hard to parse out what was real and what was nightmare, but Gabriel’s voice rings out high and clear in his memory. “Yeah. We have to. Exchange, uh.”

“Three bodily fluids each.” Cas finishes for him, unflinching. Deadpan. And yeah. There’s another in the long list of things Dean loves about him. Each realisation hits him like a punch in the heart. Devastating and wonderful all at once. “I’ve already taken three of yours, so now you just need two more of mine.” 

“Two more?” Dean frowns. 

Cas averts his gaze. Clears his throat. “I fed you my. My um. Wing oil. I wasn’t sure if you were already aware”-

Dean’s traitorous, traitorous mouth waters as phantom flavours burst on his tongue. How he didn’t realise he was drinking something which so obviously originated from Cas before, he - he has no clue. 

“Yeah.” Dean coughs. “I was aware.” And I kinda want more. The side of Cas’ mouth lifts up. Dean rolls his eyes as his face heats up. “Shut up.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

They smile at each other. The muscles in Dean’s face are tight. Underused. New grooves created by this smile which just belongs to Cas. Has done forever. 

They look out over the lake together. Geese migrate in a V shape over the woods in the distance. Bright, feathery clouds streak across the perfect, blue sky. The exact blue of Cas’ eyes. A family of ducks quack along the bank. 

But it’s just imaginary. Not real. 

This place exists, but not as it does in their minds.

They exist, but as broken, battered versions of themselves. Dean misses his body. When this - standing with his hands in his pockets, scuffing his boots on the ground - was normal. 

He nods. “Okay. Okay, Cas. Let's do it. Let's complete the bond and... go from there." 

Cas faces him. Face unreadable. “We are going to make it.” He says.

And it sounds. It sounds like he’s convincing himself. Part of him still doesn’t believe Dean means it. That this is going to work. 

Dean steps closer, brushes a hand across Cas’ forehead where the permanent frown sits. 

“I’ll kiss you out there. In real life.” He promises. Insides squirming with every word. Excitement, disbelief, unease, love, fear - all of it. All of these things which have coagulated over the years to form a weapon he’s continuously impaled himself on. It’s time to pull the fucking thing out. 

Cas catches his hand. Presses his lips briefly against Dean’s knuckle. Smirks. A ghost of the savage, but wholly giving creature who brought Dean to the brink of ecstasy and hell flashing behind his eyes. 

"Not if I kiss you first."

Chapter Text

Dean sweats through his permafrost fever. It’s dead night. Southern mist hanging low over the parking lot. Kaia’s gone to get them a room, ‘cause she’s the least fucked up looking one out of all of ‘em. 

Claire one-handedly opens the trunk to retrieve the wheelchairs they ‘borrowed’ from the hospital. Dean has every intention of returning them when he can actually walk. 

“Cas…” Dean whispers in the dark. Voice raspy and thin in the tin box Claire calls a car. “Cas… it’s time to wake up.” 

Dean’s breaths come out hard, loud and rattling. He misses the freedom of breathing in their shared dream. The pleasure of being touched and held without pain. 

He hunches over Cas’ sleeping form, fully relaxed onto Dean’s lap now. His head rests side-down on his thigh. 

Dean sweeps dark wisps of hair off his forehead with trembling hands. 

“Time to wake up, gorgeous.” He murmurs as Claire struggles with the collapsable chairs outside. “You gotta let me keep my promise.” 

Without really thinking, Dean leans down and brushes his lips against Cas’ clammy temple. 

The angel’s eyes flutter open. Glowing dimly. 

“Dean.” He whispers. Relief and sleep in a sigh. The light in his eyes is wan. Fatigued. Torch running low on batteries. Grappling to maintain itself. 

Kaia gets them a couple of rooms and comes back to help Claire with the chairs. They each push Dean and Cas to a room set up with a couple of twin beds. It’s nicer than their usual lot. There’s a couch in there too. Squishy and comfortable looking. 

Cas’ grip on the wheelchair is iron. Cracks the plastic. He kicks his legs and blinks rapidly as he comes back to himself. 

“I’m sorry.” He tells them, “My tether to my vessel is - unstable.” His blue-gold eyes land on Dean. “We have to complete this. Now.”

“D’you want us to”- Claire begins, but Cas cuts her off.

“You need to leave. Both of you.” 

Claire opens her mouth to argue but Kaia places a hand on her shoulder. 

“Please. Push Dean closer to me. Before you go.” Cas gets out. “So I can touch him.” 

Clearly displeased, Claire purses her lips. But she obliges. “We’ll be on the other side of the door.” She tells Dean. “Yell or - y’know - make a sound if you need us.” 

Dean nods. Using his voice hurts. Exhausts him. 

They leave them be, and then it’s just them. Finally alone. Properly. 

Dean smiles weakly. “So, Hef. Now what?” 

Cas huffs a low laugh on an outbreath, eyelids drooping. “Hold out your hand.” 

Dean does. Cas grasps his fingers tight. Uncoordinated. Desperate. 

And then there’s Grace. 

Dean groans. Squeezes his eyes shut. Can’t fuckin’ help it. Feels good. Like - gulping water at three am after waking up dry-mouthed and dehydrated kinda good. But it’s also  - 

Painful. In a way that makes his heart hurt. He drops his head on a dry sob as the fever ebbs from his body. As his knuckles realign and the bruising behind his cast fades. As the areas of dead tissue fill out and regrow new cells and his dying organs rush full with healthy, nutrient-rich blood. 

But Cas was right. 

It’s not enough. Not by a long shot. 

The cavern yawns, gaping and open between his lungs. Collapsing in and in and in the more the Grace pours through. Dean instinctively bunches his fist atop his chest, like he’s trying to - hold something in. Something that isn’t there yet.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to find Cas watching him, the world in full, stark relief. 

“You told me you would always say yes.” Cas tells him plainly, “I decided to believe you.”

“Fuck...” Dean swears, voice hoarse but nowhere near as broken as it had been. “I didn’t realise my eyesight got so bad.” 

Cas offers him a sad half-smile. “Everything got bad.” 

“Yeah.” Dean agrees. Squeezes Cas’ fingers. “Yeah, it did. But we can fix it now.” 

Cas straightens up in his chair. Blinks rapidly. Sucks in a quick, sharp breath as he takes in their surroundings. There’s some colour back in his face. But it’s like - if he lets go of Dean’s hand - they’ll both wither away and perish. 

“Not here.” Cas says suddenly. “I can’t - don’t want to do it - in a place like this.” 

Dean doesn’t need to ask why. He knows. 

“You need to be somewhere safe.” He reads Cas’ face. The uneasy twitch in his jaw. Shoulders hiked up around his neck. “Somewhere that feels like yours.” 

Cas nods. “The house. Can we”-?

“Should you fly?” Asks Dean. “I mean - you just”-

“I have enough energy and willpower for one flight. Please, Dean. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t”-

Cas breaks off. Stares down at their entwined fingers and rubs his thumb across the back of Dean’s hand. 

“I know, Cas.” Dean says softly. “It’s okay. Let’s do it.” And then, with a smirk. “Claire’s gonna be pissed.” 

“Claire will get over it.” Cas deadpans. And in the blink of an eye, he transports them to the house. 

The house. 

This place Dean still doesn’t understand. Unchanged in the small, fierce time they’ve been away. Dark as always. ‘Cause they only ever go in the dark. 

There’s a shallow layer of dust nestled into the grooves of the floorboards. Settled atop the sphere bedpost toppers. It’s cold. Unlived in and deathly quiet. 

Dean clings to Cas as they land. 

His legs buckle, sending them both toppling to the floor, which is weird ‘cause Cas definitely healed him. 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” 

Cas lies on his side, catching his breath. All caught up in Dean’s arms. Despite the obvious weakness in his body he smiles. 

“There is a disparity between your physical body and your soul.” Cas explains slowly, pulling Dean close to him on the hard floor. Bed would be nicer, but neither of them are too used to moving. Still not sure they can without collapsing again. He tucks his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. Inhales. Long and deep. “Your body knows it’s healthy, but your soul senses something is missing.” 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. Swallowing back the hard lump in his throat which has been threatening to make him cry this whole time. “It does.” He cups the nape of Cas’ neck. Presses him in closer and buries his face into Cas’ temple where the overall Cas scent just seems so much stronger. Ozone and honey and storms and other shit Dean can’t name. Doesn’t need to. ‘Cause it’s just Cas. “How’s your soul feelin’?”

Cas huffs a laugh. Breath hot and sudden against Dean’s jugular. “Non-existent.”

Dean shakes his head. Flat of his palm roving over Cas’ back without thinking. Taking note of the bumps in his spine. Sharp jut of his shoulder blades. Plains of hard, flexing muscle underneath. 

“Not true. You have a soul.” 

Cas sighs. Dean gets the feeling it’s supposed to sound frustrated, but he sounds amused more than anything. Content. Relaxing, finally, into the idea that they’re here together. Not going anywhere. “I won’t have this argument with you, Dean.” 

“Lemme win, then.” 

“You win."

“You’re no fun.”

“Mm. So I’ve been told.” They’re blabbering. Talking complete shit for no reason ‘cause they haven’t in so long. “This is pointless confabulation.” Cas says by way of reading Dean’s thoughts. 

Dean snorts. “Yeah. Missed it.” And then, ‘cause he can. “Missed you.” He admits roughly. Glad he has the side of Cas’ head to hide in when he talks. He’s frickin’ - nuzzling him at this point. 

Cas nuzzles him right back. A scrape of teeth against Dean’s jaw. Stubble burning a rash into his neck. A low sound, suspiciously like a purr, emanating from his chest. 

Dean can’t find the will to be embarrassed about this. Cuddling on the floor like touch-starved animals when the bed is right there. A voice in his head says he should be. Says this is crazy. Unhinged. Gay as fuck and not in a let’s-not-look-each-other-in-the-eye-while-I-jerk-you-off kinda way. In a serious, love kinda way. Which, yeah. They’ve both - said. Both said they love each other. Which is crazy. But crazy in a way that finally makes sense. ‘Cause what else could this be, if not love? No one else has ever made Dean feel like this. Driven him insane the way Cas has. In all the wrong ways and for all the wrong reasons sometimes, sure. But also - in all the right ways. For all the right reasons. Sometimes. 

Dean can’t think of a time when he wasn’t going crazy over Cas. 

Suddenly, Cas stops. Draws back. Whispers, hands cupping Dean’s face,

“How do you want to do this?” 

Dean clears his throat. Unused to being able to talk at a normal volume. “Depends what it is we’re, um. Doing.” 

Cas looks at him seriously. “We’re supposed to be completing the bond, Dean. So we don’t, for lack of a better word, die.” 

Dean hooks an arm across Cas’ middle. Aligns them closer. “Sure feels like we’re bonding.” 

“Mm.” Cas agrees. Eyes closing. Forehead lightly touching Dean’s. “But we need more. Much more.” Dean hears him swallow. “You need to consume something of mine.”

“Two things.”

“Two things. Yes.” Cas opens his eyes. And if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say Cas is trying to play this casual. “Any preferences on the substances?” 

“I, err.” Dean can’t play this casual. “I-I dunno. I don’t wanna hurt you or make you… do anything when you’re not feeling…” 

“There is nothing you could ask of me right now that I wouldn’t do.” Cas tells him, voice low and sincere. One hand moves down and cradles Dean’s throat. Trails across his collar bones, eyes tracking the movement. “I would flay myself open for you, Dean. I would allow you to drink my blood until you were sated, if that’s what it took.” 

Dean shakes his head, baffled. Heart thundering at the weight of Cas’ words. Always such huge words. 

“No. No-nothin’ like that, man. I mean, we can play it simple, right? Like… I dunno. Maybe. Spit? For starters?”

Cas tilts his head. Considers this. “You want me to spit in your mouth?” 

Dean grimaces. And then his heart skips a beat and a heat stirs deep in his abdomen. Undeniably excited. 

“Context, dude.” He manages, rolling his eyes to hide the filthy mental images crossing behind his eyes. “You can’t just - ask that. You just - anyway, no, I was thinking we could. Um.”

What the fuck is wrong with him? Dean’s kissed hundreds of people without so much as blinking before getting into it. He’s kissed Cas in their shared dream. He knows it’s - it’s fine. This isn’t his first frickin’ middle school crush. But by the way his insides claw at him, huge insects burrowing to get out, it sure feels like it. 

There’s a twinkle in Cas’ eyes. Made prevalent by the dim light in the sconces behind them. Cas must've used his Grace to turn them on. But they barely light the room. “You were thinking we could what, Dean?” 

“Kiss you.” Dean gets out in a nonsense rush. “I was thinking we could - kiss.” He’s going red. Heating up in the face like a teen. “I promised you I would.” He mutters on an afterthought. “If you still wanna.” 

Cas’ eyes glow faintly. Ghostly light of his true form penetrating through at every opportunity. 

“Of course I do.” 

Their noses touch. Eyes close. Time stops when they lean in, lips brushing. Chaste and weirdly innocent, especially compared to Dean’s attack on Cas’ mouth in the dreamworld. But nah this is - this is tentative. Careful. Exploring and slow and unlike any kiss Dean’s ever had. The rest of their bodies held absolutely still as the entire world boils down the soft press of their lips. The gentle back and forth of sharing a breath. Seeking pressure. Tempting it from one another as they dare to get more bold. Press in deeper. Use their hands to tug at clothing and skin. 

One of them makes a small, keening noise. Dean thinks maybe it’s him. In a single breath, Cas rolls on top of him. Threads their legs together. Plants both elbows either side of Dean’s head and surrounds him in warm, Cas scented heat. Like this, Cas puts his weight into the kiss. He’s unexpectedly good at this, Dean thinks. Using his mouth to coax noise and pressure from Dean. Transitions effortlessly from soft, repeating kisses to consuming him. Dean thinks, maybe, he should’ve expected it. After all, how many times has he replayed the memory of Cas kissing Meg in that hallway? Definition of sweeping someone off their feet. He remembers watching and thinking - he shouldn’t be watching. ‘Cause it was so. Yeah. Fuck. 

Maybe that should’ve told him something. 

Cas’ tongue teases against the seam of Dean’s lips. Dean opens for him, more fucking ready to kiss Cas like this than he’s ever been in his life. He gives himself over to it. Tastes the satisfied moan that leaves Cas’ throat when Dean lets him in. 

He pushes at the trenchcoat. Enough space between them for him to get his fists into the lapels and shove the fabric over Cas’ shoulders. The blazer follows. Cas breaks the kiss for all of a second to sit up on his haunches and throw the cumbersome layers off himself before descending back down on Dean’s mouth like his life depends on it. Which, yeah. 

It kinda does. 

Dean doesn’t need to think about swallowing. He knows he’s got enough of Cas’ spit in him for it to count. Feels the flutter of the bond in his chest, waiting for more, more, more. But he doesn’t stop. 

He kisses Cas right back. Lets him bite his lip. Lick the inside of Dean’s mouth before pulling back to nip at his jaw. Cas’ hands roam as his mouth does. Pushing at the thin hospital gown Dean totally forgot he was wearing. Massaging and squeezing his shoulders.

"Bed." Dean gasps out as his shoulder blades complain against the hard wooden floors. "We should - bed." 

"Mmph." Says Cas. Mouthing at Dean's throat. Big hand stroking along his flank. Under the hospital gown. Pulling at the waistband of his boxers. 

"Cas." Dean rasps more insistently. "Bed, sweetheart." 

As Dean suspected (hoped), the pet name has its intended effect on Cas. 

He sucks in sharply through his teeth. Draws back to gaze down at Dean, palms flat on the floor either side of him. 

"Say it again." He demands. Voice in the gutter. God, Dean's missed that voice. 

"Bed." He smirks. 

Cas' lip twitches. Eyes indigo dark. Gleaming. 

"Say... what you called me."

"What? Sweetheart?" 

Cas closes his eyes on an out-breath. Entire body tensing. Biceps flexing under the thin white shirt. Tie swinging low. Cotton against the cold tip of Dean's nose. 

"You like that?" Dean asks, heart racing as he does. Trails his fingers, featherlight, against Cas' ribs. Feels him shiver - full body - above him. Dean can't believe he's allowing himself to - say this shit. Ask it. Like he wanted to before. Now he - he doesn't have to be scared of what'll happen when he does. And that, in itself, is terrifying. 

"Makes me think of the last time you called me that." Cas purrs. Breathing hard as Dean gently strokes his sides. Up and down. Slow. Savouring. 

"Last time?" 

Cas blinks at him. "You don't remember?" 

Dean thinks back. Tries to imagine - consciously - calling Cas sweetheart. 'Cause he - he wouldn't, right? Before. Not unless he was totally out of his mind and -

Yeah. 

He was totally out of his mind. 

Dean hopes the dark hides the flush of blood which rushes north and south simultaneously at the memory. He clears his throat. 

"Yeah, I - kinda. I guess I do remember. Sorry." 

Cas tilts his head. Somehow holding himself up like this without breaking a sweat. Arms locked. Not a tremble in sight. Even just consuming Cas' spit seems to have made a difference to the control he has over his vessel. In the cognition behind his eyes. He's not struggling - at least not as much - to remain here. It's working. The bond is solidifying. Just one more and - it’s over. 

"Don't ever apologise for your affections, Dean." Cas tells him quietly. "I couldn't believe how lucky I was to hear them the first time, let alone a second. You have no idea how adamantly I have held onto those brief ministrations since those nights." 

Dean does have an idea actually. 'Cause he's done the same thing himself. Replayed Cas praising him over and over and over. Thought about his eyes. His scent. The feel of him encompassing Dean. The adrenaline rush he gets watching Cas fight. The micro-expressions Cas makes when he finds something endearing - or annoying - or beautiful - or confusing. Dean's thought about it all. Studied these things again and again until he kinda went mad with it. Never felt such regret as he did when he thought he might never get to experience those little things again. It's nearly killed him, being away from Cas. Not just 'cause of the bond. Before then. When Cas died, he - Dean was so ready to follow him. 

He came so close. 

"Okay." He agrees with a whisper. Sounding smaller than he means. Vulnerable under the stocky, hard length of Cas above him. A tiny mortal laid out at the mercy of this eternal being. 

Cas reaches to the side and strokes Dean's cheekbone with his thumb. Admiring and consumed by - what, exactly? Dean's got no idea what he sees in him. What it is about him that's got this goofy, love-struck expression plastered all over his face. 

It makes him want to shy away. Turn his head and close his eyes and look out the window and make some stupid joke about the prissy sconces or the old-ass egg and dart decoration running along the edge of the tall ceilings. 

"It is so much easier to simply forget who we were, what we did. Changing, though... changing is. Difficult. More difficult than anything either of us have ever done." Cas' thumb traces the curve of Dean's nose. Stops at his cupid's bow. Presses against his top lip. Dean thinks about the last time they were here. When Cas fucked his mouth with his fingers. 

The thought must register a little too loud, 'cause Cas' thumb pauses. He goes still. His eyes shine a little brighter. 

"You enjoyed it. When I made you mine." 

"Been yours for longer'n that, Cas." Dean admits in a sentence that rolls off his tongue before he can really think about what it means. 

Cas ducks his head to nose at the juncture between Dean's neck and his jaw again. Hums. Vibrations along the length of his body and into Dean's. 

"How long?" He asks against the shell of his ear. 

Dean quivers. Has to remind himself to haul in some oxygen before he fuckin' dies. They still haven't made it to the bed. 

"Too long. Since you branded me. Rebuilt me. I always felt - connected. Didn't wanna. Hated knowing part of me was always gonna be. Yeah. Yours." 

"And now?" 

Dean pulls Cas the rest of the way down on top of him. Squeezes their bodies together. Wraps both arms around Cas' middle and just holds him there. Loves the weight of him. The sturdiness of him. The solidness. The barrier between him and the rest of the world. 

"Now I - I can't live without it. Need you, Cas. I'm yours. Forever. Just - just fuckin' have me. Please." 

Dean knows better than anyone the value of a single moment. Knows to cherish the ones which will, one day, become bittersweet memories. Don't let this be one, he thinks. Let me have this every day. I don't want this feeling to become a memory. 

“It won’t.” Cas whispers. Arms tightening around Dean. His large, encompassing weight a soft anchor cradling him. 

Cas kisses him again. All wet warmth and lips and tongue, and it feels more full of love than any kiss Dean’s ever had. 

He throws himself into it shamelessly. He wants to be as close to Cas as possible. He digs into the lean meat of Cas’ hip with his hands. Yanks the shirt material out from under his slacks and gets his hands on the warm, soft skin underneath. Massaging and pulling like he could take him apart and tuck himself comfortably inside. He thinks, if it was possible, Cas would let him. 

The noise Cas makes in response is inhuman, and a second later, Dean’s weightless. Being air-lifted off the floor into a messy bridal carry while Cas keeps their lips connected and somehow gets up on both feet at the same time only to man-handle Dean onto the bed. 

The quilt under him is nice. The man-handling’s nicer. Dean’s willing to die on that hill. Doesn’t care how fuckin’ gay it makes him. He’ll take Cas throwing him around over a comfy blanket any day. 

He takes the opportunity to grasp the hem of the stupid gown and swipe it up over his head so now all he’s gotta worry about is socks and boxers. Cas’ gaze is dark and wanting. Scanning over Dean’s body. Calculating. Taking stock. Dean knows - he’s thinking of all the shit he’s gonna do to him. The ways he can take him. Heaven’s greatest strategist, mapping out a route to conquer Dean’s body. 

Yeah. Holy fuck. 

Dean gets his hands back on Cas. All but rips his shirt open. Buttons flying. Cas, obviously, doesn’t care. Helps out. Fumbles with his tie and his belt as he kneels on the bed between Dean’s legs. Knee-walks up the blanket so he sits tall above him. Staring down. Mapping. Planning. Glowing. 

And, yeah. Dean’s seen bits of Cas before. Shades of skin. The shape of his shoulders in the dark. Broad figure making him draw comparisons to his own. 

But never like this. 

Cas looks debauched like this, and they haven’t even done anything yet. Hair mussed from Dean’s hands raking through it. Shirt gone. Fly down. Slacks inching down, revealing the sharp V framing his hips and the hair trailing down his navel and disappearing below the waistband of his boxers. 

“Dean.” 

Dean swallows. Doesn’t know where to look. Glances up and tries to remember to breathe. 

The grooves and lines in Cas’ face are deepened by the shadows cast from his eyes. Lips slightly parted and swollen. Dean’s name perched on the cusp of his tongue. 

“Do you want my Grace?” 

Dean’s mind goes blank. He - just kinda stares. He's meant to say yes. Said he always would. And he wasn't lying. Of course not. But -

“I’m scared.” 

He didn’t mean to say it. Holds his breath and waits for Cas to withdraw. 

He doesn’t.

Cas sinks down onto his haunches until they’re almost eye-level. Ocean, sunset-gold. Considering. 

“It won’t be like before.”

Dean inhales. “I know. Sorry, I - I dunno why I said that.”

“Because it’s the truth. And you shouldn't hide how you feel.” 

Gently, Cas frames Dean’s face with his hands. Pressure on his temples. Just a little. Pinky fingers curving down behind his ears. 

“Tell me.” He says. Face close. Tips of their noses brushing. 

“I never wanna feel like that again, Cas.” Dean admits. Leans forward to touch Cas’ forehead with his own. “It - scares me. How quick it was. How. Yeah.” 

“Once we complete the bond”-

“I know. I know.” Dean rushes out. “It’s not just that. It’s - I saw.” He swallows hard. Tries to ignore the spasms in his shoulder blades which come from just thinking about it.  “Cas, am I growing wings?” 

Cas stills. Just for a moment. And then says, “Yes.” Dean nods. Small, little jerks of his head as his heart beats hard against his ribcage. “But it’s complicated.” Cas adds. “I’m not sure how much Gabriel told you.”

“Between puking my guts up and watching him tell my brother everything, it’s kinda hard to piece it all together in a way that makes sense.” Says Dean. 

“Yes.” Cas agrees. “Understandable.” He puts a few centimetres of distance between them so Dean can look into his eyes as he speaks. “The wings you saw in your dreams are a result of the incomplete bond. They represent - what we did. To each other.” 

Broken. Painful. Malformed and grisly. “Yeah. Checks out.” 

Cas ducks his head in shame. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I saw them - while our minds were trying to connect. I didn’t want to frighten you.” 

“Little late.” Dean jokes hoarsely. “What’s gonna happen to me?” 

“In this life? Nothing, I suspect. Once we complete the bond, your wings will develop, yes. But not here. Not in this dimension. It isn’t until you get to heaven that you’ll be able to really see them and use them.” 

“But Cas - why am I getting frickin’ wings in the first place?” 

Cas’ mouth twitches into something which wants to be a smile but can’t quite get there. 

“Because the bond is turning you into a low-tier angel. It’s changing you so that you can - so we can exist as we’re meant to. As equals. Forever.”

Dean doesn’t have room for the emotions and reactions jostling inside him for space. On the one hand he’s fuckin’ terrified, yeah. But on the other. 

On the other, it feels right. 

So that’s the side he lets win for now. He laughs. Relieved and a little hysterical. 

“Cool.” 

“Is it?”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Yeah, man! It’s cool. I’m gonna have wings. My own. Not - y’know - Michael’s or whatever.”

Cas’ hands slip down to Dean’s shoulders. “I want you to know that this - this transformation won’t take away your humanity. At least, I don’t think so. There’s never been anyone like you, Dean. As far as I know, this - this has never happened before. I wish I could give you all the answers. I wish I could tell you exactly what will happen once the bond is complete, but I. I can’t. I’m sorry. Much of this is speculation.” 

Dean lets his hands wander. Wind around Cas’ middle and link at the small of his back. 

“Then let’s just - find out together, yeah? Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. Like we always do.”

Cas nods. “Like we always do.” He repeats. Sighs. Releases some tension from his shoulders. Leans forward and kisses Dean easy. Like he’s doing it for comfort. Dean lets Cas lead the kiss. Enjoys the soft, undemanding pressure of soft lips against his own. The heady scent of Cas’ skin - concentrated, this close to his face - all honey and rain. 

He lets Cas deepen it. Move his body closer to his. Tongue breaching the seal of his lips. Exploring and hot and unhurried. 

Fuck, it’s so hot. 

Dean lays back when Cas’ hands push down on his shoulders. Tastes the rumbling, low sounds of pleasure Cas makes as he falls on top of him, lips connected. Giving himself over. 

They make out like this for impossible minutes. The whole world could be fucking burning outside these windows and Dean wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t care. 

Dean’s been in a constant state of arousal pretty much since they got here, and he’s been sitting at half-mast since he got his hands on Cas. As they kiss and stroke and intertwine their legs on top of the comforter, the level of pure, unfiltered want coursing through his veins increases in increments. He barely notices it. He’s just happy - kissing Cas. Feeling his weight on top of him. It’s not until he realises he’s grinding his hips up, finding rhythm against the vee of Cas’ hip, that he comes up for air. Only for Cas to latch onto his neck and jaw instead. Meeting Dean’s thrusts as he does. 

Dean makes a short, guttural sound as he finds the perfect friction against him. Can’t help but intensify each slow upward thrust as he reaches that unbearable point of arousal where it’s like his body’s on auto-pilot. Taking the rest of him for a ride. 

Too many layers. He registers faintly, and reaches down to palm over the firm curve of Cas’ ass. Gets distracted there for a minute, just feeling the muscles bunch and relax under his hand as Cas grinds down onto him, before he remembers he wants these slacks off so they can finally get some skin on skin action. 

Getting the message, Cas reaches down and hooks his thumb under the waistband to tug them down. Boxers and all. 

Dean’s too far gone to be anything but excited about the idea of having Cas naked on top of him, and the fear of what they’re doing only spurs him on. He gets both hands back on Cas’ bare ass. Pushes. Massages. Elicits noises from him he never thought he’d get to hear. 

Soon, Cas’ insistent hands are pushing at Dean’s boxers, and he makes quick work of getting them off. They get stuck on his ankles. He uses his foot to catapult them off and across the room. 

If Dean were a more patient man, he’d take this moment to stop kissing Cas. Draw back and admire every inch of him as he deserves. 

But, yeah. He’s not. So he quickly goes back to finding delicious friction against Cas’ body. Dick hard and exposed and aching. Leaking against Cas’ hip. And Dean can - fuck, Dean can feel Cas’ dick. Thick and scalding and pressing insistently against his navel. As hard and ready as his own. 

“God, Cas…” He breathes. Moving his hips experimentally. Jolts of pleasure bolting up his spine with every thrust and grind. “You’re so fucking hot.” 

“Mmm.” Cas answers. Face buried in Dean’s neck. One of his favourite spots, he’s realising. 

He moves against Dean. As unhurried as before but building in intensity as they mouth and grasp at each other. Hands and tongues and lips.

If Dean’s not careful, he’s gonna come all over Cas’ hip. Not a horrible idea by any means, but he’d been intending to make this last a little longer. Not to mention the bond, which is both a looming necessity and pretty fuckin’ easy to forget about when he’s got Cas naked on him and grinding down against his dick. As much about pursuing his own release as making Dean chase his. 

Dean just wants him to feel good. He doesn’t even care about himself, he’s just obsessed with the idea of watching Cas come. Feeling it. 

And that’s when he decides what he wants. 

Taking charge, Dean wraps his arms around Cas and flips him onto his back. Rolls over so their positions are reversed. Cas smiles against his lips. He’s letting him, Dean knows. Cas can take back the reins any time he wants. S’not like Dean could stop him. 

Still, he lets Dean manhandle him a little. Relaxes underneath him. 

“Wanna make you feel good.” Dean whispers against his mouth. 

Cas cards a hand through Dean’s hair. Pulling just enough for it to hurt the way Dean likes. 

“Then keep going.” 

Dean shakes his head. “Wanna try something. That okay?” 

Cas makes a low sound of approval. “Anything you want.” He murmurs. Nips Dean’s lip. Rolls his hips up to meet Dean's and, yeah. That seals the deal. 

Nerves shredding up his insides, Dean pretends to know what he’s doing as he kisses his way down Cas’ body. Familiarises himself with the shape of his throat. Big adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. The built, solid surface of his chest. Dean strokes and kisses and licks. Draws a moan from Cas when he dares to flick his tongue out against his nipple - hard and peaked. He’d stay. See how far he could go just there. But keeps going. Sticking to his plan. Determined. 

With his left hand, Dean makes patterns against Cas’ muscular thigh. Slowly trailing his fingers up toward his groin while he musters the courage to get closer with his mouth. 

Just before he gets there, he stops. Makes himself look - as much as he can in the dim light. 

And, yeah. 

That’s a dick. Cas’ dick. Right there. Full and thicker than Dean’s and hard and resting against the mature dip of his abdomen. 

Dean’s mouth fills with saliva and he can’t help himself from asking:

“Can I?” 

Cas strokes Dean’s hair. Gazes down his chin at him. Mesmerised and glowing. 

“I want you to want it.”

Dean nods. “I do, Cas.” 

Shuffling on his knees so he’s comfortably lying between Cas’ legs, Dean positions himself so he’s - yeah. Ready. 

He takes Cas in his right hand first. Gets used to it. Tries not to think about the last time he did this and why he was doing it. 

He’s grateful when Cas doesn’t stop him. ‘Cause he knows that was a loud thought. Cas just continues thoughtfully stroking Dean’s hair as he slowly pumps his dick. Loose fist. Just to feel. 

Closing his eyes, Dean gets closer. Encompassed by the heat of Cas’ legs pressed against his shoulders. The hand in his hair. All love and safety and unrushed wanting. Dean doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn't know how to be kind like this.

He turns his head and presses his lips against burning, solid skin. Hears Cas suck in a sharp breath through his teeth. 

Dean kisses up until his lips are poised against the slit of his cock. Damp with pre-come. He lets himself hesitate. Clears his head. Then just - opens his mouth and takes Cas in. The sound Cas makes is gonna etch itself into Dean’s memory. Pure pleasure and surprise. Hands tightening in his hair but not pushing. Just - there. For support.

Dean’s surprised by how wide he’s gotta open his mouth to fit Cas in. He moves his head around to get a feel of it. The dick in his mouth. He’s got Cas’ dick in his mouth. It doesn’t feel real. It’s like a dreamworld, where this is allowed. ‘Cause it is allowed - he thinks dumbly. Except, is it? 

Dean moves his head up and down slowly. Takes Cas deeper in increments. At some point remembers to use his tongue and experimentally licks up and down before drawing off with a pop and tonguing the slit.

Cas likes that. Struggles to keep his hips still. Dean can feel him vibrating with restraint. His hands have stilled in his hair. 

“You like this, sweetheart?” Dean asks. Breathing hard. The taste of Cas - honey and a little salt this time - mild and inoffensive on his tongue. 

“So good. So good, Dean.” Cas responds. Eyes fixed on Dean. Glowing like two mini suns. Dean knows Cas doesn’t control the way his hips instinctively move up. The head of his cock slides against Dean’s cheek. Soft and hot and wet with spit and pre-come. Dean’s surprised by how badly he wants him back in his mouth, and despite the slight ache in his jaw, he gets right back down to it. More enthusiastic this time as he learns what Cas responds to best. He uses his left hand to gently squeeze at the base of Cas’ dick where his mouth hasn’t learned to reach. Occasionally dips down to hold his balls. Learns the shapes of him. 

Dean’s fallen into something like a trance by the time he notices Cas’ thighs quivering. 

“Dean.” Cas warns. Voice trembling. “I’m - very close.”

Yes. 

Instead of pulling off, Dean hollows his cheeks and sucks hard around the head of Cas’ dick. Uses his tongue to swirl around the tip. 

“Dean - ah - fuck!” Cas curses - which might also be one of the hottest things Dean’s ever heard - and his thighs lock up around Dean’s shoulders. His dick jumps in his mouth and then he’s coming down Dean’s throat in hot, bitter pulses. 

And Dean swallows. So focussed on swallowing Cas down that he barely notices the weird taste. 

Cas comes down slowly. Breathless sighs indicating when he’s near the end of his orgasm. And Dean’s just so fucking happy he made Cas come that he’s forgotten about his own arousal. Doesn’t care what happens to him. Just knows that he wants this for the rest of his fucking life. 

He rests his head against Cas’ thigh after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A little escaped, sue him. He still thinks he did pretty well, considering he was dying in a hospital bed a few hours ago. 

Feels like way longer. 

Cas opens his eyes and stares down at Dean. Eyes back to normal. Dark with lust and love and millennia’s worth of knowledge. 

“Come here.” He requests softly. 

Dean does. Warm and elated and, sure, a little horny, he slots into Cas’ open arms. Lays beside him. One leg hooked over his hip. Faces close. 

“I love you.” Cas tells him earnestly. 

“That good, huh?” Dean smirks. 

Cas rolls his eyes. “Yes. It was.”

“Good. I love you too.” Dean doesn’t know why he’s shy all of a sudden. He’s just had the guy’s dick in his mouth. But without the heightened tension of their lives hanging in the balance, he’s suddenly deeply aware of how real this is. He focuses on the faint smile on Cas’ lips. “Sorry if I - y’know. Fuck this up sometimes.” 

“Me too.” Says Cas. 

“You won’t.”

“I might.” 

Dean gives a one-shouldered shrug. “No point apologising for shit that hasn’t even happened yet.” 

Cas raises a brow. “So why did you do it?” 

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. Shoves Cas’ shoulder. “Shut up.” 

“You’ll have to make me.”

Easy. 

Dean dives forward and kisses Cas. Goes straight in with his tongue. Relishes the way Cas meets him half-way. Just as enthusiastic. Just as passionate. When they finally break apart, Dean’s breathing hard. Cas’ eyes are glazed. 

“So, whaddya say to completing another bond?” Dean manages. And when Cas laughs, it’s like winter’s over. It’s like listening to a musical instrument carved out of Cas’ soul and played to perfection. It’s like everything might - this time - actually be okay.

Chapter Text

Once, Dean believed nothing would ever beat the high of Grace in his system. That first, tantalising jolt of ecstasy, spreading through him - from his chest to the tips of his fingers - like a furnace.

Now he knows better.

'Cause having Cas like this - swathed in his arms - skin on skin - connected and close and everywhere - is better.

They've been making out for some time. Neither in any hurry to stop. Dean's never been so unaware of his own arousal. He still hasn't come but he genuinely couldn't care less. He's still riding the high of feeling Cas spill down his throat. Never thought he'd have that. Want that.

Turns out he wants it a lot.

"Is it done?" Dean asks eventually after parting for breath. Cas doesn't. 'Cause he doesn't need to breathe, so Dean has to call the shots there.

Cas strokes along the length of Dean's waist. Palms the slight dip he's always been self-conscious about. Made him feel girly for some fuckin' reason. It's not like he has curves or anything but y'know -

"I think so." Cas whispers back. "I... feel like it must be."

Dean smiles. "Yeah? Feeling tethered to your vessel yet?"

Cas' eyes sparkle with mirth. The slight glow in his iris' only visible from this close.

"Very." He rolls his hips against Dean's to punctuate the point, drawing a low groan of pleasure from him. "We are not leaving this bed until I've made you come at least three times." Cas tells him without preamble.

Dean blinks. "Jesus, Cas. I think you're overestimating me a little. I'm not twenty anymore, man."

Cas makes a thoughtful sound. A wicked gleam making the corners of his mouth turn up.

"I can make you come as many times as I want." He reminds him. "I could do it now. With just a thought. But I like watching you squirm against me. I enjoy pondering every conceivable way I could make you fall apart in my arms. Maybe too much. I could spend hours doing it. By the time I decide, you'll have fallen asleep." He sighs. "Call my ability to perceive time passing in this dimension a work in progress."

"No shit." Dean agrees, absently touching Cas' face. Tracing the lines and bones freely now he knows it's okay. He takes particular pleasure in thumbing along Cas' jaw. Feeling the stubble scrape under his fingers. "S'that why you'd just disappear for months sometimes and come back like it'd only been a couple minutes?"

Cas nods. "...Yes. It wasn't until I became human that I saw how slowly everything moves. Seconds felt like hours. But at the same time... I don't know. It was a contradicting experience. Biologically, I was built to withstand the passing of millennia like they were hours. I watched mountains form in a day. Oceans fill up and erode the continents in a week. The scale of my experiences in the celestial plane compared to this one were monumentally reduced. It still takes conscious regulation." Cas squints. "I'm rambling. Aren't I."

Dean laughs. Strokes Cas' hair and the nape of his neck and down past his shoulders. Doesn't miss the way Cas shivers slightly when Dean touches his back. Makes a mental note to go there more often.

"A little. Keep going. I like it."

"Not if you're going to laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you, Cas, y'big baby. I like it. Tell me more about your weird angel biology. Who knows? Might be useful, seeing as I'm apparently gonna be one of you."

Cas makes a point of giving Dean a skeptical look, all the while massaging and palming at his hip. The affectionate touching kinda undermines the annoyed stare, and only makes Dean grin more.

"What's the wing oil all about?" He prompts. "And why does it smell so frickin' nice?"

Cas ducks his head. Tenses his shoulders. Embarrassed.

"That's quite a personal question, Dean."

"I just had your dick in my mouth."

"...Good point."

"But you"- Dean struggles. Reminds himself to be gentle. 'Cause they're doing that now. Right. "You don't have to answer. If you don't wanna. I was just. I dunno. Curious, I guess. Especially after what Gabriel said. He made out like it was - some special thing. And, yeah. I dunno. Ever since you, um, put it on me, some people have been able to smell it. Monsters and shit. And Garth. He said congratulations. Thought we were, y'know. A thing."

Cas smiles up at him. Mischief creeping back into his expression. "We are ‘a thing.’"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You know what I mean."

"I do." Cas nods. Pushes closer. Rubs his thigh up and against Dean's dick - maybe without even realising. Probably realises, Dean thinks. Fucker knows exactly what he's doing.

"Don't try'n distract me." He murmurs, holding back the urge to rut up against Cas' leg until he comes.

"If you insist." Cas says, and pulls his leg out from between Dean's. Then he bends his arm and reaches behind himself. Like he's trying to scratch that bit of his back that's hard to reach. When he brings his hand up in front of Dean's face, his fingers glisten in the meagre light, and he's hit with that delicious, distinctively Cas scent.

"What does this smell like to you?" Cas asks. Rubbing the oil between his fingertips.

"You." Dean replies a little dumbly. Mouth filling with saliva. He definitely gets harder too. The urge to buck against Cas intensifies, and it takes him a second to calm down. He closes his eyes. "The sort of Ozone-y, atmosphere scent all angels have, I guess. Then... rain. Or, like. Tree bark after rain, if that makes sense. And, um. Honey."

Cas huffs a small, breathy laugh. "I smell like honey?"

Dean opens his eyes. "Can't you smell it?"

Cas shakes his head. "No. It doesn't smell like anything to me. The reason you can smell it the way you do is because it's formed to entice you. The same way your scent has evolved to entice me. As you probably have guessed, that's one of the functions of the oil. It characterises a scent which is unique to every one of us, but sexually appealing to very few. We... produce more of it when we are aroused. Which is something I wasn't aware of until, um. Until it happened. With you." Cas flushes. "I - was never meant to experience this. Arousal when possessing a vessel isn't unusual. As you know. We occupy every function of our vessels, but. For me, as an angel, this was... an unexpected first."

"I'm your first angel crush, huh?" Dean teases.

"Yes." Cas replies seriously. "You've given me many firsts in the time we've known each other, Dean."

Dean shrugs. Goes to make a joke. Stops himself. Tentative and fuckin' shy because what the hell?

"How old are you again?"

"Technically, around the same age as the earth. But it's hard to quantify due to the overt difference in time dilation." Says Cas.

"Right." Dean nods slowly. "Just tryna' - y'know - wrap my head around it." He coughs. "Great. So, wing oil. Got it. S'that something I have to. Um. Worry about?"

Cas tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

Dean huffs. "I mean do I have to start worry about leaking oil all over the damn place whenever I get horny? 'Cause, man. If that’s the case then get a mop and a bucket. I'm about to make everyone's life a living fuckin' nightmare"-

Cas' sudden laugh, throaty and deep, cuts Dean off.

"No, Dean. I don’t think you're about to start leaking everywhere."

Dean shoves at him. "Don't laugh at me, man. This is weird."

Cas' expression softens. "I hope not… bad weird."

"Compared to the weird I'm used to, it's - definitely not bad, Cas. Not bad at all."

"You flatter me."

"You want a sonnet or somethin'?"

"No. You're more than enough."

Dean squirms. The brazen compliment itching at him. There's a short silence where Cas just holds him. Let's Dean hide his face. Then he says,

"The oil also functions as a buoyancy aid of sorts."

"Huh?"

"You were uncomfortable. I'm trying to distract you."

Dean sorts. Pushes his face into Cas' shoulder. "Sure. Go ahead."

"As I said, it also acts as a buoyancy aid. Similar to how the goblin shark remains buoyant in the deep ocean. They have a thick, viscous oil surrounding their liver"-

"Okay, ew what the fuck"-

"Is it disgusting?"

Dean angles his head up to stare at Cas.

"Not you. The - why are we talking about frickin' sharks, man"-

"I only use this analogy because there are striking similarities between the celestial plane and the abyssal ocean. It's not supposed to be gross."

Dean smirks. "I know. You're just. I love you. You're funny. Go on."

Cas rolls his eyes heavenward, but Dean doesn't miss the smile that spreads over his face when he says he loves him. Lights up the fuckin' room.

"Anyway. The oil plays a part in how we move through the celestial plane. I won't offend you by talking about the shark again, but it's the closest image I can conjure to how it feels in there. Time passes as physical sensation. Rushes over us like cold water currents. Experiences and thoughts and memories all merging and separating like molecules in the ocean. We sense each other in the dark. Scent each other out. Pick up signals and wavelengths which sometimes interact and sometimes don't. Heaven is a construct in which we can all coalesce. Sense one another as you might in a meeting hall or a crowd. But we don't see each other the way humans do. Not unless we plan to. And many - don't. They consider it base. Primitive. As you well know."

"Mud monkeys." Dean says. Old resentment twisting in his gut. "Yeah. I ain't forgetting that one in a hurry."

"Ironic, considering angels who bond the way we just did have to consummate it by possessing a human vessel." Cas drawls. Grip on Dean's shoulder tightening. Right over the hand print he left there over a decade ago. Dean doesn't know if the slight burning sensation is psychosomatic or a result of their connection. He decides it's the latter. More fun that way.

"Really?"

"Yes. Angels don't carry spit or semen or blood or any of the other substances required for completing a bond. Wing oil, yes. But even that manifests differently in the celestial plane. I find it strange that they consider themselves so above humans when the only way they can complete their sacred bonding ritual is through you. It's frustrating. And vindicating too. I won't pretend it isn't."

"Damn right." Dean snipes. "Fuckin' hypocrites."

Cas hums in agreement and exhales. "I'm sorry. We got extremely off topic. This isn't exactly what you would deem" - air quotes - "pillow talk."

"It was fine until you started talking about frickin' goblin sharks."

"They're a fascinating species. I can't help feeling a kinship with them."

Dean sniggers. Rolls on top of Cas and kisses him senseless 'cause what else is he supposed to do in response to that?

It's a heart-stopping flavour of contentment. He feels - full. Warm and safe and blissed out and horny as holy fuck. It's familiar.

It's familiar because it's how the Grace made him feel.

Except it was never enough before. There was always room for extra. This is - this is enough. More than enough. More than he thought he'd ever get.

Other worries and aches and pains dissolve as he kisses Cas. Buries himself in him. He only breaks away to pepper the rest of Cas' face in kisses. Press some at the column of his throat. Cas noses against Dean's temple. Inhales deeply.

"What do I smell like?"

"Oak." Cas answers. "Leather. Barley. Lemon-grass. And something that's - just you."

Dean doesn't know why he's relieved. Not until Cas says,

"And, no. You don't smell like alcohol."

"...Oh. Good."

He pulls away. Looks Cas in the face.

"I got hepatitis. From drinking."

Cas nods once. "I know."

"Kinda fucked up, huh?"

"It's okay. You don't have it anymore."

"Shouldn't have happened in the first place though, should it?"

Cas reaches up and holds Dean's face. It's embarrassing, how quickly it soothes him. It's just nice. Warm. Comforting and - so different to anything he's ever had. He sinks into it. Lets it happen, however much the rest of him is screaming to draw away.

"You are not broken." Cas tells him. Eyes penetratingly sincere. "You don't have to fight everything at once, Dean. We have fixed a problem today. A huge one. There's no need to tackle it all, okay? We have time. We have each other."

Dean drops his head. Overwhelmed and abused by the past couple of weeks. By the past couple frickin' decades. He gets phantom pain in his upper right side when he remembers how badly his liver hurt. 

"Can we just go back to you making me come three times?"

Cas pulls him in. Laughs softly. A perfect, throaty rumble in his chest. Dean could listen to him read a fuckin' phonebook.

"Talking about it or making it happen? Because I'll happily do either. Or both at the same time. Whatever you prefer."

"You're a kinky son of a bitch, you know that?" 

"So I've been told."

This time when Dean kisses Cas, he doesn't plan on coming up for air. He attacks his mouth with renewed fervour. Knows Cas can take it. Knows however roughly he goes in, Cas will match it and exceed it tenfold. He mauls and mouths and pushes and grasps and moves on top of him, finally addressing the hardening issue between them. Cas returns the favour. Makes filthy sounds in Dean's mouth. Scrapes his nails down Dean's back until he's arching, thrusting and grinding down on top of him with reckless rhythm.

"So many ways I could make you come." Cas rasps against his mouth. 

“Then do it.” Dean challenges. Choking on his words as he aligns his dick with Cas’. Can’t believe how fucking good this feels. Fingers still oily and slick, Cas reaches down and grasps them both in one hand. Holding his fist loose and still as Dean thrusts slowly in and out, breath hitching on a groan. He holds himself up, palms braced either side of Cas’ shoulders. Core trembling as he fucks into Cas’ hand. Right along the thick length of him. 

“Cas - this is - fuck…”

“Mm.” Cas agrees, eyes fluttering close. “That’s the idea.” 

Cas must be feeling kind. Or maybe he’s just got more planned for later, because he lets Dean ride the pleasure until he’s at the very cusp of his orgasm. Hips snapping forward with more urgency as heat and pleasure crest at the base of his spine. Mind-numbing ecstasy taking charge. Cas’ fingers tighten minutely around both their cocks and then Dean’s gone. Spilling over Cas’ hand and his dick and his stomach on a long, drawn out moan. 

It’s suspiciously vanilla compared to some of their past trysts on this bed. Not that Dean’s complaining. He’s not sure Cas has ever let him come this quick before. He’s ready to flop down and rejoin the comfort of Cas’ embrace when he’s stopped.

Cas doesn’t let Dean down. He holds him up by his shoulders as he pulls himself upward. Handles Dean’s jelly-limbs like he’s a marionette. Then he’s swivelled around and facing the end of the bed and on all fours and Cas is positioned behind him like - like he’s gonna fuck him. 

Dean experiences a bolt of apprehension at the prospect. Having Cas’ tongue in his ass was crazy enough. Felt full as hell. He can’t imagine what having that inside him will do -

“Calm down.” Cas soothes gently. Squeezing Dean’s hips. Holding him up, ass first. ‘Cause the rest of Dean’s body has decided it’s time to sleep. His elbows quiver when he tries to hold himself up, and he’s relegated to lying cheek-down on the blanket. “I wasn’t going to penetrate you.” Cas continues, amusement in his voice. “Not yet, anyway.” 

“M’kay.” Dean manages. Eyes slipping closed as post-orgasm warmth sits low and purring in his chest. He’s content to be used, however Cas wants, for the next however many minutes or hours or, yeah. Days at this point. 

Cas massages Dean’s ass. Runs both hands down his flanks. 

“Two options.” He says, voice abyssal. “Either I use you to my own end,” Cas slots himself along the cleft of Dean’s ass. Ruts up against him. Slow and wet and deep. “Or… I make you hard again. I’ll have to use my Grace to do it, which is why I’m asking.” 

“Yes.” Dean gasps. Face smushed into the blankets. “You can - Grace. Yeah. I. Yeah.” It’s less than coherent, but Cas obliges without hesitation. A warm, liquid surge courses through Dean. It’s like being held from the inside. Like all his organs have been suspended in ambrosia. Pooling low in his abdomen and at the base of his spine. Before he knows it, he’s hard again. Newfound arousal rushes up and along his body, lighting his nerves on fire. He makes fists in the sheets and groans. 

“Fuck… Cas…" 

Cas moves against him. Both hands planted on his ass. Solid thighs pressed against the backs of Dean’s. 

Dean’s been in the position Cas is in before - with women. Obviously. So he has some idea. Kinda. Of how this must feel for Cas. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamt of doing this.” Cas says behind him. Hands massaging and squeezing in time with his slow, careful thrusts. His dick, wet with Dean’s come and wing-oil, slides over his hole again and again. Brushing up against his sensitive rim. Giving him a taste of what it - Dean swallows hard at the thought - what it could feel like. To have him inside. “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld.” Cas continues, his voice breathy with arousal and reverence. “To have you like this. Malleable beneath my hands. Spread for me… Dean. You have no idea…” 

He sucks in through his teeth, dragging his cock along Dean’s ass. Dean’s dick twitches, untouched and neglected, between his legs. Dripping pre-come. He thinks Cas must have something to do with it - he never used to leak so much. Then again - he’s never had anything like. Well. This. 

Cas’ thrusts gain in intensity. Rubbing harder. Slick and hot and thick and everywhere. 

“What do you want, Dean?” His voice is a physical force. Driving through Dean’s nerves with as much gain as the blunt head of his dick sliding against his ass. He shivers. Overcome with the need for more.

“Wanna come again.” He says. Braced on his forearms. Shoulders locked. Pushing back deliberately into Cas’ every thrust. 

“Hm. You’ll have to be good for me, then.” There’s an amused lilt in his voice. And Dean knows he’s in for it now. Cas lured him into a false sense of security the first time. Reeled him in. This isn’t gonna be as easy. He’s gonna drag this out. Somehow, Dean gets even harder at the thought. Didn’t think it was possible. Turns out he’s a fucking masochist ‘cause he wants Cas to torture him like this. Again and again and again forever until he can’t remember his own name. “Can you do that, Dean?” 

“Yes.” 

Cas’ hands slide to his hips. Fingernails digging into his skin. 

“Yes, what?” 

Jesus fuck. 

Dean laughs, puffing a little with exertion. “You got a real dominance thing, huh?”

Wrong answer. 

Suddenly, Cas’ dick is gone. Takes with it the heat and the tantalising slip and slide against his hole. 

Dean mourns the loss. Actually moans. Bucks his hips into thin air. Then Cas is manhandling him again - one hand wrapped around the back of Dean’s neck as he leans over him. Shoves his face back into the blankets. 

“Backchat will only make this last longer.” Cas hisses right behind him, carefully angling his hips so Dean can’t get back the contact he desperately wants. 

“Mm.” Dean smirks. “What a shame.” 

Cas leans forward and nips the shell of Dean’s ear. It’s not painful, but it’s a shock. 

“If I have a ‘dominance thing’ then you certainly have a ‘submissive thing.’ If the last few months are anything to go by.” He kisses between Dean’s shoulder blades. Uses the hand he has holding the back of Dean’s neck to massage into his hair. “I thought it might be as a result of my Grace at first, but now... I think you like to be told what to do. Don’t you?” 

“Mhm.” Dean agrees, eyes slipping closed. “S’nice. You’re hot.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. 

“But, Dean,” Cas releases him. Strokes his head. Massages his shoulders. “If we’re going to pursue this dynamic, I want to do it safely. Sometimes I” - he clears his throat - “I get carried away. I need you to tell me if I’m actually hurting you.” 

“So you want. Like. A safeword?”

“If you like. But it can’t be Baby.” 

Dean pouts. “Why not?” 

“Because you’ve called me that before. I don’t want to get confused.” 

“...You mean earlier when I called you a big baby?”

“No.” Cas gives a soft, low laugh. “I suppose you don’t remember. You weren’t saying it as an insult. It was as an endearment, when we were - the first time you. Witnessed me lose myself.” 

Dean's dick jumps at the memory. 'Cause he still classes that as the hottest shit he's ever fucking seen. “Shit… yeah. I remember.” 

“So it has to be something else.” 

Dean thinks. “How about ‘67?” 

“...Does it have to be about your car?” 

“Yep.” 

“Fine.” He sighs. Long and put upon. 

Dean grins. Cas lines up his body with Dean’s again, seemingly unconsciously. He can feel the hard length of him, pressed up against his ass cheek. Moving in tiny, almost undetectable thrusts. Just enough to make the barest amount of friction. It makes Dean’s dick ache with the urge to turn around and find purchase against Cas’ skin. Anywhere. In any way. 

“So we’re agreed? If either of us wants to stop, any time, we’ll say ‘67?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Fine with me.” He can’t imagine wanting to stop. Can’t imagine Cas hurting him. Not like this. Which is weird when he thinks about it, ‘cause they've been hurting each other since the moment they met. 

Cas put his hand on him and burnt him. Dean frickin' stabbed him in the chest within seconds of laying eyes on him. Then there was the crypt - nearly saying yes to Michael and getting his ass beat - everything. And somehow, Dean just. Can't really imagine a reality where anything like that could ever happen again.

Cas leans low next to Dean's ear. Nuzzles and strokes and nibbles around his shoulder and the bolt of his jaw. This would be so weird with anyone else.

"Good." Says Cas.

And then it's like he flips a switch. He makes a fist in Dean's hair. Pulls tight. Experimentally, Dean thinks, 'cause it stings. Sure. But not in a super painful way. Anyway. The sharpness is good. Sends a jolt of pleasure lancing through him and straight to his dick. His back arches as he's forced up, Cas' other hand poised in the crook of his hip, grabbing hard.

"I don't want you to feel anything that isn't me." Cas tells him. Utterly hoarse. "I want every thought that passes through your mind to be totally focused on me. Just me. Do you understand, Dean?"

Fuck. Yes. Fuck.

"I need you to verbalise it."

"Yes... yes, Castiel."

Saying Cas' full name has its intended effect. He groans, bucks hard against Dean, his dick slipping between his thighs. Right under his balls. Dean squeezes his legs a little until he feels Cas' cock rubbing hard between them. Brushing against his own. Torturously light. 

"Oh, fuck." Cas hisses. Drawing out the 'f' like the words are trapped between his teeth. Said without thought. Without intention.

Cas snaps his hips against Dean with increasing pace, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Dean braces himself. Wholly unsurprised by Cas' strength but unwilling to buckle beneath it.

Cas fucks himself between Dean's thighs with relentless purpose. The hand in his hair pulling tight and massaging his scalp equally. Pain and pleasure blurring into one. Dean thought it was just a Grace thing before. The whole sexy pain shit. Never pegged himself as a chains and whips kinda guy. But with Cas?

God-fuckin’-damn. He wants it to hurt so good. Doesn't care. Needs it. Wants Cas all around him. In him. Fused with his fuckin' essence. And if it burns, it burns.

Cas leans down. Presses his forehead between Dean's shoulder blades as he moves, his hand snaking from his hip to his navel. He rests his palm flat against Dean's abdomen, just above his dick. Teasing with its proximity - the potential to offer even the tiniest amount of release.

The scent of honey and thunder permeates the air between them. Intoxicates him. And just as Cas wants, Dean thinks of nothing else. Can't imagine a reality that isn't this. Cas everywhere. All around him.

"Want you inside me." Dean blurts. Fogged. Blissed out. He's never wanted anything more.

Cas makes a small, desperate sound against his skin. His hips stutter and still, but he hasn't come.

"Dean... are you"-

"I'm sure." Dean rasps. Practically writhing against him. Pushing back into Cas just to show him how badly he wants it. "Please - please. Just take me, Cas. God..."

"You weren't ready." Cas pants against him. "Before. You weren't"-

"What if I am now?"

Cas laughs. Low and deep and sultry. Slips his hand from Dean's hair to his back, stroking him.

"I adore how eager you are. And believe me, I want nothing more. But I don't want to push it. You've just come out of the hospital. You've been through an overwhelming ordeal. You're only hum - ah!"

Dean deliberately moves his thighs. Clamps down on Cas' dick and feels the slick ooze of precome coating the insides of his legs.

"Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Dean warns. “I want it, Cas." He’s practically chowing down on his own forearm as he humps the friggin' air. Never been so turned on in his entire life. "Want you. Now."

Cas is silent for a moment, unable to form words as he slowly pushes his dick in and out between Dean's thighs. He whimpers.

"Dean… I need you to… be sensible for me. Because I can’t."

"Cas. Castiel. Baby, please."

Dean doesn't care that he's begging. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe he's so beyond exhausted after everything that he just doesn't give a fuck anymore. Maybe it's the bond. Maybe it's ego death.

Doesn't give a fuck what it is, actually.

Just needs Cas to fuck him.

Cas makes one last sound of desperation before lurching up onto his haunches, only to take a hold of Dean and flip him onto his back with more finesse than should be possible in his state. 

He descends on Dean, slots between his legs and kisses him, hard and rough. Teeth and tongue and low, guttural noises as he mindlessly ruts against him. Dean instinctively opens his legs. And, yeah. In this position, he's never felt like such a whore.

"But you're my whore." Cas murmurs against his lips.

"All yours, sweetheart." Says Dean, capturing Cas' lip between his teeth. They kiss. Grab and grasp at skin. Claw at each other. Lovingly rake back hair and share spit and sweat until they’re panting. 

Dean arches his back. Moves his hips until he can feel Cas against him. Their stomachs stick together a little from where Dean came on him before. It should be kinda gross. But it just. Isn’t. He doesn’t care. 

Cas stops kissing Dean to raise up onto his knees. Holds Dean’s thighs apart and looks down at the space between them, eyes nearly black in the dark. Dean doesn’t see where all the oil is coming from. Just feels the slick heat of it as Cas presses two fingers against him. 

“I’ll make this painless.” Cas promises him. Circles Dean’s rim with the pad of his finger. Slow pressure. As good as Dean remembers. But they never went further than this. 

“Is it s’posed to hurt?” Asks Dean. 

Cas raises one shoulder. “The experiences online differ from person to person.” 

Dean snorts. “You been watchin’ gay porn, Cas?”

“Mostly reading, but yes.” Cas replies. Cuts off Dean’s anticipated laugh as his finger catches his rim. The tip sliding in. It doesn’t hurt. 

“You can make it sting a little.” Dean throws his hands behind his head, like he’s on a pool floaty. Not preparing to get fucked six ways to Sunday. “I don’t mind.” 

Cas drags his eyes away from the action between Dean’s legs. Smirks at him. 

“I know you don’t.” He crooks his finger. Stretches Dean open a bit. It kinda burns. 

“Shit…” 

“Want me to stop?”

“Hell no.” 

The space between them feels like an ocean of distance. Dean wants his lips back on Cas’ - just to distract him from being so. Exposed. Vulnerable. On his back. Pinned under Cas’ intense, adoration-filled gaze.  

They never took him like this in hell. 

Cas withdraws his hand. A line appears between his brows. 

“Dean.”

“Loud thoughts, huh?” Dean laughs weakly. Tosses his arm across his face. “It’s - sorry.” 

Cas untangles himself. Lies gently by Dean’s side. All urgency - lust - passion - suspended. Dean hates himself. Just wants to rewind a few seconds to stop the last thought from happening ‘cause this was so good and he’s ruined it - 

“Dean.” Cas says again. Soft. Forgiving. “Look at me. Please.” 

Dean exhales hard. Removes the lead weight of his arm from his face and angles his head towards Cas. 

Cas reaches out and touches Dean’s face. A touch of Grace spreads under his skin, a pleasant tingling living under the surface. He tastes honey and sunshine. Remembers to draw in another shaky breath. 

“Sorry.”

“I don’t ever want to hear that word out of your mouth again.” Cas tells him sternly. 

“What if I do something shitty?” 

Cas rolls his eyes. “I was being hyperbolic. Just - in this instance, on this subject, I don’t want you to apologise, because you have nothing to apologise for.” 

Dean just stares at him. Lets him stroke his hair back and soothe his nerves with increments of Grace.

“I wanna do it, Cas.” He tells him croakily. 

“You've made that abundantly obvious.” Cas smiles. His eyes filled with love and a little gold. “But I was right the first time. We shouldn’t push it. You - have substantial trauma around sex. Especially sex with men. And my vessel is male. Your feelings about this won't change overnight, Dean.” 

Dean scoffs. Can’t help it. “Yeah, and? I’ll get over it, man.” 

“In time.” Cas says. All pointed. He leans forward and kisses the tip of Dean’s nose. “We need to be careful with one another.” Dean groans and rolls fully onto his side. Not a boner in sight. “Just for a while.” Cas murmurs beside his ear. Kisses it. Wraps Dean up in his arms. Thick, strong arms. Uncompromisingly strong. Cas loves like that, Dean thinks. Uncompromisingly. Almost aggressively. In his eyes. In his embraces. In his kisses and fuckin’ - all of it. He’s not shy with it. Not careful like Dean is. Dean’s afraid to love him, even though he does, ‘cause what if he can never give it back?

“You already are.” Cas whispers. Huffs a small laugh. “Reading you is much easier now we’re bonded.” 

“Mm.” Dean agrees. “Think I heard some of you before too.” 

He feels Cas nod against him. Seconds tick by like this. Cas just - holding him. Naked. And they’re not even rubbing up against each other or anything.

Dean’s not sure he’s ever had this. Been held or held someone naked without the intention of. Y’know. Fucking them. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas asks a while later. Dean shakes his head. 

“Then I have another idea.” 

Without another word, Cas takes Dean's hand and guides him up and off the bed. 

"Thought you said I wasn't leaving this bed 'til you made me come three times." Dean quips. 'Cause he's a dick and he can't help himself. 

"Hm." Cas turns to him. Holds his hand tight as they both stand. Face to face. The air's charged in the small space between their bodies like two magnets. Cas tugs Dean a little until they're chest to chest. Nose to nose. "I think we can make an exception just this time." He presses a kiss - not quite chaste, but lacking the desperation and fervour the others had - to Dean's lips. "I suppose I'll have to keep count. Add it to the roster of orgasms I owe you." 

Dean smiles. Inhales deep. Gets a lungful of Cas' scent and notices his entire body relax as he does. 

"Sounds great to me." 

Cas pulls away and leads Dean to the door. 

"Come on." 

Dean follows, clueless but trusting, as Cas takes them both down the dark, oak hallway. As he realises he's about to take him into the crazy fancy bathroom, he stops. 

"Cas, before we, um. Continue." He clears his throat. Tries not to get lost as Cas turns his gaze on him. All open curiosity and grace. Both the angelic kind and the human kind. "You said before the people who owned this house were dead." Dean waits for a tell-tale reaction. Gets none. "Who were they? Did they um... you didn't"- 

Cas raises a brow. 

"No, Dean. I didn't kill them." He drops his eyes. "I suppose I should tell you." He glances around the hallway. Taking in the decor and its many doors. "This house belonged to Jimmy Novak's mother. After she passed, she left the house to him in her will. I offered it to Claire, but she said it's too remote for her. She didn't want it. So I... I suppose I... reclaimed it. Decided to make it my." He coughs. "Well, we. We would call it a nest. A place for us to go that's just ours - angels, that is. It's normal to carve out a space you can call your own. I never have... 

"The house has been sitting here empty for a number of years now. When Jack brought me back, I came here. Started redecorating. Salvaging what I could of the original decor. It isn't - retribution for what I did to Jimmy and his family. Not by any means. But I"- he takes a deep breath. Dean squeezes his hand. Cas flicks his gaze back up to him. Tentative. "I wanted to do something. Even if that something is simply ensuring his family's property doesn't fall to ruin." 

"Helps that his family's property is classy as fuck." Says Dean, surveying the high ceilings. He looks back at Cas. "Sorry."

Cas smiles. "No. You're right. But ultimately, the prospect of restoring it was somewhat of a dead end." 

"Why?" 

"Because I didn't have anyone to share it with. I wanted to share it with you. Obviously. But at the time, I - I didn't believe you'd want that. So for a while it felt like a meaningless project. Selfish, even. I didn't believe I deserved a nest after everything I'd done. But I remember thinking that if I had you here too..." 

Dean can't say he would've dropped everything to go live with Cas in his Barbie dream house, 'cause he knows himself well enough to know what he's like. What he would've said. But he wishes he could. 'Cause it sounds fucking wonderful. 

He shrugs. "Maybe I want it now." 

Cas' eyes widen. "Dean, I'm not suggesting you leave the bunker and come and live in this house with me. It's not even finished. And that sort of thing"-

"Maybe I should." Says Dean. His mouth just. Yeah. Saying it. "What the hell? Why not?"

His brain starts ticking. Picturing it. Imagining it. 

"Dean..." Cas shakes his head, incredulous. "Take a moment. Please. At least take a night before making such a monumental decision." He holds Dean's face in his hands, staring at him with a face full of disbelief and veneration. "Not to mention we are both standing naked in a draughty hallway and you're getting cold."

"No I'm not."

"Your nipples are visibly reacting to the low temperature." 

Dean can't really argue with that. They're hard as hell, and he's got gooseflesh breaking out across his arms. He is also, as Cas pointed out, extremely naked. 

He lets Cas take him into the bathroom, and they put the subject of living together in the inherited Novak house on the back burner for now.

The bathroom is the same as Dean remembers. Green opulence. Dimmer switches. Heated floors. He bites his tongue to stop himself asking if Cas did all this work himself or if he inherited the house like this. Something tells him there's a touch of Cas in here. Same with the bedroom. The pretty green walls. Spindly, carved bedside tables. It feels distinctively like something Cas would choose. He can't put his finger on why. Just knows it is. 

Cas turns on the shower big enough for five adults to comfortably fit into and steps underneath the rainforest spray, encouraging Dean to do the same. 

After days of awkwardly shuffling around in the hospital bathroom and having nurses wipe him down when he couldn't get there himself, this is fucking heaven. And having Cas here with him is even better. 

Cas wordlessly pulls him in. Holds him. Kisses him under the hot, steamy spray of the ridiculously massive shower. It's like standing under summer rain. Dean goes with it, feeling like he's floating as Cas kisses him deeply. Lovingly. Holds his head and his shoulders and strokes his upper arms and angles his head this way and that just perfectly. 

"Is this okay?" Cas asks after an immeasurable amount of time. 

"More than okay, Cas." Dean's limbs are jelly. Head's suspended in frickin' marshmallow fluff. 

And, yeah. 

He's also exhausted. 

Cas grabs a shower gel from a shelf indented into the tiles and squirts a generous amount into the palm of his hand. He moves around Dean. Soaps up his shoulders and behind his ears. Rubs it in circular motions up and down his back. Over his ass cheeks. His thighs. And it's not - not like he's working up to anything sexual. 

He's just. Taking care of Dean. He massages shampoo into Dean's hair like he's conducting a ritual. Precise, perfect movements that lull him. Sing to his body. Make him feel like a cherished object being polished under the hands of a collector. 

On unspoken agreement, Dean does the same to Cas. Gets the bottle Cas used. Squirts thick, cold gel into his hands. Lathers up Cas' broad shoulders. Tanned back. His lean, muscular thighs. 

Seeing him like this. Feeling him - skin exposed under his hands - is. Fuck. Cas is just. Fucking perfection. 

Dean doesn't understand how he didn't see it before. 

Actually, he knows he saw it. Seeing it was just. Yeah, it was another cold, hard fact. The sky is blue. Water is wet. Cas is hot. But getting to have him is something totally, totally different. An entity of emotion Dean was wholly unprepared for. He's swathed in it. Nearly choking with it as he soaps Cas down under the spray. Digs his thumbs into his shoulders as he does. Makes note of the way Cas trembles when he runs his hands along his spine. Mauls his shoulder blades. Gets his hands anywhere on his back, basically.

Cas sways on the balls of his feet the more Dean keeps going. He ends up just focusing on Cas' back. Seeing which sounds he can elicit from him in certain spots. It's when Dean touches the true middle of his back that he seems to get the most pleasure.

After a particularly throaty moan, Dean says, "You like this, sweetheart?" 

"You... have no idea..." Cas seems to be struggling to speak. And one look down over his shoulder tells Dean it's more than just a good massage. Cas is as hard as a rock. Dean's not exactly soft himself, but he's not, like. Raring to go or anything. 

"You want me to. Do anything?" He tries to sound like he has some idea of what he's doing. Fails hard. 

But it's okay. Cas shakes his head. Eyelids flicking shut. 

"Just this." 

Dean does. And it's not long before he starts to feel more than just shower gel under his finger nails. Cas' back becomes slippy with oil. The scent of him embedding into the steam. Surrounding them both. He's being hot-boxed in Cas' scent. It's perfect torture, and does the job getting Dean aroused again. 

"This really turns you on, doesn't it?" Dean asks, aligning his body up along Cas'. Roving his oily hands across his shoulders. His chest. Tucking his nose into the nape of Cas' neck as he inhales deeply. Tries not to be too obvious as his dick hardens atop the swell of Cas' ass. 

Cas just makes a low noise which sounds vaguely like agreement, before turning around to kiss Dean. Full of intent this time. Little nips on his bottom lip. Hot tongue flicking over his own. Tasting. Teasing. 

Cas kisses Dean with such force that he's backed against the cold tiles. They're a shock at first, and he nearly jolts forward before he gets completely distracted by Cas' hands on his body. Grabby and everywhere. He circles Dean's nipple with his thumb. Hard for reasons other than the cold, now. Palms his ass. Shoves his body up against him and ruts shamelessly against the join between his hip and his groin. 

He's sudsy. Slick and hard and all encompassing. 

He mouths along Dean's neck. Slides down, laves his collar bone. Pauses around Dean's nipple. Flicks his tongue there a few times which feels, yeah, insanely fucking good, before moving down and down... 

Just when Dean thinks he's about to receive the best blowjob of his life, Cas grasps his hips and flips him so he's facing the tiles. Hands braced against the wall. 

"Cas?" 

"Mm." Cas gently bites Dean's flank. Licks up his thigh. He grips Dean tight and tugs him closer, so he's sort of. Bending over a little. He moves his hands to Dean's ass. Spreads him open. And then just. Goes to fuckin' town.

He licks up along the whole length of him a few times first. All wet, sensitive heat. Then he gets his mouth against Dean's rim. Kisses and laves at it like he can't get enough. 

Dean can't help the noise he produces at the first moment of contact. It just feels so insanely fucking good. Goes right to that burning pit in his abdomen. Sends shivers down his legs until he's quivering, struggling to stand, grasping at the slippy tiles for something to hold onto. 

"Fuck, Cas - that's so"- he bites his lip. Squeezes his eyes shut as the sensations take over. As Cas' tongue catches on his rim and slips inside. It feels so deep, even though it can't possibly be, and he wonders again how the fuck he's gonna manage Cas' dick up there. Doesn't really get to dwell on it. 'Cause Cas is transporting him to another plane of existence with the way he's fucking him with his tongue. 

Cas moans against him. Debauched. And when Dean dares to peer back over his shoulder, he sees Cas is jacking himself off as he eats Dean out. 

It's enough to make him lose it. "Fuck." He swears again. Hardly registers the slight pain as he thuds his forehead against the wall. His balls draw up. The tight heat in his abdomen curls and boils. He's gonna come. Just like this. 

His body locks up as the sensations drown him. Cas' moans - the slick, rhythmic sound of him jerking off - all serving to bring Dean to the edge. 

He shouts Cas' name as he comes. Dick jumping, swollen and untouched, as each spurt jets from him and hits the opulent tiles. 

Cas' tongue stills against him and he lets out an incredible, harsh sound. Mouths Dean's name as he comes as well. Jacking himself off desperately through it, his own come landing on the shower floor and Dean's ankle. 

Dean slumps against the tiles. Spent. 

He's an idiot to think this is over. 

Cas does not move. Actually, he just goes in harder. And Dean, oversensitive, cries out as the sensation of Cas' tongue against his rim overwhelms him. His nerves are exposed. Outside his body. He's still raw and alive with the aftershocks of his last orgasm, and Cas just. Doesn't stop. 

Dean whines against the wall. Bites down on his hand. Parts his legs to get Cas in deeper, even though it - it nearly hurts with how overstimulating this is. 

"You're so good for me, Dean." Cas murmurs. Breaking away for the barest of seconds to praise him. "So, so good." 

It's gotta be the Grace making him hard again, 'cause there's no way he'd get back up this quick all on his own. 

He moans and quivers through it. Completely outside of himself as Cas sets his body on fire. Stroking up Dean's thighs as he works his tongue inside him. Touching anywhere and everywhere except his cock. 

Dean bucks against him. "Cas. Please." 

"Please what, Dean?" 

"Touch me..." Dean begs. "Just touch me. Please. I can't." 

Cas hums, the vibration travelling right through his body. Making him feel good in places he didn't even know existed. 

"Touch yourself for me. I want to watch." Says Cas. He removes himself from Dean's ass. Stands up. Staggers a little. And watches. 

Dean turns around. Thinks he does a great job of pretending he's not gonna keel over, despite the way he's shivering all over. 

Cas stays up against the shower wall. Breathing hard and fast. Face dark with lust and that small, barely-there smirk Dean's started to recognise as the one he uses in situations exactly like this. The one he used a decade ago when he said:

You should show me some respect. 

Did he want him? Even then? 

"Yes." Says Cas. His voice rough and low. "I wanted you. Even then." I just didn't understand it. 

"Yeah. I didn't understand it either." Dean replies to Cas' thought. Loves the way Cas' smirk boldens as they both realise what just happened. 

"Touch yourself for me, Dean." Cas orders. Hands behind his back like he's holding himself back from reaching out and doing it himself. "And don't look away from my eyes." 

Dean nods. Entranced by the man - angel - cosmic fucking sex God - before him. Slowly, he takes himself in his hand and starts to jack off. Resists the urge to close his eyes. 

Cas remains absolutely still. Tan skin glistening with beads of water and oil and soap. He watches Dean, and as he does, Dean experiences another sensation. A phantom kind of. Movement. Circling his rim like Cas' tongue had been moments earlier. 

He chokes. "F-fuck. What the"- 

Cas' smile curls upward. His eyes darken. "Don't stop."

Dean obeys. His breathing becomes laboured as the Grace-tongue dips inside him. Further than Cas' real tongue did. 

His dick twitches under his grip. Hard, red and aching as he squeezes and pumps his fist. His thighs quiver as he struggles to remain upright. 

"Cas... oh god, Cas..." He can't ask him to stop. Unthinkable. But he - he doesn't know how much more of this he can take. The Grace moves deeper. Crooks up and inside him. Bumps against his prostate and Dean -

Dean cries out. Sees stars burst in his vision as the most impossible pleasure he's ever known lances through him like lightning. 

He's coming before he realises it. It pulses over his hand. Washes away under the spray seconds before he collapses. 

Cas catches him before he can fall to his knees. Holds him half up. Lets his legs drop uselessly on the floor. Dean clings to him. Arms around his neck. Whole body twitching and shaking. 

"I promised you three times." Says Cas. He kisses Dean's temple. "I plan to keep all of my promises from now on." 

"Ngh." Dean says. He's forgotten how to speak. His tongue's as weak as his legs are. 

With Cas' help, he gets out of the shower. Cas dries him off with one of those huge fluffy towels. There's oil residue on his hands. It sinks into Dean's clean skin. Moisturises. And yeah. Dean's not mad. He's content to smell like this for the rest of his life and forever after. Cas must use some Grace too 'cause he's completely dry after just a few scrubs of the towel. 

They pad back down the hallway. Steaming from the hot shower. Jelly-legged and sated. By they time they make it to the bed, Dean's so hazy he's thinking maybe this whole thing was a drug induced dream. Nicest fuckin' dream he's ever had. 

Cas pulls back the blankets for him and he slides in. Premium silk hushing against bare skin. Somehow the sheets are already warm. Cas curls in around him. Tucks an arm under Dean's head while his other hand strokes up and along his side. He murmurs kisses and soft, encouraging words against his forehead. 

"Love you." Dean manages. Thinking, as sleep consumes him in its deep, abyssal embrace, that this must be too good to be true. 

He's gone before he hears Cas say it back. 

Chapter Text

"...Yes. But that's assuming he wants to go..."

When Dean wakes up, he doesn't know where he is. He waits, anxiously, for the pain to hit before opening his eyes. For the machines to beep. For a nurse to come in. Prick him in his bruised, abused arm. Take more blood. Run more useless tests.

There's no pain.

Actually, he's warm. Blissed out.

"...I know."

Reality swims in. Disorientingly wonderful. And there's a whole moment where he doesn't dare to open his eyes in case it was all a dream.

"I'll update you. He doesn't have a phone, so you'll have to call mine."

Dean opens his eyes.

Pale, winter sunlight pours in through the arched windows, all frosted up with condensation. The air's chilly, but Dean's surrounded by hot skin. Breath tickling his hair. Cas' voice speaking low and unobtrusive above him.

He shifts a little. Groans as his limbs complain. But not with any sort of pain. Just - lethargy. The nice kind.

"...No. He's just woken up."

Dean looks up. Meet's Cas' eyes. Smiles. 'Cause they're like. Cuddling and shit. Cas' expression immediately breaks into one of relief. His body relaxes beside Dean. Like he was preparing for him to wake up and bolt.

He was worried Dean was gonna regret this.

"Who is it?" Dean asks.

Cas sighs. Moves the phone away from his ear. "Claire."

"Is she mad?"

Cas huffs. "She wants to talk to you."

Dean holds out his hand. Cas gives him the phone.

"Hey, Barbie."

"Hey, old man." Clipped. She's definitely mad. "How's the head?"

"I've never had any complaints." He grins up at Cas, who gives a tremendous eye roll.

"You are disgusting." Claire tells him. "You are both disgusting. And I am so done." Pause. "But I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah?" Dean can't tear his eyes away from Cas. His guy. His angel. He feels insane.

"Yeah. I need you in peak condition so I can beat your ass when you dare to show your faces again."

Dean stretches out. Ankles clicking. His body feels like pulled taffy.

"Don't get your hopes up. I'm pretty comfortable here."

"You're at Grandma's place, right?"

"Grandma? - Oh. Yeah. The, uh. House you didn't want."

Claire snorts. "The hell am I s'posed to do thirty miles outside Vancouver?"

Dean glances at Cas. Sits up a little straighter.

"Vancouver?"

Claire snorts. "Yeah, man. You're on Canadian soil. Why d'you think I let Cas have the house? I'm not hauling my ass over the border for hours on end every time I need to go on a hunt."

"Yeah..." Dean says. Vancouver. Canada. Right. "Makes sense, I guess."

"Cas shown you the bee garden he's building yet?"

Cas looks away from Dean. Pulls the phone back. "Okay, that's enough. Dean is very tired."

"Nah, I feel great. Show me the bee garden, Cas."

He hears Claire's tinny laughter through the speaker. Can't help but smile at the way Cas' expression turns into an embarrassed squint. The scent of honey and fresh rainwater lingers between them. Dean feels like he's been dipped in the frickin' fountain of youth. He's light. Clear-headed.

Cas rises from the bed, and Dean gets a spectacular view of him, naked, in the daylight. He stretches, the muscles in his back bunching and moving under miles of tanned skin, the contours of his body perfectly proportioned to compliment him from any angle. He rolls his neck. Stands still for a moment, face poised towards the window. Like a plant reaching for the sun.

Cas turns his head and gazes at Dean. Completely unselfconscious. "This is real." He says. Almost to himself.

Dean gives a short, throaty laugh. "I sure hope so."

Cas smiles, blue, blue eyes lingering on him. Taking in the scene. "Is it okay?" He asks, "That we're so far from Lebanon?"

Dean half shrugs. "Sure. I mean, you can zap me back to the bunker any time, right?"

"Do you want to go back?"

Dean hesitates. Which sucks. 'Cause he wanted the answer to just be: Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I?

He wasn't playing when he said he could actually see himself living with Cas. He got a little carried away in the heat of the moment, sure. If they hadn't had such an insane day, maybe he wouldn't have just. Said it. Like that.

But he did. And now it's out there.

And then there's the whole problem of Sam.

"I dunno." He replies. Because it's as close to the truth as he can get right now.

"Hm." Says Cas. He moves back towards the bed. Sits on the edge. Carved back facing towards Dean. Face angled in his direction. One hand reaching out across the blanket.

Dean takes it and holds it before he can think twice.

"Do you want to go?" He asks.

Cas' expression is unreadable. "No." He answers after a long pause. "I... fear my resentment might cause undue tension."

Dean wants to tell him not to resent Sam. Wants to say Sam was just doing what he thought was right.

Somehow the words don't make it past the seam of his lips.

Cas stares at their conjoined hands on the bed. Thumbs the back of Dean's hand in slow, thoughtful circles.

"I didn't think Sam would do something like that to me." He admits quietly. "I feel. Betrayed."

A stab of guilt twists in Dean's chest. Which is weird, 'cause it's not like he put the wards up.

Sam did.

Sam did that.

And Dean didn’t know to stop him. 

"You are not responsible for your brother's actions, Dean." Cas tells him firmly. "He is more than capable of making mistakes on his own. I don't think you could have done or said anything to change his mind when he decided to shut me out."

"It wasn't his decision to make." Says Dean. "It had nothing to do with him. If he'd just"- he stops. Takes a deep breath. Uses Cas' grip on his hand as a tether. "If he'd just - left it. We could've worked it out on our own way sooner."

Cas frowns. "Do you think so?"

"I mean, yeah. The bond would've, like, alerted you. At some point, right? That we were both dying? And you could've come sooner. Wouldn't have suffered so much."

Cas considers this. "And do you believe if I had, you'd still have come to the conclusion you're in love with me?"

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. 'Cause that's one hell of a question.

It took days.

Days of dying. Of believing he was never gonna see Cas again. Of thinking Cas had truly given up for good. It took all that and his family's intervention for him to see what he'd been trying to run away from for - well. Years.

If Cas had come running back only a couple days after their argument, he might not have. He might have pushed him away. Said something worse.

Or just. Continued it. What they'd been doing before.

And how would that have worked?

There's no scenario Dean can think of where they wouldn't have eventually got to this point. 'Cause it would've been impossible not to, right?

"I hope I would've." He says eventually. It's the best he's got. "I'd like to think yes. But I'm one stubborn son of a bitch, so." He shrugs. "Maybe not. Maybe I needed to suffer for it all to make sense."

Cas sucks in a sharp breath. "No. No, you did not need to suffer and you did not deserve to suffer. It should never have come to that."

"If it helps, I feel pretty great now." Dean tries. Cas' frown remains etched into his features. Dean tugs on his hand. Signals for him to come closer. He does, his whole body locked and tense. "Hey, stop thinking about Sam. I know we said we'd go to the bunker, but it's not as if we need babysitting. Besides, you've never given me a tour of this place. I wanna see it." Cas' eyes wander from Dean's as he speaks. Gaze around at nothing. The cogs tick loudly behind his eyes. Dean can practically feel every anxious thought buzzing around his head. 

Speaking of buzzing. 

"I wanna see your bee garden." He says, grinning as that finally gets Cas to look at him again.

"It isn't finished." Cas says resolutely.

"Maybe I can help."

Cas looks struck for a moment. Lost for words. Finally, his shoulders drop down in increments and the muscles in his back loosen. He sighs.

"Maybe. But you're hungry and dehydrated. We should make breakfast first."

So they do.

First, Cas gives him some clothes, 'cause there's no way he's putting the hospital gown on again. Dean's suspiciously surprised when Cas hands him a bundle of jeans and t-shirts he was sure had gone missing during his huge laundry overhaul a few months ago. Turns out Cas just. Had them. Dean's too grateful to be dressed in normal, human clothes to start berating him for stealing his clothes like a stalker, but he does manage to convince him to leave the trenchcoat, suit-jacket and tie in the bedroom. In just his slacks and shirt, he leads Dean downstairs once they're both dressed.

The kitchen turns out to be one of the most impressive features of the house. It, like much of the other decor, has accents of green dotted about everywhere. A low, beamed ceiling marks the cooking area from the rest of the kitchen, and a huge, cream-coloured aga sits nestled under a brick archway. There's a more modern island in the centre of the kitchen featuring a couple of sinks, and in the corner there's a fridge big enough for a family of six. At the end of the kitchen is the dining area, which blends seamlessly into a glass conservatory. Indoor plants blossom out behind the long dining table, fanning in front of the glass panes, where a set of French double doors lead out into the garden.

Dean's itching to see the rest of the house, but Cas was right when he said he was hungry. His hunger signals have been fucked up for a while, so he barely notices the yawning cavern inside his stomach until Cas opens the fridge and starts listing off various breakfast items.

They settle for homemade pancakes, and Dean helps Cas set up the ingredients and prep the pan atop the huge, vintage stove.

Not that Cas needs his help. He rolls his sleeves up, exposing the strong forearms which held Dean up for most of last night, and gets to measuring and whisking and stirring with almost robotic precision.

Dean knows Cas doesn't need to eat, but he makes enough for the both of them anyway.

They don't bother setting up the dining table. They just eat at the kitchen island, perched on high-legged chairs opposite each other.

Dean flicks a blueberry at Cas. Cas tells him he's got maple syrup stuck at the corner of his mouth. Dean nearly asks him to lick it off. Doesn't, 'cause he's.

He just pussies out.

They haven't kissed since last night, and Dean's too nervous to make the first move.

Every time he thinks about leaning forward and just. Pecking him on the lips or, like, hugging him from behind, his stomach ties itself in big, uncomfortable knots and he has to look anywhere else in the room to calm down.

Cas hasn't tried to initiate anything either. He's probably just giving Dean space, which is nice and all, but he sort of wishes he would just -

Cas' chair scraping along the floor jolts Dean from his thoughts. Before he can fully register what's happening, Cas is crowding into him. Pushing him back against the island as he takes Dean's chin between his thumb and forefinger and proceeds to slowly lick the maple syrup from the corner of his mouth, all while he holds him still.

He pushes his tongue against Dean's lips, and yeah. Dean opens for him. Kisses Cas long and deep, all too aware of the sound of his heart thudding madly against his ribcage. Low heat bubbling at the base of his spine. Cas' confident grip on his face and the masterful way his mouth moves against his own.

Dean tastes syrup and honey and blueberries.

He swears the room gets five degrees hotter when they break apart. Cas holds his gaze.

"Now you can stop speculating about whether or not you can kiss me. This answer is yes, please."

"Yeah." Says Dean. Stricken. Every thought abolished from his mind the moment Cas touched him. "Sure."

Cas smirks, moves away from Dean and starts washing up at the sink like nothing happened.

Not a hair out of place.

After, he shows him the living room.

There's a distinct difference between this room and the ones Dean's seen so far. There's floral wallpaper peeling at the corners. The furniture is covered in dust sheets, and there are a couple of tall empty bookshelves sitting haphazardly along the walls. Buckets of paint and tools are strewn about, and the curtains are closed. It's a similar situation in two of the upstairs bedrooms and the so-called 'drawing room.' Dean doesn't know why the hell you'd need a whole room just for drawing, but Cas tells him this is an old, Lincoln era house. Inspired by the Victorians or some shit. It's leagues away from the art-deco militancy of the bunker, with its open plan floors and mezzanine. This house is a world of wooden doors. Nooks and crannies and hidey holes and almost hidden passages that lead into a basement or a laundry room or a downstairs bathroom.

The whole time he's showing him around, Cas fiddles with his hands. Avoids Dean's eyes. And it takes a good while for Dean to realise why.

"Hey, uh. This place is really nice." He says. Tries to come off as reassuring. 'Cause he's always been so great at that.

Cas looks at him. All doe-eyed, balefulness. They're by the French doors. The chill outside has misted up the windows, but Dean can still see how far the garden stretches out, surrounded on all sides by huge pine trees.

"Really?" Says Cas. "I didn't think you would find it very accommodating to your lifestyle. I mean, there's a basement with plenty of space for weapons and"-

Dean laughs. "Christ, Cas. I wasn't even thinking about hunting." He wasn't even thinking about hunting. Huh. "I just meant for. Y'know. Living in. The shit normal people do."

"Oh." They stare at each other. "Thank you."

Dean bites back a grin. "You're nervous."

Cas narrows his eyes. "No."

"Yes."

"I will smite you."

Dean scoffs. "You can try."

"Or." Cas' lips curve up into a smile. Small and contemplative. "I could deny you orgasms for a week."

Dean's mouth drops open. "Dude"-!

"I have been thinking about what you might look like," Cas muses, taking a step closer towards him, "pent up. Squirming beside me, begging for me to release you." His voice drops an octave. "It would be torturous. But somehow, I think you'd like it."

And, hell. The idea goes straight to Dean's dick. He shifts position, both to hide the tent pitching in his pants and to get some space from Cas 'cause if he's not careful, he's about to be horizontal on the dining room table.

Cas' smirk widens. "Come on. I'll show you outside."

Cas unlocks the French doors leading into the garden. The cold air is a welcome relief. Dean has to talk himself down as he follows Cas outside.

Cas starts up telling him about the types of trees surrounding the garden and all the plants and flowers he's planning on planting. The self-satisfied expression remains, curving his lip while he talks. Teasing bastard, Dean thinks as loud as he can. Cas dutifully ignores him.

It's not long until Dean starts to feel the chill in just his t-shirt and jeans though, and he does a shitty job of hiding it.

Cas notices. Reaches out and touches Dean's shoulder. Warmth floods through him instantly. As bright and kindling as it always is.

"That's cheating." Says Dean. "You're supposed to give me your jacket."

"...Oh." Says Cas. Frowning. And two flaps of wings later, he's appeared and reappeared, trenchcoat slung over his arm and held out to Dean.

Dean chokes back a laugh. "Cas I was - it was a joke. Y'know how, like, boyfriends are supposed to give the girl their jacket or - Jeez. Forget it." Heat rises to his face before he can stop it. 'Cause that sounded. God. Insane. He's not a thirteen year middle-schooler sticking pictures of her boyfriend inside her locker.

"Boyfriends." Cas repeats, frown etching deeper. He looks down at his coat. Back up at Dean. "Do you want me to be your boyfriend, Dean?"

"Jesus fucking - Cas, we're like, bonded forever. I don't think you"- Cas' smile broadens. And Dean is an idiot. "You were joking. You sarcastic motherfucker." He lightly pushes him, going for somewhat of a friendly, boisterous tackle, but then Cas grabs his arm and twists, forcing Dean to turn until his back is pressed up against Cas' chest, arm wedged between them. Trenchcoat on the ground. 

"Do I need to teach you some manners?" Cas breathes low in his ear, breath misting out in puffs around Dean's face. His body a solid object behind him. Tethered to the earth's fuckin' core. "You curse far too much."

"Yeah?" Dean breathes hard. Adrenaline and lust emboldening him. "You curse when you come."

Cas tightens his grip. Nips Dean's earlobe. "I do not."

Dean's laugh is a little manic. "Yeah, you do. Did it last night. Did it weeks ago too. And I bet you'll do it again."

"Ejaculation is not and has never been a cause for me to use that sort of language."

Dean snorts. "And you 'ejaculate' a lot, do you?"

"Since I've known you," Cas murmurs against Dean's neck, "yes."

And that just about does it for Dean's boner. So much for pretending just the sound of Cas' voice doesn't turn him on.

He closes his eyes. Draws in a harsh breath. "Shit, man. Y'can't just. Say that shit."

"Why not?" Cas kisses along the bolt of his jaw. Lips dry. The tip of his nose cold. "You like it."

"Exactly." Dean breathes.

"I'm missing something here..." Says Cas. Voice fading as his mouth gets occupied against Dean's neck. He licks along his jugular. Bites down gently on top of his shoulder. Pulls the neck of his t-shirt aside so he can get better access to his skin. "I want you." He tells Dean plainly. "Here. Now."

"Uh huh. Okay." Says Dean. All thoughts of shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't vanishing as Cas paws at him. Mouth and hands scalding his skin. Frozen grass crunching beneath his boots.

Cas drops to his knees. Gazes up at Dean. Misty eyed. Swirling vapours of hot breath ghosting over the tent in his trousers. Cas raises a brow.

"Yes?"

Dean nods. "Yes."

And Cas blows him right there in the garden until he comes, biting back a yell, right down his throat.

*

Seeing as they can't seem to keep their hands off each other, it takes a while for Dean to get the full tour. He does see the bee garden eventually. A cordoned off section at the end of the main stretch of grass and trees harbouring a few empty bee-hives - some of which lie incomplete. Planks of unpainted wood in haphazard piles.

Cas gets shy when he relays his plans for the bee garden to Dean, like it's not the most adorable fucking thing he's ever heard.

The unspoken topic of Sam and the bunker and, y'know, their usual lives rests untouched between them the whole afternoon.

Dean cooks them both lunch.

They make out on the couch.

Cas discusses paint options for the other bedrooms. Has buckets of this 'peridot' colour which is the same one on the master bedroom walls. Dean tells him the whole house can't be that colour 'cause it'll look weird. Cas says it's his favourite. Dean angles for blue. Cas rolls his eyes. They make out again. Only stopping because Dean realises -

"Oh, fuck. It's Christmas."

Cas levers himself up on the couch from where he'd been semi-laying underneath Dean, hands in his hair.

"So?" He says, kissing the corner of Dean's mouth.

"So, it's. I should call Sam."

Cas stops. Draws away. "Dean."

"Cas."

Cas stares at him. Dean stares back. It's a competition. Cas sighs - gives in first.

"I don't think you should."

Dean scrubs his face. Sits up and plants himself next to Cas.

"I know it's - it's difficult. But I - he's still my brother, Cas. He fucked up, but"-

"What Sam did was nothing short of a betrayal. Both to you and I." Cas intones. "I know he believes his reasons were just, but that doesn't excuse him. Not in the slightest."

Dean locks his hands behind his head. "I dunno. Wouldn't go that far."

"We almost died."

"Yeah, what's new? We almost die every other week, Cas. This time isn't any"-

"It is different." Cas tells him. The fury he's been repressing sparking through the cracks. "Because he's your brother. And he was supposed to be helping you, not"-

"He thought he was!" Dean argues. Doesn't know why he's arguing 'cause, fuck. Cas is right. It just - sucks. Hearing it like this. "He didn't - if he'd known"-

"If he'd listened to you," Cas interjects. Not raising his voice. Not one bit. "And if he'd trusted you, neither of us would have come as close as we did to losing each other forever."

Dean puffs up his cheeks. Blows out and rests his elbows on his knees. "When you put it that way..."

"I don't want to see him." Says Cas resolutely. "And I don't want to talk to him."

"Then let me talk to him."

Cas scowls. "Dean..."

"You stop me, you're no better than him." It stings to say it. But Cas just presses his lips together in a hard line and digs his phone out of his pocket. Throws it to Dean.

"Fine." He gets up and marches to the kitchen.

"Cas, I'm sorry! I gotta do it." Dean calls after him. "I won't be long, okay?"

Cas doesn't answer. Dean hears him throw open the French doors and storm outside.

He's pissed, but it's not serious. His anger isn't aimed at Dean, just - the situation. And Sam. It's very much aimed at Sam.

And it's weird that Dean knows that. Feels it through their bond.

He opens Cas' phone. There's not even a pass code. Searches through his contacts and sees 'Sam Winchester.' Full frickin' government name. He snorts.

Unblocks his number.

Calls.

The first ring barely finishes before Sam picks up.

"Cas? I - look, let me explain"-

"Sammy, it's me." Says Dean.

Pause. "Dean. Fuck... thank God. You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't - you were meant to come to the bunker."

"Me and Cas had to sort some shit out."

"Right... with the - ? Right. And did it"- He clears his throat. "Did it. Y'know. Work? You're both okay?"

"Yeah, man." Says Dean roughly. "We're okay."

"It's just that. I thought you were coming back."

Dean says. "Yeah."

Silence.

"So. Are you?"

"Dunno, man. It's complicated."

The couch is threadbare. Cushions squashed. It's old. Well used. On the other arm there's a sticky-note Dean hadn't noticed before. "Reupholster." He picks at it. Sticks it and unsticks it to the fabric.

"You probably hate me. I - I messed up, I know."

Dean sits back. Lands heavy against his back. He wants a beer.

Feels the dryness on his tongue like a physical fucking thing.

"Mhm. Yeah." Says Dean. "You did."

"And I'm sorry. Okay? I really am. I'm so so sorry and I've been trying to tell Cas but he blocked me."

"Even the prayer channel?"

"Especially the prayer channel. My bedsheets caught fire the last time I tried to reach out to him."

Dean laughs. Can't help it. "When was that?"

"This morning."

"Damn."

"Yeah..." Sam exhales. "Look, can we talk?"

"We are talking, Sam."

"Yeah, but. Properly. 'Cause we haven't."

"We talked in the hospital."

"We argued." Sam corrects. "I don't think either of us were exactly listening."

"Oh, I was listening alright." Says Dean. "I listened to you making it all about yourself. Comparing me and Cas to you and Ruby, like it was at all the same."

"It seemed like it. To me."

"'Cause you were thinking about yourself!" Dean throws a hand in the air. "Your experiences! You never think about things from anyone else's point of view, man. It's like - you've suffered the most out of anyone so you're, like, the healed guru hippy fuckin' problem solver."

There's a loaded pause. "Is that really how you see me?"

Dean pushes his knuckle into his forehead. "No." And then. "Fuck. Sometimes, yeah."

"...Oh." He hears Sam shuffle. Sniff. "Tell me what you really think, Dean. Jeez." He snarks.

"Oh, come on. You gotta admit. It's been good for you, man. Since - everything. And I've just been. A problem. A thorn in your ass."

"I don't see you as a problem."

"But you did. Have done. Especially with this whole - thing."

"I mean, yeah. I was worried about you, Dean. What the hell d'you expect? You tried to kill yourself when Cas was gone"-

"What?"-

"And there was no one else to watch you. Keep an eye on you. Make sure you didn't - actually do it."

"I didn't try and kill myself. Jesus." Dean's heart thuds desperately against his ribs. Hurts. An old, odd hurt.

"No? What about the vampire hunt when you begged me to let you go? What about when you drank so much you nearly drowned in your own puke?"

"...Sam. None of that has anything to do with"-

"It does!" Sam explodes. "Of course it does. Everything since has just been - fuck. All I can think is: what is he gonna use to hurt himself this time? And the Grace - or, y'know - not having the Grace. It looked like that. And it looked like Cas was enabling it."

"He didn't know. He was as much a victim of it as I was." Dean's voice scrapes. His eyes sting. He regrets this. It's taking him everything not to push the button and hang up on Sam. He's hundreds of miles away. He could hide from him easy. But it's - he can't. They have to do this.

"And I know that now!" Sam says. Exasperated. Pleading. "Which is why I'm apologising. And I should've listened, but I was just - going fucking insane worrying, Dean. I couldn't let you slip away again. Not after - after winning. It would just. It would've been for fucking nothing if I lost you at the end." Sam's voice breaks.

Dean covers his face with his hands, phone resting on his knee.

"Dean?"

"Yeah. 'M still here."

"Look, I"- Sam sniffs. "I'm not asking for you or Cas to forgive me. I just want you to understand."

"...I do, man. I do."

A sigh. Maybe of relief. "Is Cas there?"

"Nah. He stormed off. Didn't want me to call."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

"..."

"Oh, uh. Merry Christmas, I guess." Says Sam.

"Right. Christmas."

"Will we ever have a normal one?"

"Doubt it." Dean holds his knees up to his chest on the couch. Suddenly exhausted. "Thanks for the t-shirt, by the way."

"Oh, you should see the one Eileen ordered for Cas." Says Sam. And it's like. Yeah. Dean hasn't forgiven him. Not by any means. But it's okay. For now.

He'll get there.

"We should do something. Claire says I owe her."

"We kinda both do."

"Yeah. 'Cause it's also your fault we got so messed up."

"Yeah." Sam agrees heavily. "But I guess you're not coming back anytime soon." And it's kinda funny, 'cause Dean had already decided without realising. He's not going back. Not.

Not like before.

It's just. Not his home anymore. Hasn't been for a while.

"Where are you anyway?" Asks Sam. "Claire wouldn't say."

"Vancouver." Says Dean. "Well. Thirty miles out or so."

"Vancouver?! Why?"

Dean shrugs, forgetting Cas can't see him. "Cas has, like. A house."

A big sigh. "Okay, we'll unpack that later. Just - I'd like to see you. Both of you. You reckon you could convince Cas to fly down?"

Dean clicks his tongue and moves over to the window where he can just about make out Cas, a white smudge amongst a foliage of green, standing still in the garden. Hands in his pockets.

"Doubt it. It was hard enough getting him to give me his phone." And then, "But... maybe you guys could come here? Y'know. For like. A belated Christmas or something."

"...You think Cas would be cool with that?"

"Probably not. But if we get Claire, Jody, Jack and Kaia down he might ease up a little."

"Yeah... yeah. You're right. Okay. But do me a favour and tell him we're gonna drive up, yeah? Send me the address when you get a chance."

"Yeah." Says Dean. A weight in his chest lightening. Just a little. "Yeah, I will."

They say their goodbyes and end the call. Dean flops back onto the couch, spent. Head ringing. Debates with himself before biting the bullet and getting up to join Cas outside. 'Cause he knows Cas heard. Listened in. Probably couldn't help it. Ears like a frickin' bat.

He slowly makes his way across the garden. Late afternoon birdsong ringing high and clear from the trees.

Cas' sleeves are rolled up. Tan arms on full display. He turns to Dean, expression petulant.

Dean shrugs, sheepish.

"I don't forgive him." Cas says, pointed.

"Me neither."

"I can't guarantee I will remain civil around him."

"Give him hell, man."

Cas raises a brow. "Permission to smite your brother?"

Dean takes a step closer. Warms the space between them. Still charged. Electric and dangerous and new.

"If you bring him right back, sure."

Cas' lips twitch. His shoulders drop an inch. Tension easing away as they get closer. As the rope tying them together loosens up.

"That's an attractive proposal." Cas says. Closes the gap. Wraps both arms around Dean's waist and presses them together. Instantly, it's like a blanket has been laid over Dean. All the unnecessary noise and stress muffled out. Dampened.

Dean leans forward and presses a kiss against Cas' forehead. Breathes in the addictive scent of him.

"Besides. I miss Baby."

He feels Cas roll his eyes. "I could bring your car here myself."

"Yeah, but the thought of Sam having to drive all this way is kind of satisfying, don't you think?" He pulls away to look at Cas' face. All traces of his previous frustrations are gone, but there are knots in his back which remain tightly wound. Tell-tale lines between his brow.

"Yes, Dean. I suppose it is."

He kisses him, long and deep. And Dean thinks he's never gonna get used to this. Kissing Cas. Feeling the way Cas' mouth moves against his own. The heat of his breath against his tongue. The taste of him. The only thing he wishes right now is that he'd done it so much sooner.

Chapter Text

The drive down to civilization through winding roads lined with snowy woods is just what Dean needs. Granted, he considers Cas' truck an abomination against vehicle-kind, but it's - yeah. It's grounding in a way he didn't realise was missing.

They've been at Cas' place for five days now. Settling in. Taking stock of the place. Painting. Decorating. Measuring. Making out. Getting each other off at least four times a day, 'cause Cas' libido is eternal and he can make Dean horny again whenever he wants.

And, yeah. Dean isn't exactly complaining. Each time is even better than the last and they've been so wrapped up in each other's company that they've sort of forgotten they're gonna have guests in the near future.

January tenth. That's when they've decided to have everybody over. They can celebrate Christmas, New Years and Dean's birthday in one fell swoop. That's what Claire says anyway. So their current prerogative is to get the house ready for guests. It's a big job, but not an unpleasant one.

Life is… slow.

Slow in a blink-and-two-days-have-gone-what-the-fuck-did-I-even-do sorta way.

Slow and fast at the same time, which now Dean's thinking about it, shouldn't be a thing. But somehow is.

It's like a vacation.

He's still waiting for the end date to come.

The trip to town was prompted by the fact that Cas is missing a lot of cookware which Dean deems essential. Cas doesn't. But he's happy to go along with Dean's fussy kitchen standards. Pick up decorations and cushions to make the place more homey on the way.

So, here they are. In a department store. Surrounded by more people than Dean's had contact with in nearly a month.

It's a little dizzying.

One look at Cas standing frozen in the aisle, basket in hand, says he's feeling the same way.

"Okay," Says Dean. Clapping his hands together and rubbing them. Taking the lead. 'Cause Cas might be great at that in the bedroom, but here? Forget it. "Practical shit first, then groceries. The home section's straight ahead. Why don't we split up? You tackle pots and - and pans and stuff and I'll look for pillows and blankets so everyone's got something to sleep on."

Cas nods mutely, eyes trained on the signs. They come to a fork in the aisles. Dean points at him.

"And none of that Teflon crap. I don't want microplastics in my soup, ya hear?"

Cas nods a second time. Shoots a deer-headlights look at Dean.

Dean quickly checks over his shoulder. Empty. Leans forward and pecks Cas on the lips.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Blinking, Cas reaches up a hand and touches his face. Smiles. All shy. "Thank you, Dean."

As if he didn't have his face buried in Dean's ass this morning.

Dean schools his thoughts in the direction of more innocent pursuits and heads for the fluffy-stuff aisle.

Fluffy blankets. Fluffy pillows. Fluffy little shower matts. He finally finds some more practical looking sheets and comforters set out on a wall of shelves all colours of the rainbow. He picks out a few different sets. Periwinkle blue. Burnt orange. That 'peridot' shade of green Cas loves so much. Picks out an actual rainbow set for Sam and Eileen, ‘cause revenge is best served cold. Throws them into the trolley, closes his eyes, and sends a thought to Cas.

I'm nearly done here. Gonna peruse some more but otherwise good. How're you getting on?

The thought which floats over to Dean isn't linguistic by any means. It's more just. A feeling. 'Cause Dean can't really read Cas' mind the same way he can. He gets a vague sensation of unease. A mote of anxiety. Sighs.

On my way.

He finds Cas standing in front of a row of cookware. Frowning at it like it'll tell him what to pick if he glares hard enough.

He jumps when Dean lays a hand on the small of his back.

"Oh. Sorry." Cas clears his throat. Moves down the aisle.

"Cas? You're being." Dean thinks. "Kinda weird." He follows him. "We can leave if you don't like it. Or you can fly home and I'll just"-

"I don't want to be alone." Cas looks at him. A spark of panic alight in his eyes. 

This is about more than the department store, then.

Dean moves over toward him. Frowns at an old lady giving them a weird look. He glares at her as they cross paths. Slows his pace to really get a good stare in there. She purses her lips and glances away first.

Dean 1. Potentially homophobic senior citizen 0.

Dean remembers what he was supposed to be doing. Clears his throat and tells Cas:

"Yeah, it's cool. I ain't leaving, man."

Cas averts his gaze to the floor. Dean tips his head, prompting Cas to meet his eyes again. "Hey. Wanna talk?"

Cas sucks in a sharp breath. Eyes darting around the space. "Not here. Home."

Dean nods. "Okay. I'll get the stuff. Just. Follow me, yeah?"

Cas does. Trails on his heels while Dean picks out a copper cookware set, already picturing it hanging over the aga under the brick archway. 

Truthfully, Cas has been acting a little strange. Not just today.

Zoning out in the middle of painting. Stopping mid-meal, fork halfway to his mouth. Standing in the freezing cold garden while snow falls around him, head tipped up to the sky.

Dean just put it down to Cas being. Well. Cas. Angel weirdness. Time dissonance or whatever he calls it. But he has been spacing out a lot these past few days. More than usual. The only time he's really fully there is when he's all up on top of Dean or under him or getting his tongue or his finger inside him. Then, he's - yeah. Pretty present.

So it's something else. Something not obvious enough for Dean to know. 'Cause he needs every answer slapped in his face before he gets it. 

He makes a mental note to work on reading Cas better in the future. But learning the language of Cas is like - learning Klingon or something. 'Cause he's just - enigmatic. Y'know? A different species. Literally.

A whisper of reassurance reaches out to Dean through their bond. Cas is telling him that whatever's up with him, it's not Dean's fault.

He's surprised by how much it helps. 

They get through the rest of the shopping with no fuss and high-tail it back to Cas' truck. Dean lets Cas slide into the passenger seat while he tucks in their haul nice and tight. The roads are icy, so he's extra careful pulling out of the parking lot. The gears in Cas' truck crank and complain. He needs to take a look under the hood later. Misses Baby for the thousandth time. His stomach growls.

Cas puts his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. We were supposed to stop for something to eat."

Dean shakes his head. "It's okay, man. It's not so far to your place. We can eat at home." He glances over. "Or, y'know. I can. No pressure."

Cas remains hunched over. Head in his hands.

"Talk to me, Cas. Just. Remember what we said. What we promised each other." Dean tries not to sound pleading. Hates the way his heart speeds up as he tries to stop his head moving through all the worst possible scenarios. 'Cause usually, when one of them is keeping a secret, it's the worst possible scenario.

"I know." Cas groans. "I'm... it's okay. I - knew we'd have to have this conversation eventually." He straightens up. Stares straight out at the glistening white, snowy trees ahead as the truck bumps along the uneven roads.

"What conversation?"

Dean spares every second he can to look away from the road and back at Cas, whose face is slowly turning pink.

"It's... a personal issue."

Dean lets out a short burst of relieved laughter. "Fuck, man. You got me scared for a minute there. So, what is it?" Cas hesitates. "Cas. I love you. Please tell me before I run us into a ditch. 'Cause you - you're making me nervous, man."

Cas' entire body deflates on the next sigh. "It seems our bond has... triggered... a molt."

Dean takes a few seconds to process. Still doesn't get it.

"A... molt? Like"-

"My wings are shedding, making way for new feathers to grow. It is extremely uncomfortable and - embarrassing." Cas intones, shoulders hunched up as he attempts to become one with the passenger seat.

Dean nods slowly. Thinks he should be comforting Cas somehow, 'cause this clearly is a thing. Not a thing Dean gets but - yeah. It's a big Something.

"O-kay... so, err... right. That's okay. That's"-

Cas glowers at him. "You're uncomfortable."

"Not uncomfortable. Just - confused."

Cas is pouting. Lower lip sticking out. Dean nearly laughs. Holds it in.

"I shouldn't have said anything." He sulks.

"Oh, come on! It's fine. I just don't really get it, okay? But I'm here, Cas. I'll help you. Whatever you need. You just gotta, like, ask. 'Cause I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Cas glances at him hopefully. "Are... are you sure?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Cas - if you've not got it by now, then I dunno what to tell ya. I'm all in. With you. Forever. 'Kay? Yes. I will help. Just - ask me. Please."

Cas shuts his trap after that. Remains sheepishly quiet in the passenger seat for almost all of the ride, until the overhead light flickers and Dean looks over and sees his eyes are closed, lips fluttering as he mutters under his breath.

"Were you talkin' to Jack?" Asks Dean, already knowing the answer.

Cas nods. "Yes. I've told him numerous times to come and pay us a visit, but he won't settle until he's satisfied he's done all he can in Indonesia."

Dean exhales slowly as he turns into the long, winding side-road leading up to Cas' place.

"Still blames himself, huh?"

"Yes." Cas sighs. Eyes downcast. "I didn't exactly help. I was - unfocused. My priorities were skewed."

"Same." Says Dean. "Y'think we should go over there and help him?"

The last place Dean wants to be right now is frickin' Indonesia. Can't imagine what help he could possibly be in a situation like that. He has no extraordinary strength to speak of. No magic or crazy intuition or building skills that would help the people who lost their homes rebuild their lives. And doesn't that just suck? He's spent his whole life saving people from monsters and can't even fathom where to begin helping people after something as arbitrary as an earthquake.

When it comes to the real world, his resume is blank. Nil.

They've got a four year old God out there doing all he can 'cause that's his job now. And Dean's just. Decorating a house.

"No." Says Cas, "He'd only send us back. Believe me. I tried. Right before I got too sick and focused all of my energy on trying to get to you."

And what was Dean doing? Going out, getting drunk and looking for someone to fuck.

Figures.

His fingers are a little tight on the wheel by the time they pull into the driveway. A strange, dark grief threatens to swallow him up. Marinates in his gut. Wordlessly, he gets out of the truck and helps Cas lug their haul into the house. Cookware stuff in the kitchen. Throws and cushions in the living room. Blankets, pillows and comforters upstairs in the spare bedrooms. The smell of paint permeates the rooms. And, underneath that, honey and rain.

Dean goes straight to the bathroom and takes his time showering. Ignores the pressure head and just stands for a while under the rainforest fall. Feels a twinge of guilt, 'cause usually he'd invite Cas into the shower with him. But -

A knock at the door. "Dean?"

"Yeah." Says Dean. Kinda numb. "Come in."

Cas pokes his head into the steamy bathroom. Walks through the fog and washes his hands under the faucet. Slaps some cold water onto his face while Dean stands there. Cleaner than he's ever been. Just. Watching.

"You're okay." Says Cas. Facing him. Beads of water clinging to his face and jaw. Hair dripping over his forehead. "You're okay, Dean."

Is there an echo in here?

Dean drops his head. Sighs. "Sorry. 'M meant to be takin' care of you."

Cas steps closer. Slides open the glass shower door and offers his hand. "May I?"

"You askin' me to the dance, Cas?"

"I've never danced in any formal capacity."

Dean snorts. Can't help it. 'Cause that just leaves the idea of Cas dancing in an informal capacity, which could mean any number of things.

Dean takes his warm, strong hand and steps out of the shower. Lets Cas enshroud him in a thick, fluffy towel and rub him dry.

"Talking about Jack seems to have this affect on you, I couldn't place why until today."

"That so."

Cas hums. "You feel responsible for him."

Dean sighs. Shoves the towel and, consequently, Cas' hand away.

"We established this, Cas. I'm not dad material, okay? I mean - just look at how I treated him before. Even if"- he cuts himself off. Curses. Wraps the towel over his waist and leans over the counter. Twin sinks. Did Cas put those there? Hoping, praying that one day Dean might be here with him? Or did Jimmy Novak's mother and her husband install them? Maybe they were built in by the Victorian-obsessed architect who designed this place, too nice for a guy like Dean to ever dream of living in.

Two broad, sturdy palms land on his back. Rub soothing circles into tense, rock-hard muscles.

"You are allowed to want to be." Says Cas softly. "Jack already sees you as a father. He knows there are cracks which need filling. Gaps in your relationship he is keen to bridge. They aren't lost on him."

Dean shuts his eyes. "Last time he saw me, I - I was a wreck, Cas. Drunk. Couldn't even look him in the eye. Did a really nice impression of my dad, let's just say that." He shakes his head. Doesn't dare meet his foggy reflection in the mirror. "I scared him, man. I - I really scared him off. What if he doesn't wanna come back until I'm outta the picture?"

"He wants to come back. He misses you." Cas' thumbs dig into the ridges of Dean's spine. Delicious pressure.

"How d'you know?"

"Because we've spoken about you." Cas says bluntly.

Dean huffs a humourless laugh. Disguises a grunt of pleasure in there, 'cause Cas knows just where to press. Just where to touch.

"'Course you have. You guys love to gossip."

"Dean." Cas reprimands. "We can talk about this. As much as you want. As much as you need. The subject of fatherhood is a raw one for you. I know. But it will feature in many of our future conversations. Especially when it comes to Jack. He may be God, but he still needs guidance, and I know yours is invaluable to him."

"Wasn't it you who told me I was teaching him all the wrong shit?"

Cas' hands slow on their descent down Dean's back. "Yes. I was - reluctant to compromise my own parenting style. And I resented you. I shouldn't have, because many of the reasons for my resentment were brought about by my own actions."

Dean nods. Remembering. Scars of old resentments twinging at the mention. He relaxes vertebrae by vertebrae.

"And now...?"

"Now I don't resent you." Cas reassures, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades, sending a shiver of gooseflesh along Dean's arms. "I can't. It's impossible."

"'Cause you enjoy fucking me too much."

"Because I enjoy loving you." Cas says, unwilling to let Dean be unserious about this. Even for a second. "Loving you doesn't hurt anymore."

"You are the knife I twist inside myself..." Dean mutters. Didn't really mean to say it outloud. Cas' hands still on his skin.

"You read the book I left behind."

Dean shrugs. "A page." 

“It’s ‘turn.’”

He turns around. Faces the man - angel - being - he fell for before he knew what love was supposed to look like. 

It looks like this. It looks like Cas. 

“The knife I turn inside myself,” Cas intones. “Not twist.” 

“Hm. It always felt like. Like twisting to me.” Says Dean, phantom pain panging in his gut. The blunt object making itself known, even though he thought he’d pulled it out. "Reading that… helped me understand you better. Understand us better."

Cas nods. Lowers his gaze. Reaches out and touches the edge of Dean's towel the same way he likes to hook his thumbs into his belt loops when he's wearing jeans.

"We still have a lot to learn about each other." Says Cas. Dint between his brow indicating dislike.

Dean smiles. Presses his thumb against it, causing Cas’ to frown deepen.

"Well we all know how much you love talking about yourself, Cas."

Cas fixes him with a glower. "The same could easily be said for you, Dean. Trying to get you to talk candidly is like trying to unspool the degeneracy pressure of a neutron star." At Dean's blank look, he continues. "It is very very difficult."

"So, let's start now." Dean straightens his shoulders. Yeah. He's a grown ass adult. Feelings and shit. They've done that. Passed the worst hurdle. This is just - sprinkles on top. "You're right. I. I do wanna be Jack's dad."

Cas' eyes kinda. Sparkle. Light up. In the twilight glow of the bathroom, the steam misting around Cas' face glows as his eyes do. Neon smoke.

"I"- he begins, breathless. Dean holds up a hand.

"But I am fucking terrified of becoming my dad. I - can't just jump straight into baseball in the park and fishing and - whatever it is normal, healthy dads do. I... I gotta take my time. And I'm gonna-" He chokes back the steady lump trying to put a stopper in his flow. "I'm gonna need your help. Just. You're gonna have to tell me when I'm being a dick."

"I can't imagine doing such a thing." Cas deadpans. Eyes still alight with suppressed joy. His lips curve into a smile. He tugs on Dean's towel at his waist. "Of course I will help you."

"So that's me." Says Dean. It's not the half of it, but this isn't therapy and they're standing in the bathroom. "Now tell me about your molt. Thing."

Cas sucks in a sharp breath. Ducks his chin. "I suppose it's only fair." He exhales. "Follow me. I... I'll show you."

*

Dean isn't surprised when Cas doesn't encourage him to get dressed. He’s barely ever clothed these days. So he sits on the bed in his towel. Grateful for central heating and Cas' Grace keeping him warm.

He is surprised when Cas undresses himself. Strips right down to his boxers, but no further. The air between them, for once, isn't charged with furious sexual energy. It's quiet. The lights in the sconces are dim. Evening falls fast, plunging the sky into an ocean of dark, cobalt blue. Casting the tall pine trees as long, black silhouettes in the dark. Dean watches the snow-laden tops sway gently through the arched windows as Cas' shirt falls to the floor with a soft thwump.

It's just past four pm. But they're further north than Dean's used to, and the night comes thick and fast here.

Even though it's dim, he can make out the slick shine coating Cas' back.

"Damn, Cas, you swim in an oil spill or are ya just happy to see me?" He jokes weakly.

Cas' shoulders drop. Head low. Embarrassed.

"I'm always happy to see you, Dean." He says in the saddest tone ever, which makes Dean regret ever trying to make a joke at all. He gets to his feet and moves over to where Cas glumly stands in the middle of the room. Reaches out and gently brushes his spine -

Cas jumps.

Dean swipes his hand back like he's had an electric shock. He hasn't, but he doesn't think he's ever seen Cas move so fast.

"Woah! What?" Says Dean.

Cas faces him, expression wrought. Hands folded against his chest.

"Sorry. Sensitive."

"I - I didn't know"-

"Because I didn't tell you." Cas says. "It's my fault. Just. Let me come to you."

Dean nods, still in shock, and goes back to the bed.

"You weren't this bad this morning..."

"I've made every effort to touch you instead of letting you touch me since I started feeling like this." Cas tells him.

And, yeah. What the fuck. Dean didn't say anything because he didn't wanna be a dick but there were multiple occasions when they were getting each other off only for Cas to skillfully move away from Dean's attempts to run his hands down his back. Clasp his shoulders. Anything around that area.

"You didn't mind me sucking you off last night." He comments, only slightly bitter.

"That's because my wings do not conflate with my penis in this dimension, Dean. They attach to my back in their corporeal form." He snaps. And it's all Dean can do not to giggle. Because apparently he's twelve and hearing the word penis said in any serious context will never not be funny. Cas scowls at him. "If you laugh"-

"I won't." Dean holds his hands up. "I'd never."

Cas' lips become a line. "This is extremely uncomfortable for me. It is not - custom. To share this. Molts are... rare. To share one with a partner is rarer still. Usually, the pair would have been an established couple for millennia before something like this happened. I - don't know how to conduct myself. Like this."

"Like you usually do, Cas. I ain't gonna judge."

"Imagine the skin on your arms was shedding, flapping off and flaking everywhere you walked, and everything you touched got covered in your dead skin. Do you think you would conduct yourself normally?"

Dean stops short. "Okay, yeah. You got me there. Just... come to me when you're ready. Whatever you gotta do, do it. I'll help. I'm not gonna freak out, man." Cas gives him a skeptical look. "I'm not! I wanna see your wings. They're badass."

Cas curls in on himself. "Not like this."

"I'm sure they are." Dean coaxes, using all his will to stay sat on the bed. All he wants to do is go over to Cas and scoop him up in his arms. Frickin' cuddle him for hours until he stops pouting. "C'mon. You can trust me."

Cas' shoulders inch down a mote. "I... yes. I know. I'm trying to convince the rest of my body to believe it. The wings have a mind of their own sometimes. When I fly, I let them guide me. I let them channel my Grace however they need. You've - never touched them. No one has. They're reluctant to be touched."

Dean crosses his legs on the bed. Tries to look as casual as possible. "Is that something angel partners do for each other? Touch each other's wings?"

"...Apparently so. I've never seen it."

And Dean, whose life has been oversaturated with touching - of watching others be touched - can't imagine what kind of a world Cas grew up in to have never experienced physical affection before. Even from afar.

And Dean's not just thinking about the sexual stuff. But the other shit too. The good shit. Y'know, hugs and stuff. Friendly pats on the back. Girls braiding each other's hair in the playground. Those fancy barbers where they give you a head massage before they cut your hair. Seeing your brother kiss his girlfriend goodbye before they part for a few hours. Watching a couple across the street hold hands. Just - casual touching.

Cas has never.

Before Dean.

He'd just... never.

'Cause he was a soldier.

Cas was a commander of a garrison, Dean. Gabriel’s voice echoes in his head. He was never meant to bond with anyone. Not even another angel. 

And that's gotta top the list of the most tragic shit Dean's ever heard.

"I'll do it." Dean says. So quiet only a celestial being like Cas would be able to parse out the words. "I'd love to touch your wings, Cas."

There's a line of oil running down Cas' leg. The whole room smells so strongly of honey, they could be drowning in it. It's making Dean dizzy, but he somehow manages to keep his cool. Manages to ignore the instinctual hardening between his legs, 'cause his dick's been trained pavlovian style to react to this scent now, so he remains stiller than a statue atop the comforter.

Finally, Cas turns to face him fully. Takes two steps closer. Dean gazes up at him. Every pinched line in Cas' face. Every tense bunch of the defined muscles in his shoulders and arms as he works up to getting closer.

He breathes hard and heavy. A fine dusting of hair on his chest glistening with a light sheen of oil. "I... have to. Get them out."

Dean nods carefully. "Yeah. Okay." It comes out a little breathless, but truthfully he's just fuckin' excited. He's wanted to see Cas' wings since -

Since fuckin' forever.

"I have to warn you..." Cas swallows, "I - don't know what I'll be like. In such a state."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean - they might. Reach out to you. Take control of me. I might not be. Myself." Cas says, voice trembling.

"It's okay, sweetheart." Dean reassures, clenching his fists so he doesn't lurch forward and take Cas in his arms. "I trust you."

Cas' expression remains twisted with worry. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

"I"-

"You won't."

Cas comes to stand opposite Dean. Looking down. Indigo eyes full to the brim of love and worry.

"I ain't made of paper, Cas."

"Sometimes it. Feels like you are. To me."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I can handle myself. C'mon. Get those wings out."

With a shaky inhale, Cas nods. Closes his eyes.

First, comes the sound.

A quiet, continuous shushing as layers upon layers of feathers as long as Dean's whole arm unfold from Cas' back. It keeps going. When Dean thinks it has to stop, it keeps going. Bigger and bigger, until two, huge black wings obscure the view to the door. A blanket of twitching feathers lays across the floor, curving up and up until they meet a bend and arc down to Cas’ shoulder-blades. 

As they unfurl, a few feathers - huge ones, tiny ones - float to the ground. One lands on the blanket beside Dean. His hand moves to touch it, but he stops himself last second as the inky feathers rearrange themselves.

Fully unfurled, they nearly fill the entire room. Cas can't spread them out - he'd need a bigger space for that - but the scale of them is still obvious like this.

Bigger than Dean imagined. So black they seem to pull in the light surrounding them. It's only the tips of his wings which differ from the rest. It's like they've been dipped in molten, iridescent gold. They refract the dim, yellow light as they move and catch it, sending arcing beams across the room. Casting curves of gold on the wall and the ceiling. 

There's a sound like waves washing up on the shore as the wings shiver, sending a few more feathers floating in all directions before they settle, framing Cas in soft, black splendour.

"Holy sh..." Says Dean. Craning his neck to take in the full breadth of them.

Cas opens his eyes. They're glassy. Glowing gold and blue. He fixes Dean with the full intensity of his gaze.

"I know they're not”- Cas whispers, “-they're ugly. Like this."

Dean nearly chokes on air. "Ugly? Cas, they're - they're fucking beautiful."

As beautiful as Cas is. As magnificent and mysterious and unfathomable as the angel himself. And Dean doesn't know why he's crying. It's crazy. Tears just - spring up in his eyes. Completely unbidden. Spill down his face without a sound. He couldn't stop them if he tried. For once, he doesn't wipe them away or try to hide them. Doesn't dare to - just in case the wings disappear in the second it takes for him to close his eyes. He could watch them forever.

They move independently of one another. A twitch here. A shiver of feathers there. Rustling about. Restless.

They bring the potent scent of thunder. Of the forest after a heavy rain. Stronger than ever before. 

Dean measures his breathing. "Cas?"

Cas' eyes are far away. "I'm here."

"How... how are you feeling?"

"Different." His voice is deep. Smooth. Short. Like a really fucking good cognac.

His wings move as one. Curve inward towards the bed. The tips of both arc in a semi circle around the room. Behind Dean. Then - on the bed. He doesn't dare turn around to watch. This moment feels like balancing on a tightrope. Like if he makes one wrong move, Cas will run (fly) away from him.

There's the whisper of feathers against cotton as the feather tips inch closer. Hesitant. Wary of Dean, as he is of them.

All the while, the rest of his wings follow suit. Arching high over Cas' head to facilitate the reaching movement. Bending around the bed, entombing them both in an open, feathery dome.

The rest of Cas is just. Still. His arms hang limply by his sides. Breathing deeply and softly like he’s asleep. Head cocked a little to the side as his eyes remain poised on Dean. He's someplace else, Dean thinks. AFK. Inside his wings or the celestial plane or just. In a trance.

"Cas..." Dean whispers. Half in awe, half in concern. "Can you still talk?"

"...Yes." His lips hardly move. He's barely audible.

Message received.

This is gonna be a non-verbal venture.

“I’m here.” Dean reassures, blinking rapidly through the tears. “I’m here, Cas. I love you. You can trust me.” 

It’s with herculean effort that Dean remains still as one of the wing tips brush against him. His thigh. He glances down. Watches the golden quill lightly stroke up and along the exposed bit of skin where the towel has come loose. The same thing happens on the other side.

“...off…” Dean looks up. Cas frowns in consternation. His mouth moves. “Off… please…” 

The feathers by Dean’s sides hover over the towel. 

Oh!

With as unhurried and unpanicked of an air as possible, Dean shimmies out of the towel around his waist and lets it fall to the floor. Fully naked, he sits upright on the bed. Ramrod straight. And the wings come to him. 

Now, the tips of the feathers drag all the way up from his ankles to his hips. They leave a tingle of electricity in their wake. Heat and ecstatic sensation embedded in the uppermost layer of his skin. Intense, unfiltered Grace from the barest touch. 

Dean bites his lip hard to stop from making any noise as the sensations spread like Cas’ oil across his skin. He feels like he’s submerged both his legs in a pool of pure Grace. 

The wings shush and rustle. Feathery tips cross at the small of Dean’s back, coming together like Cas’ thumbs did when he was massaging him. The wings shine with an enticing lustre, lacquered in oil. Seemingly urged by their movements, Cas takes a step closer. Both his knees bump against the mattress. 

More feathers make contact with Dean’s back as they stroke up and along his spine. Careful. Light and probing, but wonderful and full of sensation all the same. Dean closes his eyes as the electric sense of Grace overwhelms him. Drops his chin against his chest and sighs, long and heavy. 

Weight against his shoulders. The wings pull him in. Enclose him in a stormcloud of Cas’ embrace. Dean lets himself be moved. Lets the wing tips begin to explore the front of him. His abdomen. Chest. They align along his neck. Tip back his chin and softly brush over his lips and eyelids. 

Cas kneels on the bed. Closer. 

Dean employs the last of his resolve to keep his hands to himself. Needs to let Cas come to him. But, fuck. It’s hard. He is unfathomably beautiful. The kind of beauty that used to scare Dean. Blind him. Make him nauseous and weak and bitter. Resentful of his own shortcomings. 

Now it feels damn near impossible not to reach out and touch.

But he refrains. For Cas. 

Cas sways an inch toward Dean. Eyes open and wide and alight with Grace. His wings tighten, dense, across Dean’s shoulders. Wrapping themselves around him. Caressing freely now. Emboldened by Dean’s reactions. 

They feel like warm water. Like the best sleep of Dean’s life. Like sunshine on his face and long days ahead with no solid plans. The world at his feet. 

“Dean…” Says Cas, inches from Dean’s face. His voice echoes. Replicating itself - layers and layers of his voice reverberating around the room. “Touch me.” He says. His whisper mingles with the shush of feathers. “Please…” 

“God, yes.” Says Dean, ‘cause absolutely yes. Finally. 

Rather than diving straight for the feathers he so desperately wants to get his hands into, Dean reaches out and touches Cas’ waist. 

His wings seize. Shiver. Every muscle in his abdomen tenses and he lets out a long, low groan. 

“Y’okay?” Dean breathes, hands hovering over hot skin. 

Cas nods. “Yes…” He tips his head forward. Presses their foreheads together. Closes his eyes - not that it makes much difference. His eyelids glow. Light up the wing-globe they’re encased inside now. “I feel… exposed… but…” His hands twitch by his sides. Clench and unclench. His wings breathe with him. Rising. Falling. Sounds just like how Dean always imagined the ocean. “Feels… right…” Cas manages. Words seemingly coming to him with some difficulty. 

Dean braves it and strokes up and along Cas’ sides. The solid line of his waist. Cas makes a noise through clenched teeth. Tenses and gasps but doesn’t move away. Dean curves his fingers over Cas’ shoulders. 

“Can I?” 

Cas nods. 

Dean reaches further. Heart slamming inside his chest as his fingertips make contact with dense, packed feathers. 

The noise Cas makes is inhuman. A choked off rasp ending in a groan, petering off into a sort of whine. He tucks his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, inhaling hard as Dean pushes his fingers through the shortest feathers at the base of his wings. The rest of the wings furl around Dean. Closer. Pulling him in. Pressing Cas’ body against his own. 

Cas makes breathy little pants against Dean’s neck. Each one carrying a small sound of pleasure bordering on pain. Dean would be worried if he wasn’t clinging onto him so tight, encouraging him to touch more. 

Dean splays his fingers, already so coated in oil, and isn’t surprised to find a few of the tinier feathers - just fluff, really - stuck in between them. 

“This good, sweetheart?” Dean murmurs, “This what you need?” 

“Mm.” Says Cas. Higher-pitched than usual. He’s basically sitting in Dean’s lap. Would be cute if he didn’t have two, godly protrusions sprouting from his back, wrapping around Dean like an anaconda sizing up its meal. 

And, yeah. Dean wants to be swallowed. 

He rakes his fingers through the feathers. Higher. Up toward the bend - the hard, cartilage-like ridge where some feathers stick up. Shivering as he touches them. When Dean encloses his hands around them - slowly strokes like he would if he was starting to jerk himself off - Cas bites down hard into Dean’s shoulder. A sound like purring, accompanied by a swift chattering of feathers, emanates from his chest. 

Dean freezes. 

“Don’t you dare fucking stop, Dean.” Cas whispers in a rush. 

Dean’s harder than marble - his dick trapped between their bodies. Searching for friction against skin and Cas’ boxers. 

And hearing Cas curse like that? God-fucking- damn. It never fails to make all the blood in his head run south. 

Light-headed, he continues his ministrations. The strange chattering noise seems to be coming from the ends of his wings, where the feathers are largest. But he can’t tell how they’re making that noise, only that it happens every time Dean squeezes a little or adjusts the angle. It gets to a point where Dean can’t explore any further. His arm span just isn’t long enough. 

“Hey, Cas?” He says softly, taking the opportunity to kiss the juncture between his shoulder and his neck, “How d’you feel about lying on your front for me, honey?” 

Cas hums. Dazed. Loosens himself from Dean’s grip and just fuckin’ flops. His wings rise, freeing up space for Dean to move around them and plant himself behind Cas. But like this, they’re at an awkward angle. One is nearly shoved up against the headboard and the wall. The other drapes over the end of the bed.

“Cas, I need you to turn around a little. Face the wall for me. Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart. Like that. Watch the - okay. Yeah. S’just a lamp. No biggie. We can fix that.” 

It’s deja-vu when Dean shimmies up the mattress and sits on top of Cas’ ass so he has full access to his back and, consequently, the wings spread out as far as they can in the bedroom. Only last time they were in this position, Cas was massaging Dean and Dean was pretending not to be attracted to him. 

Huh. 

With that thought in mind, he gets his hands right back in Cas’ wings. Addicted to the watery softness of the feathers and the ethereal sounds they make. Like before, a few start to come loose as Dean works his way through them. And in this position, he can start to see where the imperfections are.

If they can even be called that.

Some feathers, especially around the middle and ends of the wings, are bent outwards - out of formation with the others. There are a few patches on top of the ridges where feathers are missing altogether, and a layer of black, leathery skin lies exposed. But it’s so small. So unnoticeable that unless someone was, like, looking for it, they’d never see it. Dean can’t understand how Cas could ever call them ugly. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” He says. Meaning it more than he’s never meant anything in his life. 

Cas doesn’t answer verbally, but the smallest feathers on top of his wings fluff up and the ends shiver. Chattering like cosmic insects. 

Turns out that helping Cas molt is a full on work-out. 

Dean’s arms and shoulders ache to high hell by the time he gets to the tip of one wing, and he’s got a pile of black feathers scattered across the floor to show for it. 

When he gets to the gold ones, he stops. Strokes the tips of them against his palms, lightly pulling to see if any come free. They remain locked in place. As he suspected, these are new. They’re not bent or ruffled like some of the others were. They’re perfectly sleek and straight. The centre-vein acts as a hard, thin spine anchoring them to Cas’ skin. Wing skin. Whatever it is. 

Dean presses the feather he’s caressing up to his lips, and is rewarded with another wave of shivers and chattering sounds. And now that he’s up close, he can understand where the noise is coming from. 

The spine of every feather is metallic. Unbreakable and pin-straight (except for the bent ones). It’s more obvious with these gold ones because of how shiny they are, but every time the feathers shiver, their spines clack together like tiny, metal rods, creating this strange, but weirdly charming chattering noise. 

Heartened by the response, Dean takes a closer look at the black ones. At their obsidian spines; thicker at the base of the feather before thinning out into a sharp, pointed tip, rounded out by soft quills at the end.

Cas lies motionless on the bed. For all intents and purposes, dead to the world. At least in the human-like sense. Dean’s pretty sure most of his consciousness is inhabiting his wings right now, given how they react to him. 

“You’re gorgeous.” He tells the wings. “You’re gorgeous, Cas. I love you.” 

Another shiver. A chatter. I love you too. 

Dean smiles, his vision a little blurry ‘cause his eyes are welling up again as a peace like he’s never known settles in his chest. Makes its home there. He stretches and clambers over the bed to start work on the other wing before he gets too sentimental and dissolves into uncontrollable sobs right there and then. 

As before, the most intense physical reactions seem to stem from nearest Cas’ shoulder-blades where the wings start. Dean puts great effort into massaging that area. Even when all the loose, tiny feathers have come off, he keeps going, no longer phased by the stillness of Cas’ vessel. ‘Cause now the reactions are aaaaall in the wings. Shivering. Chattering. Locking up and twitching with every slow, thought-out movement of Dean’s hands. For good measure, he thumbs around the vertebrae on Cas’ vessel too. Massages around his neck and shoulders. Is rewarded with a muffled, but pleased sigh. 

Getting to the tip of the second wing feels medal-worthy. He’s exhausted. Every limb aches and he’s so slippery with oil he could probably slide a hundred metres on a smooth surface if he was pushed hard enough.

And it’s the best fucking feeling ever when Cas’ wings give one final, huge shake, dislodging one or two last feathers, before they settle down and go still. 

Dean stands up, breathless with exertion, and watches Cas reanimate himself. He pushes himself up on both elbows, wings rustling as he moves, and kneels upright on the bed, chin dropped down to his chest. He remains still for a good few beats. Just. Breathing. 

“Come here.”

Cas’ voice is.

Colossal. 

There’s no other word for it. It fills the space. Fills Dean’s head. A hundred voices. More. Every sound Cas could possibly make layered on top of each other to create this voice which isn’t human. Isn’t male or female or earth-bound in any way shape or form. And the language it’s - not English. Enochian. But Dean, somehow, understands.

It’s the bond. It has to be. 

Dean’s legs are numb when he steps over to the bed. Takes in the image of Cas, with his wings draped over himself and the mattress, like a magnificent, living cloak, sitting there. Waiting for Dean. 

“Dean.” 

Every hair on Dean’s body stands on end. His heart is a wild animal in his chest. Urging him to flee. ‘Cause every human instinct is warning him that this is a creature. A powerful one. And it could do anything to Dean it wanted, and he’d have no say in the matter. 

And ain’t that just the best?

“Yes, Castiel.” Dean breathes. Ready to worship the fucking ground Cas walks on, if that’s what he wants. 

In answer, the nearest wing to Dean reaches out and curls around him. Pushes him towards the bed. Dean allows himself to be coerced. Lets his aching limbs fall onto the mattress. Comes up behind Cas. Doesn’t touch. Kneels. 

Cas turns to him, then. His wings creating wind as they move. Framing Cas’ body in ink-jet black and tiny motes of iridescent gold. 

They’re eye-level. Facing one another. Centimetres apart. Sparks fly in the small space between them. Charged with purpose and possibility. Cas reaches out and wraps one hand around the column of Dean’s throat.

Fuck. 

But he doesn’t squeeze. 

His expression is unreadable. Distant and inexplicable. But the tenderness in his shallow hold is clear. He won’t hurt him. Not now. Not ever. 

Cas’ lips move. “Lie beneath me.” And his voice is everywhere. 

Dean doesn’t waste a second doing what he’s told. He leans back, gaze fixed on his angel, and relaxes against the blankets. 

Cas follows him down, hand unmoving from its place around Dean’s neck. Like a collar. Claiming him. His wings block out the light. Shine with their own. Shield them both from the unreality of the outside world until it’s just them. Them, them, them and nothing else forever. 

“Mine.” Cas says simply, before closing the space between them and locking his lips with Dean’s. 

It’s a deep and insatiable kiss. Filled to the brim with unchecked Grace. 

Dean moans into the kiss and throws his arms around Cas' neck, pouring every drop of adoration he can into it. Cas' wings chatter and shush furiously around them both. There's that purring sound again, coming from deep within Cas. A cavernous rumble which is far too deep to be housed in the vessel of a man. The hand wrapped around Dean's throat moves up to cup his jaw. His other trails down Dean's body. Another pushes into his hair, caressing his scalp. And another slips between his thighs, stroking up and in. 

Too many hands. 

Dean's eyes snap open, but Cas hasn't sprouted an extra pair of arms. His wings hold him up enough for him to remain poised over Dean. The other hands are - invisible. Hands of Grace. Cas has used this trick before, but never with such potency. The Grace would imitate a finger. A tongue maybe. Never - this much. 

Alright. Yeah. Dean can get down with this. 

The phrase manhandled has never felt so appropriate. Angel-handled, maybe. 'Cause that's exactly what's happening. Dozens of hands rake over Dean's skin. Massaging and stroking over every place Cas knows will elicit a reaction from him. 

Everywhere except his dick. 

Dean's trying to arch his hips up against Cas' before he even realises it. The lack of attention his dick's getting compared to everywhere else is maddening. 

He groans and half-heartedly fights against the many hands pinning him to the bed. Then Cas leans down and whispers in his ear,

"You remember your word? If it gets too much?" 

Human voice. No Enochian. Maybe Cas is more in control than Dean thought. 

Maybe he's letting himself be more angel on purpose. 

Dean nods. "Yeah... sixty-seven." 

"Are you saying it? Or confirming you remember?" 

"Confirming I remember." 

Cas nips his earlobe. Draws back and gazes down at him. 

"My love. So good for me." The Enochian sounds echo around the room. At once familiar and unfamiliar. The bond translates the words in real time, and somehow they have more of an effect in Cas’ native tongue. Lyrical, melodic syllables which collide and explode around each other in dimensions which don’t belong to this one. 

Cas must have incinerated his boxers or something when Dean wasn't looking 'cause when he lowers his hips down to meet Dean's, his cock's there. Hard and ready for him. Sliding against Dean's own in slow, tantalising thrusts. 

Dean meets him enthusiastically, grinding up and against him, seeking delicious release. 

But Cas is as cruel as he is kind, and he pulls back almost as soon as Dean manages to get any meaningful rhythm going. 

“Cas, please." Dean sobs. Unphased when Cas bends forward to lick up his tears. 

“You may plead all you wish, my love. I will not yield.” 

Cas sits back on his haunches. His wings flare and chatter, gold tips fanning out and touching the walls either side. Dean makes the executive decision to get Cas outside ASAP. He needs to see these wings as big as they’ll go. 

“Consider it done.” 

Without warning, Cas’ wings furl inward and enclose them both. There’s a moment of pure, pitch darkness where Dean’s stomach lurches the way it did when their dad was driving too fast when they were kids, and then Cas is spreading his wings again. This time, as wide as they’ll go. 

Because they’re outside. 

Dean’s gasp of surprise is breathtakingly cold. Icy air fills his lungs. His breath puffs out in misty, hot swirls as he exhales and stars glisten on a blanket of velvety black sky above their heads. 

Beneath him, the ground is soft. Warm. Cas took Dean and the whole damn mattress - blankets and all. 

They’re in a clearing somewhere - a place Dean doesn’t recognise. Middle of nowhere, he hopes, ‘cause anyone stumbling in on this scene would be profoundly and appropriately baffled. A naked guy lying on his back, hard as a rock, and an angel hovering above him, wings spread to showcase their full, spectacular breadth? Yeah. That’d make quite the picture. 

Right now though, Dean wouldn’t give a fuck - wouldn’t even notice - if someone walked into the clearing. Because Cas is just fucking awesome like this. Like, truly awesome, in that Dean is just filled with awe. All the awe. For this guy. This angel. His guy. His angel. 

The tips of Cas’ wings shiver. Vibrating and chattering until the gold ends blur. 

Cas himself is like something carved from marble. A demigod. Painted in oil. Glistening in starlight and bared to Dean, eyes beacons of blue-gold wonder. He kneels between Dean’s legs. Gazes down at him salaciously. With one hand, he begins to methodically stroke himself from base to tip. Deliberately drawing attention to how hard and ready he is for him. 

“Fuck… Cas…” Dean whispers. Aching to get a hand on himself. But he’s pinned. Grace hands have got him strapped down. He strains, his own dick heavy and dark with need. 

“You’re mine.” Cas intones, voice reverberating off the trees. Inside the canopies. Up to the frickin’ sky. “I will make sure all who lay eyes on you know who you belong to.” 

Cas’ hand speeds up. His wings arch at the bend. Shiver. His eyelids flutter and his plush lips part on a sigh as he comes - all over Dean’s stomach. His chest. Coating him with hot, thick come. 

Dean’s nearly disappointed Cas has come so fast until he sees how hard he still is. Nowhere near satisfied. Eternal libido and all that. 

The message is clear. It’s a claim. He’s marking Dean even more than he already has. 

With the hand he used to jack himself off, Cas reaches down between Dean’s legs. Slow, allowing time for Dean to protest.

He doesn’t. 

Cas works a finger inside him - easier, now that Dean’s got used to the feeling after half a dozen times doing this. But this time, it’s -

Deeper. More intent. Cas is working him open . Building up to something more. Dean lets his knees fall apart. Unselfconscious with Grace in and around him. With the wings shielding him from the view of the many eyes in the sky. With his heart hollowed out and full to the measure with love for Cas. 

He writhes as the Grace hands stroke up and down his body. One laves over his nipple, hard and peaked in the night air. But he isn’t cold. Should be. For sure. It’s gotta be thirty degrees out here. Cas is keeping him warm. And, hell. Dean thinks he wouldn’t even need to use Grace to do it. He’s hot enough on his own. In every sense of the word. 

Cas very deliberately isn’t touching Dean’s prostate, and it’s an odd - but not painful feeling - when Cas slips a second finger inside him. All the while, he’s stroked and licked and massaged by the Grace hands and tongues. Keeping him hard as stone and on the edge. There’s a warm, phantom wetness flicking across the head of his cock. Dean stares into Cas’ eyes when he feels it. Wills an answer out of him. It comes in the form of a suggestive smirk. 

Dean knows he’s so far gone for Cas he would have come ages ago. But the Grace keeps him contained. Lassoes the fuckin’ base of his dick like some kind of angelic cock ring. 

It’s perfect torture, and Dean’s pulling his hamstrings with how hard he’s straining with pleasure and need by the time Cas works up to a third finger. 

With the hand not inside Dean, Cas kneels forward and reaches out to rake his hands through Dean’s hair. Through their bond, Dean feels the love intended through the gesture. Love and reverence and such a deep, profound longing it brings more tears to his eyes. 

“I feel it too.” He whispers, moving against Cas’ fingers. Encouraging him deeper. “Take me, sweetheart. God, I want it. I want you so bad.”

“You have me. All of me. If I had a soul, it would belong to you.” 

“You do have a soul, Cas.” Says Dean. Throat tight. “I see it. All the damn time.” 

Cas’ golden eyes blur. Shining tears spill, one after the other, down his beautifully carved features. The shining liquid drops down onto Dean’s navel. Mingles with the oil and come. Should be gross. Just isn’t. He doesn’t care. Wants it all. Wants more.

Cas crooks the finger furthest inside Dean, and fuck. He sees stars. More than just the ones above them. They burst open in multi-colour fireworks behind his eyelids. Push a moan from between his teeth. His dick bobs obscenely between them, a pulse of precome shining on the tip. 

“Yes. Yes. More, Cas. More. Please.” 

“Call me what I am.” 

“Castiel. Angel. My angel. Please, darling. Please - fuck. Yes.” A litany of words and curses fly from Dean’s lips the more Cas moves his fingers. He doesn’t know how it can get better than this, and just when he reaches the utmost edge of his impending orgasm, Cas removes his fingers. 

Dean groans. Mourns the loss until he realises what Cas is gonna do. 

He lines himself up against Dean. The soft, blunt head of his cock pushing up against his rim. Catching on it. Dean squirms. Pushes himself closer. Cas doesn’t move.

“I need you to tell me yes, Dean.” He murmurs. Eyes dimming as the more human side of him peers through for just a moment. 

“Yes. Yes, Cas. I’ll say it a hundred fucking times just fuck me.” Whatever happened to shame? 

It’s good enough for Cas. He inches forward. Holds the back of Dean’s knees and grips him tight as he enters him. 

And it’s only a few centimetres but fuck - he’s huge. Three fingers felt impossible. This is - god. Shit. Nothing like Dean’s ever known. So big and so full and real - Cas bends his head and kisses Dean’s knee. Strokes along his thigh as he slowly pushes himself inside. The Grace hands have disappeared for now. And Dean’s grateful, ‘cause he’s so overwhelmed by just this. 

Cas’ wings are held absolutely still. Furled behind his back. Still reaching out, but in nowhere near as brazen of a display. They take the backseat while Cas uses the human parts of himself to enter Dean. 

They both gasp when he bottoms out, and for a second Cas’ eyes lose all their shine and he just stares at Dean in wonder and disbelief. And then they’re just two guys. Having sex. Making love. Connected and enjoying each other and - Dean shouldn’t be crying right now. Dean. Should not. Be crying. But he’s just so overwhelmed. With love, yeah, but also just so much disbelief that he actually fucking got here - got to a place where he could love with his whole soul and have that love returned. The tears just come and don’t stop. Like a fucking faucet. 

“Shit, Cas.” He sobs. “I’m sorry. Just - love you.” 

He’s got a whole dick in his ass and he’s crying. 

Instead of pulling out and stopping like he’s afraid he’ll do, Cas just leans over. Crawls forward carefully so they stay connected, and covers Dean’s face in soft, careful kisses. The bridge of his nose. His eyelids. His jaw. The corner of his mouth. His forehead. 

“I love you.” Says Cas, his own voice broken into shards. “I love you, I love you.” He repeats. “And I will love you for all eternity, Dean Winchester. My own, precious love.” 

Dean wraps his legs around Cas’ waist. Pulls him closer. Deeper. Holds his stubble-rough face in his hands and kisses him back. Forceful, hard, wet, salty kisses. There are apologies in these kisses. An outpouring of regrets. He doesn’t know where these feelings are coming from or - just why now? 

“I should’ve warned you,” Cas says softly in between kisses, “how emotionally draining a molt can be. For how much my kind have tried to fight it, we are creatures of emotion and intent. Our wings harbour eons upon eons of feeling. Every feather holds memories. Stories and sensations we’ve kept locked away. The highest highs and the lowest lows. By helping me with this molt, you were privy to much of it. To the most vulnerable parts of me. I hope you know, Dean, that no one has seen me now the way you have. We are truly and unequivocally bonded forever.” 

Dean makes an indiscernible noise. Buries his face into Cas’ warm, solid neck and pushes his body up against him. 

“Thank you.” He says. “Thank you for - I dunno - letting me in.” 

Cas smiles against Dean’s shoulder. Shudders when Dean pushes his hands into the soft, fluffy feathers at the base of his wings. 

“And you. For letting me in.” His hips twitch. 

Dean laughs. Face wet with tears. So full of elation he doesn’t know where to put it. Cas pushes himself up on his palms. Gazes into Dean’s eyes - his face streaked with Dean’s tears. He’s smiling. The kind of soft, all-loving smile reserved just for him. A little playful. A little sad. Just - perfect. 

“I’m sorry, but” - his eyes flutter shut for a moment, “you just feel so good, Dean.” 

Dean’s own watery smile widens. “You can move, Cas. Want you to.” 

Cas hums. Low and thoughtful and considering. His eyes stay shut for a moment as he draws back the barest amount before pushing himself gently back in again. It’s such an all-encompassing and huge sensation that Dean can’t help the quiet moan that leaves him. 

“Yeah… again…” He breathes. 

Every gradual thrust is agonizingly tender. The thrusts don’t speed up, but they intensify. Grow longer, until Cas is pulling almost all the way out and fully sheathing himself again with every move. Dean doesn’t know what’s better - the moment he’s fully inside or the second in between, when he’s about to push himself all the way back in. Dean grasps Cas’ feathers. Knows now that they won’t come loose, no matter how hard he pulls. Each time he does, Cas groans - low and loud - and the edges of his wings chatter. It’s fucking intoxicating. 

They go on like this for - fuck. Who knows. Could be hours. Dean can’t believe how good it feels. And it’s not just Cas’ cock rubbing up against his prostate or the way his solid, built body slides against his own every time he thrusts in or even the way his wings react to being touched. It’s all of it. The immense knowledge that he’s connected to Cas in every way possible now. That when they move together, as one, they’re both feeling the same. Communicating the same outpouring of love and adoration to one another with every movement. Every appreciative sound and quickly stolen kiss. 

Dean has been on the edge of spilling every drop of come inside him for some time, and it’s only thanks to the Grace that he’s been able to hold off this long. Or maybe it’s just - appreciating it. He honestly doesn’t know anymore. Thinks, somehow, that this would feel just as good without the Grace. It would be colder. Sure. But. 

Yeah. 

This is perfect enough on its own. 

“Cas…” He murmurs, again and again and again. “Castiel.” 

It’s the use of his full name which seems to get Cas going. His expression contorts in pleasure and he rises up to kneel on a moan. Grasps Dean by his hips and starts to fuck him in earnest. 

Dean gives a choked off cry as the angle changes and Cas’ dick pummels into his prostate. Hard and unrelenting. 

“Say it again. Pray to me, Dean.” 

“Castiel…” Dean prays for Cas to fuck the living daylights of him. Imagines every debauched thing they’ve done and wills Cas to unravel him like that ten times over. Cas gasps and Dean could swear he feels his cock pulse inside him. He drives into Dean - intensifies every jolt of his hips until he’s practically shoving him up the mattress. His wings splay wide - lock up and tremble as Cas comes inside him again and again, never stopping his movements. 

“Dean. The way you violate my name… transgress on all that which is sacred… you cannot imagine the profanity of it. My brethren would consider this a defilement of the highest order.” 

Dean manages to laugh - panting - seeing stars and colours he didn’t even know existed as Cas pounds his prostate over and over. 

“And that - ah - gets you going, does it?” 

“Yes. Fuck, yes, it does.” 

“Then I guess I just gotta keep praying, sweetheart.” 

That undoes Cas. Not the least because Dean immediately starts picturing doing this to Cas in reverse. Fucking him. Defiling him in the eyes of heaven. Getting his tongue in his ass and making him feel every way he’s ever made Dean feel. Edging him, bound to a chair, until he can’t come without crying. Smearing his wings with come. 

Cas shudders against him, emptying himself into Dean, his wings chattering furiously. And it’s this very image which finally undoes Dean too. 

His vision whites out as he comes, untouched, all over himself. 

The oversensitivity which follows is blinding. He suddenly becomes aware of every millimetre of skin attaching him to Cas, and of how deeply and thoroughly he's been penetrated. He whimpers when Cas goes to pull out. Wraps his legs tight around him and yanks him in close.

"Please." Dean pants, "Not yet. Not yet." 

Wordlessly, Cas remains inside him - keeping himself hard so he doesn't slip out, Dean realises. His insides feel raw and abused but it's - it's good. A good kind of raw. He doesn't know how, it just is. 

Cas trails the tips of his wings up and along Dean's legs, sending aftershocks jolting through him. It's too much. But he doesn't want it to stop. 

"Dean?" Cas lays over him. Presses firm kisses against his clavicle and his throat. Because light ones would be too much. Too sensitive. "Are you alright?" 

Dean nods. Groans and makes the mistake of moving his hips. Feels Cas move inside him and sucks in a huge breath of icy air. It helps. 

"Just. Can't." Real articulate, Dean, he thinks. Those two meaningless words don’t even begin to describe what his body - his head - is going through. 

"Let me hold you." Says Cas. He winds his strong arms around Dean's neck. Holds his shoulders and sits up, taking Dean with him. Cas' wings curl around them both, supporting Dean's exhausted body. 

As soon as he's upright, a warm trickle begins to seep from where Cas is still inside him. A whole fucking lot, actually. 

"Jeez, Cas." He mutters, "You didn't hold back, huh?" 

Cas laughs softly, his wings rustling and tightening around Dean affectionately. 

"Believe it or not, I did."

"Shouldn't have."

"If I hadn't, I would have killed you." 

“What, come in me so much I’d have exploded?” 

Cas draws back. Eyes shining, but cynical. “You know very well what I mean.”

Dean grins weakly. “What a way to go, though, huh?” 

Cas rolls his eyes. “It could be arranged.” His feathers ruffle and fluff up around them. 

Dean snorts. “Gross. We’re gross.” 

Cas shrugs a shoulder. And a wing. “I’ll take being gross if it means getting to be with you.” 

He’s such a sap that Dean can’t help but kiss him. Long and deep and appreciative. He slides in Cas’ lap, inadvertently angling him deeper. Dean gasps at the contact, but it isn’t unpleasant. He just feels impossibly, hugely full. 

“Dunno how I’m gonna let go of you.” He admits quietly, resting his head against Cas’ shoulder. A long, torso-length feather strokes Dean’s back, sending quivers along his spine. 

“We can stay like this for as long as you want.” Says Cas, kissing the side of Dean’s head. 

“Mm.” Dean hums. “Might be kinda awkward when the family arrive, though.” 

“Potentially. I’m sure we’d find a way around it. We always do.” 

“You’re just determined to bang me for eternity.” 

“Guilty.” 

Dean snorts. Snuggles closer. ‘Cause he’s a snuggler now. 

“I’m going to take us home.” Says Cas.

“Okay.” 

*

When Cas finally pulls out of Dean, it’s because he’s falling asleep. Wrapped up in arms and wings, he loses himself to the lull of Cas’ presence around him. But, yeah. Cas pulling out? It’s a shock. 

He’s startled by the sudden emptiness. The cold liquid seeping between his legs. He panics, snaps awake and clings to Cas for dear life. 

It’s dark in the bedroom. Nearly pitch black. Doesn’t help that his wings suck up all the light. 

“Cas?” 

“I’m here.” Cas hauls Dean in close. Touches him, and the wetness is gone. He doesn’t feel as - raw. But the gap is still. Obvious. “I’m here.” Cas whispers, again and again against Dean’s lips as he kisses him. 

Dean chases it, hungry for the company and the comfort. Can’t believe it when his eyes start leaking again.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” He swears croakily, rubbing hot, stinging tears out of his eyes. “The hell is wrong with me?” 

Cas soothes him. Runs his hands through Dean’s hair and along his back. 

“I think it’s the molt. It’s… imbued you with a multitude of emotions. I’m sorry. What are you feeling?”

“Confused.” Dean admits. Still hasn’t adjusted to the reality of being fully awake and empty. “Kind of. Afraid. I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

Cas cradles Dean in his wings as he cries helplessly. Like a fucking kid. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying. Cas soothes him all the while with soft, unobtrusive kisses. Strokes him with his wings and his hands in the heavy, dark quiet. 

“I took it too far.” Cas says after Dean’s sobs calm down. “I - I didn’t think. About - I’m sorry”-

Dean grips his wrist. Holds him still. “No, this wasn’t you. I wanted it. I really did. I just - I dunno, man. You’re right, maybe it’s the molt, but it’s also just”- how does he put it into words? That being this happy - this loved - is somehow the most tragic thing in the entire world? 

“Because you’ve never felt that way before.” Cas whispers into his hair. “You feel robbed of experiences you should have had long before now. You should have been loved more, Dean. You were made for a far gentler world than this one. It has loved you too little too late. Made you into something violent and volatile. Afraid to get too close.” 

And, yeah. That’s it. 

Hearing it out loud - a small, selfish thought he’s carried with him for decades and crushed into a black, bitter pearl in the back of his mind - just. Breaks him, kinda. It’s not the world that made me this way, he always thought, it’s just how I am. 

But maybe Dean didn’t want to be the ‘shoot first talk later’ guy. He didn’t wanna have to pick up the knife when no one else could. Claw through the days with blood under his fingernails and ash in his hair. 

He has been that guy. Always. 

And to be loved like this? To love like this? It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to learn.

Cas sees him through the next fifteen minutes without another word. Just holds him while he purges every last drop of water from his body through his eyes. 

“I’m so scared I’m gonna wake up.” He admits when it’s over and he’s reduced to sniffling, curled up against Cas’ chest. 

“You are awake.” Says Cas. Just simple, plain fact. Cas has always been great with those. And he knows what Dean means. It’s just - yeah. He is awake. And he’s. Okay. Dean lifts a hand and strokes along the bend of Cas’ wing. His feathers chatter. It makes him smile. 

“Cas,” He says slowly. Hoarse and exhausted. “I need to tell you what happened to me in hell.” 

Cas sucks in a sharp breath. “Dean, you don’t have to. I’ll always accept”-

“I know you will. ‘Cause you’re a frickin’ saint. But I need to, man. I - I can’t carry this around with me forever. If you don’t wanna hear it, tell me. But.” He swallows hard. Makes himself continue. “I’m not gonna be able to - be. If I don’t.” 

“Of course,” Cas says after a long pause, “I want to hear it. If you want to tell it. On your terms.” 

Dean nods. “I do.”

He takes a deep breath. Gets started with the stuff Cas already knows. Some of it he’d told Sam before. Bits. Not much. The first five, ten years. The rest… 

That’s the shit he’s kept to himself. The shit that creeps into his basest nightmares. Never thought he’d tell another living soul. He tells Cas, though. He tells Cas things he never thought he’d be able to say out loud. 

And it doesn’t heal him. It doesn’t diminish how fucking awful any of it was. But, yeah. Fuck. It helps.

Chapter Text

Inspiration strikes Dean when he's at the grocery store. 

It's January ninth. One day to go until Sam, Eileen, Claire, Kaia and Jack arrive to interrupt the peace. 

Peace might be a little too generous for how chaotic the days have been. Cas took Dean seriously when he said he wanted to help with decorating the house. From morning to night, he has Dean painting, fixing, building, fetching and carrying. And it's not like Dean minds. It's just that when it's time for them to go to bed, he's too frickin' exhausted to do anything. 

They haven't had sex since Cas' molt. And that's cool. It really is. There's been a lot of shit to do. But Dean would be lying if he said he wasn't excited for all the chores to be over. 

He's thought about telling Cas to shove it and finish the job with his Grace, but how's he supposed to do that when Cas just smiles, kisses him and makes his meals for him? Tucks him in at night and cradles him to sleep amongst the unbelievable softness of his feathers? 

Besides, Cas says he enjoys the 'human mundanity' of menial labour. Helps him regulate his time dissonance or whatever. 

It's sickeningly domestic, is what it is, and Dean hasn't even thought about hunting in days. 

There's something weirdly comforting about spending his days getting covered in paint - streaking Cas with it when he leasts suspects and busting up laughing when he fixes him with his most displeased, deadpan look, only for him to dump half a bucket's worth over Dean's head minutes later. 

Dean's nearly put back on all the weight he lost during his withdrawals. Cas makes him meals fit for a king, but thanks to his stomach shrinking to the size of a pine nut, he's still working up to his old appetite. 

It's been - 

Kinda perfect. 

And Dean wants to thank Cas. Somehow. Cas hasn't asked for it - hasn't asked for anything, but Dean just - wants to. 

And the perfect idea comes to him in the pets aisle at Sobey's.

Cas opted to stay home. The beams on the kitchen ceiling need a layer of varnish and they can't do that and get the hefty list of supplies they need from the store, so Dean volunteered to take the few hours out necessary to drive there and back. 

He turns into the pets aisle by accident. Gets side-tracked by the cute collars and toys and is struck with a wild idea. 

He darts around the aisle, picking up the things he - thinks - he needs, before flying around the store to get the rest of the crap on their list. Determined to fulfill his mission, he stocks up Cas' truck with the supplies and hits the road, punching in the nearest animal rescue place into the search bar on the sat-nav. Forty minutes of driving later, he gets there and asks to see the mangiest, sickest, most unwanted cat they have. That's how he finds himself face to face with a skinny orange tabby, her fur matted around the mangy patches of skin covering her body. Eyes crusty and red with conjunctivitis. 

"We were gonna euthanize her today," the rescue volunteer tells him sadly. "It was her last day on earth. No one wanted to take on a cat this sick. She has tons of issues, I won't lie, sir. They're all listed in the welcome package so you can let your insurer know."

"My husband's a vet. He can help her." He says. Not really thinking. Like, at all. His insides go cold. He meets the volunteer's eyes in panic. They're warm. Kind. She just smiles. 

"Oh, nice! Does he volunteer, too? That's gorgeous. Just shows some people really do care about animals. Your husband must have a big heart." She pats the grumpy old tabby's head. "You hear that, girl? Fate has other plans for you! It's your lucky day!" 

The orange tabby growls. Dean briefly wonders if he's gone temporarily insane, before biting the bullet and taking the long, crusty animal from the volunteer. She tells him he should get her chipped and what kind of food she's been eating - thankfully similar enough to the stuff he impulse bought from the store - before cheerily waving them both off.

Dean puts the poor creature into the soft pet carrier he bought and secures her into the passenger seat.

He starts driving, and the cat immediately begins yowling. 

"Alright, jeez! Hang in there." He tells her. "I'm gonna take you to Cas. You'll feel much better after. Trust me." 

She cries over his words. Meowing and howling, head thrown back. Gummy mouth bared to the world. She barely has any teeth left. 

"Jesus Christ." Dean mutters. Opts not to turn his music on. Doesn't wanna stress her out even more. 

She cries the whole way back. Voice petering off into pathetic mewls when he finally pulls into the driveway. He grabs as much shit as he can, opens the passenger door, and points at her. 

"Listen, lady. You're gonna be a nice surprise for your new dad. I'll be back in two minutes, okay? You've somehow survived this long so I'm sure you'll manage a little longer."

He shuts the door, muffling the tabby's displeased growls. He feels kinda bad until he remembers she's about to be spoiled to the high heavens. He makes his way indoors, the word husband, husband, husband reverberating around his head like church bells. 

The hell was he thinking? Domestic bliss is going to his head. 

Shaking himself off, he dumps the bags not containing grocery stuff and cat stuff in the hallway and heads for the kitchen. 

Cas is sitting, waiting for him, at the kitchen island. Hands wrapped around a steaming coffee mug. Eyes closed. The very picture of serenity. 

"Hey, sweetheart." Says Dean. His ice-bitten lips meeting Cas' for a peck which, inevitably, lingers into something more. Dean wouldn't go so far as to say he's chronically sexually frustrated, but the twinge deep in his abdomen that comes from kissing Cas is getting harder to dismiss. 

Cas pulls away, a knowing glint in his eyes. 

"Hello, Dean. How was your trip?" 

Dean gives a one-shouldered shrug and places the bags on top of the island, unpacking them as casually as he can. Heart thudding with anticipation 'cause what the hell. He just got a cat. A really gross cat. What if Cas hates it? 

Cas tilts his head.

Loud thoughts. Shit. He thinks about being horny instead.

Cas smirks. Smug bastard. 

"Yeah, it was okay." Says Dean. Trying to sound bored as he unpacks each item. His hand closes around the blue collar he ended up choosing. He takes it out and places it right in front of Cas. 

Cas goes to take a sip of coffee. Pauses. Blinks down at it. Looks back up at Dean, both eyebrows raised. 

"Dean?" 

Dean takes out a bag of pet food. Puts it down next to the collar. Cas' expression changes almost instantly into one of disbelieving hope. He sits up straight, eyes alight. 

Dean grins. 'Cause no one's allowed to be that cute. "C'mon." He says, offering a hand to Cas. "Want you to meet someone." 

Introducing Cas to the cat makes him start to understand where the whole hype around gift-giving season comes from, because when Dean opens the passenger door to reveal the imprisoned, mewling, mangy beast, Cas gasps so loud he nearly jumps. 

He glances back at Dean, exhilaration barely contained. 

"Go ahead. Take her." Dean encourages. "She's for you." 

Cas looks like he might cry. "Are you...? Dean. Are you serious?" 

"Yeah!" Dean laughs. "Take the damn cat already, she's goin' nuts." 

As soon as Cas takes her in his arms, she stops crying to gaze up at him warily. 

"She's cold." Cas murmurs. "And she's hungry and needs to relieve herself. Let's get her inside." 

"You can talk to that thing?" 

The cat meows cantankerously at Dean. 

"She senses the scathing tone in your voice." Cas chastises him. Not that there's any heat in it. He's over the frickin' moon. "She wishes to remind you that she's a creature of dignity. Humans worshipped her kind once. You'd do well to adopt the same mindset." He smiles at Dean. "Her words, not mine." 

Dean groans. "You can communicate with the damn cat. Of course. Why did I do this again?" 

"Because you're the most wonderful man I've ever met and you love me?" Still clutching the smelly cat in his arms, Cas turns his head and kisses Dean hard on the mouth. 

"You got me there." Says Dean, before following a very excited Cas and a very wriggly cat into the house. 

They set up her food and water bowls, cat tree, scratching posts and litter-box. She prefers going outside - doesn't believe in pooping indoors, apparently. Dean makes sure to tell her directly he didn't need to know that. 

Cas lets her outside and closes the French doors. As soon as he does, his shoulders begin to shake.

"What? What is it?" Says Dean, coming up behind him. Alarm bells going off.

Cas dissolves into giggles. Nose all scrunched. Actual tears in his eyes. 

"I thought" - he gasps, catching his breath as the laughter takes over, "I thought the collar was for you."

Dean short circuits. "Huh?"

Cas turns and winds his arms around Dean's neck, pressing them close. 

"I thought you got the collar because you wanted to wear it. Have me put you on a lead and parade you about the house." 

Dean's face goes hot. "The fuck? No!" Scandalised, he tries to pull away. Cas doesn't let him go. 

"No?" He teases. "You don't want to be strapped to a leash and called a good boy whenever you behave for me? Wear a collar stamped with my name? Showing you're mine and no one else's?" 

Goddammit. Dean's entire body is on fire now. He blames the pent up sexual energy for how turned on he gets at Cas talking like this. 

"I - shut up. You're nasty. Just say thank you for the goddamn cat." 

Cas presses a soft, gentle kiss to Dean's cheek. 

"Thank you. I love you. More than you'll ever know." And then, "But if you do decide you want to wear a collar for me... you'll never hear any protests." 

Dean kisses him to shut him up. But he doesn't exactly say no. 

*

The cat scrubs up pretty well. Cas heals her - all the mange, conjunctivitis, rickety bones and multitude of other issues she's been having disappear completely - and her first few steps afterwards are tentative and disbelieving. Dean knows how she feels. Has been on the receiving end of this exact experience, and can't imagine what a relief it must be to be able to see, walk and function again after who knows how long. 

Then she gets the zoomies. 

Dean's heard the term, but never really understood what it meant until now. She rockets around the house, feet thundering above them as she takes in the upstairs at top speeds. She climbs the curtains. Darts up and around every surface she can find. Meows loudly and happily as she darts around the corners. 

Cas says she feels like a kitten again. Dean pretends that doesn't make him severely emotional. 

After dinner, she curls up between them on the couch into a fluffy, orange donut and falls into a deep sleep. 

Cas strokes her thick, soft fur, smiling down at her. Besotted.

"Thank you, Dean." He says for the hundredth time that day. 

"Don't mention it." Says Dean. "Figured she'd complete the house, kinda. Normal houses have pets, don't they?" 

"Many do." Cas agrees, nodding. "She needs a name." 

Dean hums. Thinks. Glances up at Cas. "You open to ideas? She's for you, so you get first pick." 

"If you have an idea, I'd love to hear it." Says Cas. 

Dean, suddenly shy, glances down at his hands. "I, uh. I dunno. I was just thinking - after everything we've been through. It might be nice if we - if we called her Grace." He pauses. Swallows. "It is a name, so. Yeah. I dunno. But it's okay if not. It's dumb, so"- 

Cas reaches out and takes both of Dean's hands in his. Gazes at him. 

"I think it's perfect." 

"You gave me your Grace," says Dean, quiet in the low lit comfort of the living room, "so I guess I can give you this Grace. It's sort of poetic." 

Cas brings Dean's knuckles up to his lips. Kisses them. "It is."

"It's also ironic." Dean laughs. "She's been anything but graceful." 

"A life of abandonment will do that." Cas sighs. "Grace hasn't told me her life story, but I've gathered enough from the tidbits she's shared. She was afraid, when you picked her up, that you were taking her back to be mistreated. She says it happens a lot. Many of her kin befell tragic fates this way. She was lucky to have been taken to the sanctuary, but she was sure her time had run out. Even so, she expressed she was prepared for a quick death under euthanasia, rather than a cruel one at the mercy of a stranger."

Dean shakes his head. Frees one of his hands and strokes Grace's little head. Right between her ears. She begins to purr. 

"People are fucked up." 

Cas nods. "Yes. They certainly can be. But she's ours now. And she's free to do whatever she wishes. Right now, she's dreaming of living in the sanctuary again. It'll be a nice surprise for her to wake up and realise she never has to go back there again. You did a kind thing today, Dean." 

"For you." Dean shrugs. "I thought you'd - y'know. Appreciate this sort of thing." 

"I do. But you were kind to think of it." No one has ever called Dean kind before. It sits in his gut. All warm and fuzzy-like. Cas leans over and kisses him. Unhurried and adoring and tasting lightly of the chilli they (mostly Dean) ate for dinner. Dean expects him to pull away any minute. Rattle off a list of more things they have to do before everyone arrives tomorrow. 

He doesn’t. 

He deepens the kiss. Tangy and honey flavoured and warm. Dean pushes his hands into Cas’ hair. Thumbs along his jaw. Sharp stubble catching on the pad of his thumb. He’ll never get tired of this, he thinks. Never ever. 

Grace wakes up. Jumps off the couch and shakes, new collar jangling. She runs off somewhere around the corner. They both stop kissing to watch her go. 

“She’s giving us a minute.” Cas explains throatily. 

“That’s disturbing.” 

“She doesn’t see it that way. Cats are very private creatures. She wants to award us the same respect she expects from us.” Cas looks at Dean. Smiles. Casts his eyes downward. “I actually got something for you as well. It isn’t a… how do I put this? Family appropriate gift.” 

Oh, hell yeah.

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “No?'

“No, but it’s also - I was unsure. Planning this. What your reaction might be.” 

“Cas, I’ll take anything you give me.” Says Dean, trying not to sound desperate. But, fuck. He really wants Cas naked in bed again. 

Emboldened, Cas slides closer to him on the couch. “Would you be open to a surprise?” 

“You know me,” Says Dean. “Love surprises.” 

Cas hums. “Alright, then. Come with me.” 

Anticipation brewing, Dean takes Cas' hand and follows him upstairs. As he predicts, Cas takes him to the bedroom. He lets Dean walk in before softly closing the door behind them with a gentle click. He doesn't turn on the lights. It has that cold, mysterious quality to it. Reminds Dean of when they were doing this - before. 

Before he knew what the house was. Before he knew he loved Cas. Before he could admit to himself the sex was about more than just the Grace. 

Cas' eyes glow indigo-dark. 

"Are you ready, Dean?" 

Dean nods shakily. "Yeah, I'm. Yeah." 

Cas takes two steps into the room. Nearly chest to chest with Dean. Sizes him up. Looks into his eyes for a long, long time. The air is electric. Charged with more than sexual energy. It crackles. Hot and abrasive. 

He doesn't know if it's because he gets an inkling of Cas' thoughts or because he's just become so attuned to it over the years, but he instantly recognises it. 

"You been casting spells, Cas?" 

The corner of Cas' mouth quirks upwards. "Maybe." 

"Witchcraft, huh?" Dean raises a brow at him. "Should I be worried?" 

Cas' eyes narrow. "No. You should be inexplicably aroused by my ability to keep you on edge for so long. How many days has it been since you've come, Dean?" 

Dean swallows hard as Cas' voice drops a couple octaves. 

"Uh, I dunno. Four? Five, maybe." 

Cas smirks. "Four and a half." 

And then it clicks. 

"You kept me busy on purpose! Made me tired so I'd have no energy to - y'know." Dean accuses. "I thought you were just - really into the whole decorating thing." 

Cas chuckles. Sways a little closer, their noses brushing. "Oh, I'm into watching you decorate, certainly. I'm into watching you, period."

"Watching me sleep, too." Dean mutters. 

"Mhm." Cas hums in agreement. "I'd love to watch you come while you sleep. I've fantasized about it many times." 

Dean's heart hammers as his blood floods downwards. "There's a name for that." 

"Somnaphilia." Cas answers, without missing a beat. "I have it. For you." He furrows his brow as he thinks. "I don't think there's anything I wouldn't want to do when it comes to you, Dean."

And doesn't that just get Dean's imagination running wild. 

Cas' smile widens as he undoubtedly hears some of the snapshots running through Dean's head. 

"You are so giving." He murmurs. Eyes dark with lust, roving over every inch of Dean's face. "Your mind is a catalogue of perfect things. And you are so willing to share it with me. Sometimes I feel I could reach out and pluck a thought from your head. Make it come to life." He leans so close their lips almost touch. Dean wants to kiss him again so bad. "Maybe we'll try it sometime." Cas finishes, before drawing away completely. When he steps back, his hands are outstretched. 

"Get undressed." He orders Dean. "And when you're done, put this on." 

He hands Dean a strip of soft, black fabric. Dean winds it around his hands. Holds it up. 

"What is it?" 

Cas' eyes flash with mischief. "It's a blindfold."

Oh. Oh. 

Hell fucking yes. 

A spike of fear - just the right amount - flutters in Dean's belly. 

Being tied up is one thing, but having a whole one of his senses removed - one he's relied on to get him through some of the most dire of situations his whole life - is kinda terrifying. 

"It's not for the whole thing." Cas explains, "Just the start." 

Wow. He's really planned this out. 

"Uh huh." Says Dean, breathless. "Cool. Should I just"-

"You can put it on before or after you've undressed," Cas intones, "I don't care." 

And why is that hot? The flippancy. The dismissive tone. Like he doesn't give a fuck what Dean does, as long as he's ready for him. 

Christ, he needs to get laid. Stat.

Dean strips off. He's not graceful about it in any way, but he's beyond taking it slow. Just wants Cas. Wants Cas to want him. 

When he's yanked off his boxers and dropped them onto the clothes heap at his feet, he holds out the blindfold. 

"Tie it for me?" 

Cas' throat moves as he swallows. He nods once. Wordlessly moves so he's behind Dean, the warmth of him radiating out. Sends shivers down his spine as he takes the blindfold and carefully wraps it around Dean's head, obscuring his vision completely. Plunged into darkness, Dean's heart rate speeds up exponentially. He stands in the middle of the room, cold, the only warmth coming from Cas' solid form behind him. 

Cas inhales deeply. "Are you alright, Dean?" 

"Never better." Dean laughs. And it's kinda true. 

"I am going to touch you in a moment, and then you will hear the door open." 

"Isn't all this supposed to be a surprise?"

"Trust me, you want to be warned about the door." Pause. "I didn't want you to think anything was wrong." 

"No - yeah. Sure." Dean nods. Confused and horny all at once. A familiar combination these days. 

Cas' hands land on Dean's shoulders. A light, unobtrusive presence. His palms warm and soft and dry. His lips press against the nape of Dean's neck. 

"Even Praxiteles could not do justice to your form, Dean. You are perfection in every way imaginable." 

Dean has no idea who Praxiteles is, but knows it's high praise coming from Cas. He bristles under the attention, exposed and vulnerable and completely at the mercy of his angel. 

And then the door opens. 

Footsteps, even and measured, enter the room. Edge closer. Dean's breathing shallows as all his other senses become eerily heightened. 

"You trust me, don't you?" Cas asks against the shell of his ear. His body presses in closer, arms wrapping around Dean's middle. Caging him. 

"With my life." Dean answers roughly. The footsteps get closer. Who the hell is that? Every possible scenario flies through his head. An intruder. A demon. Shape-shifter. Vampire. Werewolf. Fuckin' - Lucifer. Each possibility rings high and foreboding at the forefront of his mind. He hasn't got a weapon. Hasn't even got any clothes on. 

"Dean? Breathe." 

Dean does. Forces himself to draw in a shaky inhale. 

Honey, rainwater and the scent of the forest fill his lungs. 

It's Cas. 

His Cas. 

Everything is fine. 

"I'm good." Dean insists. "I'm - shit. Fuckin' hate surprises." 

Cas laughs against him. Then he says,

"I know you do." 

Only, the voice comes from in front of him, not behind him. Which isn't possible because Cas is -

"I'm here." 

Cas runs his hands along his waist. And then, as the footsteps become unbearably close, he takes Dean's face in his hands. Leans in close and kisses him softly on the mouth. Dean kisses back - 'cause he's not insane - but he is profoundly confused. 

"Cas?"

"Yes?" Two Cas' answer at once, their voices filled with amusement. 

"Oh my fucking God..." Dean breathes. And then he shuts up, 'cause Cas number two is kissing him again while Cas number one runs his hands all up and along Dean's body. Mouths the back of his neck. His jaw. Between his shoulder blades. Cas two nips Dean's lips - the way he does when he's really, really turned on - before moving down to lick at the hollow of his throat. And it is definitely Cas. Dean reaches out. Feels him. The undeniable breadth of his shoulders and chest. His short, soft hair. Even the stubble is - exactly the same. 

"How...?" He begins.

"Later." The Cas behind him says as he kisses his way down Dean's spine. 

"But"-

"I have spread my consciousness over both vessels." Cas two pauses over Dean's nipple to explain. "Now be quiet, Dean."

Dean shuts up, but he sure isn't quiet. 

Cas' tongue and hands feel magical against his skin, and it isn't long before they work in tandem to shut off the part of his brain which keeps asking all the questions. It doesn't matter, he thinks. Cas will tell him. For now he has the bounty of not one, but two Cas' to make him feel good. And if that's not a wild surprise, he doesn't know what is. 

There's a faint rustle behind him as Cas' wings emerge, but only from the Cas behind him. The Cas in front is busy mouthing Dean's hipbone. One of his hands rubs Dean's nipple, the other placed innocuously on his ass. 

Cas - The OG Cas - groans with relief as his wings burst free. A sound he's become more free with every time he lets them out. He's likened not having his wings out to feeling like he's in a straight jacket, so naturally, Dean encourages him to get them out as much as possible. 

The rustling fills the room. Then, gloriously, the pleased metallic chatters as his feathers vibrate against one another. 

"Fuck, I love you..." Dean says as he's felt up from every angle. Turns out four hands can do more than two. Grace hands are great too, sure, but there's something so definitively tactile about having Cas' physical hands on him. Their broad roughness. Deft fingers knowing just where scrape and touch. 

"Can I look now?" 

"No." Both Cas' answer at once. And then, from behind him, "Sorry... it's tricky, trying to monitor motor functions for two vessels." 

Dean gives a hysterical, breathy laugh. "Cas... you got nothin' to apologise for, man. Nothin' at all."  

And then he (they) gets his (their) mouth(s) on him. 

Cas knows how much Dean loves it when he gets his tongue on his rim. Inside him. He also knows how much Dean loves the way he sucks his dick. 

But both? At once? 

Dean curses as he's compounded by an onslaught of ecstatic sensations from both sides. Cas two has his lips wrapped around Dean's dick. He's using both hands to grasp at his ass and get him nice and open so Cas one can get his tongue in there. Flicking against his rim in perfect synch with the flicks Cas two is performing against the head of his cock.

His knees buckle, and it's only by the strength of the two Cas' that he's held aloft. All weight lifted from his ankles as Cas one grabs his hips and Cas two retains a tight grip on his ass. 

Cas impales him with his tongue. A relentless back and forth as Cas two opens deeper for him. Takes Dean into his throat. And he can't see anything. It's black. Black black black. But he thinks if he looked down, he'd be able to make out the outline of his dick in Cas' throat. It's so deep.

Two Cas' kneeling for him. Using all the skills in their arsenal to give Dean the greatest orgasm of his life. He thinks back to a year ago and tries to imagine what the Dean from then would say if he could see this now. He'd probably pass away on the spot, actually. 

Colours burst in a kaleidoscope behind the blindfold. His sense of touch is heightened so much that he's dancing on the precipice of ultimate pleasure and overstimulation. 

He whines and keens. Bucks his hips and draws back with a hiss when it almost gets too much. Every sound and jolt spurs Cas on. He goes from pummelling Dean with his tongue(s) and his throat, getting him right to the edge of coming, and going so torturously slowly and lightly that Dean finds himself pushing his hands into Cas' hair. Pulling. Drawing him close. On both sides. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, Cas lets Dean come. 

With impeccable harmony, both Cas' ramp up the movement of their tongues against him. OG Cas fucks him with it. Cas two swallows him down deep and heavy, sucking relentlessly. Dean could swear he hears the moment his body explodes with it. Experiences every pulse as he comes down Cas' throat. Convulses around Cas' tongue. Loses control and fucks Cas' mouth(s) as the sensations take over. He doesn't know what noises he makes. Thinks he's lost the ability to process any sound whatsoever as every cell in his body dedicates itself to simmering with pleasure. 

When he's finally released every drop of come from his body, he collapses. Completely exhausted. Both Cas' catch him. Lay him gently between them as he breathes hard and fast, his heart punching almost painfully against his ribs as he struggles to regain a basic understanding of the English language. 

Cas' wings stroke up and along his arms. Dean jolts involuntarily at the touch, overcome with shocks of oversensitivity. 

"I love watching you like this..." Cas whispers as the tips of his feathers tease up and along Dean's abdomen, causing him to practically jump in his arms and whine in protest. "So out of control. Consumed by me." 

"Y'can say that again." Dean manages. 

Cas lets Dean recover for a while before he speaks again. Dean nearly forgets there's two of them before the other one says, 

"Would you like me to remove the blindfold, Dean?" 

"Uh..." Dean hesitates. Which is stupid. It's just. It's just Cas. But this is weird. Isn't it? Like. Not bad weird. Sure. But. 

Weird. 

And he's a little frightened. 

"You look like you. Right?" 

"Yes." Says Cas one. Stroking his hair. He leaves behind a tell-tale trail of oil where his fingers rake across Dean's forehead. "I look exactly like me."

"This vessel is human." Says Cas two. "I can't connect to the etheric plane and, by extension, my wings. I am just a consciousness possessing a body I grew in the basement. But this body is yours tonight, Dean. All yours. And I will do with it whatever you wish." 

Dean's buzzed. Completely faded. So he doesn't really register the odd twinge in his gut that comes with the explanation when he says,

"Yeah. Yeah. Y'can take it off."

Cas unties the blindfold. Lets it slip down from Dean's face. He blinks carefully. And there, in front of him, cradling both of Dean's legs in his lap, is Cas. Just how he knows him. Naked. Tanned. Blue-eyed man of perfect proportions. He smiles at Dean. Tilts his head. 

"Hello, Dean." 

"Hey, sweetheart."

The Cas behind him, the one stroking his hair, leans down with a rustle of wings and kisses Dean's forehead. 

"Hello, Dean." 

Dean laughs, insides turning to butterflies. "Hey. This is - kinda crazy."

Both Cas' look at each other. Their eyes meet. 

Dean gets a fleeting mental image of them kissing. Wonders what it would be like to watch Cas fuck himself. Weird, intrusive thought. 'Cause that's just, like. Wrong, right? 

"Why would it be wrong?" Asks the Cas massaging his feet. 

"It would only be taboo if we were related." Says the Cas threading his fingernails deliciously against Dean's scalp. "Technically, it would only be an elaborate form of masturbation," Cas two takes over the sentence, "seeing as we are the same consciousness. The same body, just duplicated." 

"Do you have to, like. Finish each other's sentences?" 

Both Cas' frown at the same time. Wince a little. 

"Yes. I can see how that would be disconcerting." Says Cas two. 

Cas' wings envelope them all. Soft and feathery and increasingly familiar. 

"So, what'll it be?" Asks Cas one. "We can do whatever you want." 

Dean doesn't like to choose. There's just - so many options. But he also feels like a bitch asking for stuff, 'cause people don't ask for special stuff during sex. They just - get on with it. Then again, Lisa was never shy telling Dean what to do. Neither was Rhonda Hurley but that's a whole other shit-pile of sex related issues Dean hasn't thought about touching in years. He always considered them exceptions to the rule. And now, Cas is just straight up asking him. What does he want? 

He wants to relax a little, he knows that for sure. Isn't quite ready for another earth-shattering orgasm. His nervous system can only take so much, Grace or no. 

Both Cas' smirk at him. "I could make you aroused again in seconds." He offers. 

"I know you could, but I... I dunno." Dean shrugs. Looks away. "Maybe I wanna watch. Like you said, with the uh. Yeah.” 

Cas’ wings chatter. “You’d like to watch me”- both Cas’ finger-quote - “‘elaborately masturbate?’”

Dean snorts. ‘Cause what the heck. “Yeah, I. Go for it.” He slides his foot out of Cas two’s grip and touches his heel against the hard length of him. “Sure seems like you need it.” Both Cas’ shiver at the sensation. Dean strokes up his cock with the arch of his foot, abdomen curling with heat as he watches Cas move his hips to meet the sensation. He brushes up a couple more times before removing his legs from Cas’ lap and planting his feet firmly on the floor. Cas stares at him darkly. 

“Dean.”

“Cas?”

Wings chatter. The air grows thick and hot and heavy with want. 

Cas (no.1) picks Dean up under his arms. Cas (no.2) throws an arm around his waist. They guide him to the bed. Settle him down gently, surrounding him with blankets. They kneel either side of him. Close. Indigo eyes trained on him, roving over every inch of exposed skin - which isn’t much now he’s tucked in nice and tight. 

“You gettin’ a good look there, Cas? Four-eyes over here, or what?” He jokes. 

“My true form has hundreds of eyes.” Says Cas one. 

“They’re nestled into my wings. My body. My heads.” Cas two chimes in. 

Dean’s eyebrows raise. “Heads?” They both nod. “Am I gonna…? When I - y’know - get to heaven.” He clears his throat. “What am I gonna look like, Cas?” 

Both Cas’ lean in close. OG Cas brushes Dean’s hair back. Still a little too long for his liking. But Cas likes running his hands through it, so he can’t complain. Cas two strokes Dean’s jaw with his thumb.

“You’ll look like how you feel. Your mental image of yourself.” He says. “With… a couple of extras.” 

Dean nods. “Wings… right. Can you see them right now? 'Cause I - I can't feel 'em anymore. They're still there, right?” 

Cas two glances at Cas one, who says: “If I were to go into the etheric plane, yes. I haven’t looked since last time. But I imagine they’re growing normally now that we’ve completed the bond.” He presses a kiss against Dean’s temple. “I can check any time you want.” 

Dean sighs, reassured. “S’alright. Just wanted to know.” 

Cas two places a gentle kiss on his cheekbone. “I’ll be with you, Dean. Through it all.” 

“I know you will.” Dean whispers. Turns his head and kisses him. This goes on for a while until Cas one begins to lick under his jaw. Dean quivers, oversensitive, and he pulls back. 

“Apologies. I’m getting carried away with you again.” Cas smiles, eyes flashing in the dark. “It’s impossible not to.” 

Dean just looks between them both. Not sure how to quantify the emotions running through him as he takes in the two vessels. It means something. He just isn’t sure what yet. But he knows he’s not ready for this to be over. Wants to make the most of  - whatever this is. 

After a short pause, both Cas’s face each other. Then, right in front of Dean’s eyes, they lean in and their lips meet. 

And it’s like - Dean’s brain doesn’t know how to process what he’s watching right now. Cas. Kissing himself. Reaching up and cupping his own jaw, just the way he does with Dean. Steadying himself with hands on his shoulders, wings flaring. It’s hot as fuck. Yeah. Obviously. But it’s also just - surreal. Dean can’t tear his eyes away. Mouth ajar, he watches Cas two run his hands down Cas one’s chest. Pausing over his nipples to massage and squeeze. Cas one gives a small moan. The sound flies right to Dean’s dick. It twitches in a valiant attempt to get hard again. 

Then Cas one is walking on his knees, closer to himself, pulling their solid, identical bodies together. Moving in tandem. Kissing with tongue - deft and skilled and so fucking hot that Dean actually gets lightheaded. 

Cas two breaks the kiss to mouth at the bolt of Cas one’s jaw, while Cas one reaches down and wraps his hand around both of their cocks, jerking in smooth, unhurried motions. Dean knows exactly how it feels. Can nearly feel it himself as he watches. Both Cas’s groan. Cas two grips Cas’ shoulders hard as Cas one throws his head back in a silent outcry of pleasure. 

Then, he looks at Dean. Flushed and lightly sheened in sweat, he smirks knowingly as Cas two laves at the hollow of his throat. 

“Is this what you want, Dean?” He asks, voice abyssal.

Dean nods dumbly, hand already moving under the blankets to touch himself. He’s not even at half-mast - this is just. Fuck. Insane. 

Cas’ eyes flutter closed as he begins to jerk himself (them both) faster. Then, in a motion so smooth and coordinated, he takes Cas two by the shoulders and flips him around. 

Cas two gets on his hands and knees, making sure to throw Dean a surreptitious glance as he spreads his knees wider. 

“Would you like to watch me fuck myself, Dean?” He asks.

Dean wraps a hand around himself. Squeezes. “Fuck - yes … God, Cas…” 

Cas’ wings arc - the tip of a gold feather trails along Dean’s neck and shoulder. Cas takes two fingers, glistening with oil, and slides them in between Cas two’s ass, rubbing lightly. 

And again, Dean knows exactly what Cas is feeling right now. Watches the moment his finger catches against his rim and slides inside. 

Cas two lets out a high, breathy moan. OG Cas’ brow is furrowed in concentration. He breathes hard and heavy as he guides his fingers inside himself, no doubt caught in the drift of a myriad of sensations. 

He prepares himself a lot faster than he prepares Dean. Already at the hilt of three fingers after just a couple of minutes. 

Dean struggles to control himself. Makes himself go slow as he jacks himself off, determined not to come again too soon. 

Cas pushes the head of his cock against his entrance. Gives Dean one final, knowing smile, and slides inside. His eyes flutter shut. Cas two groans, fisting the sheets as he’s filled with his own, impressive length. 

“S’that good, sweetheart?” Dean finds himself asking, squeezing the base of his own dick to stem the impending orgasm. 

“Oh, yes.” Cas one sighs, gently rocking his hips. 

“It does feel good, Dean.” Cas two confirms. 

Cas is gentle with himself at first, the way he was with Dean. Pushing in and out with careful consideration as his human double writhes beneath him, bucking his hips back into his dick. Then he leans forward and takes a fistful of Cas two’s hair, jerks his head back so his neck is exposed, and begins to fuck himself in earnest. 

Dean nearly loses it. 

He springs out of the blankets, pulling his hand off himself with a pained groan. Crawls the couple inches necessary to get his hands on Cas. On his wings. He digs his fingers into the soft, fluffy feathers surrounding Cas’ shoulder blades without thinking. 

Both Cas’ cry out. There’s a crack - an almighty shatter - and the arched windows fall out of their frames in pieces, scattering across the floorboards and filling the room with cold, draughty air. Snow flurries inside. Instantly melts against hot skin. 

Dean freezes, but Cas doesn’t stop. Not by any means. He cranes his neck backwards, releases his double from his grip, and wraps his hand around the back of Dean’s neck to yank him into a hard, unrelenting kiss. He fucks Dean’s mouth with his tongue, mirroring the rhythm of his hips slamming against Cas two’s ass. 

Dean runs his hands along the ridges of Cas’ oil-slick wings. Squeezing and massaging, drawing a litany of sounds from Cas’ lips. Cas breaks free to concentrate on turning Cas two onto his back for a moment, wrenching his legs apart and around his waist, before re-entering and continuing to drive into him at a punishing pace. 

“Dean…” He whimpers, twisting his head to kiss him again, “I want you to - fuck me. Please.” 

He doesn’t need to ask twice. 

Dean draws back so he can get a good look at what he’s working with. Premium fucking goods, his crazed brain supplies as he takes stock of Cas’ firm ass under his palms. Thick, solid thighs braced and clenched as he fucks into himself. 

Trying not to overthink it, he slides his finger between the cleft of Cas’ ass - exactly the way Cas does with him - and finds the soft, sensitive flesh of his entrance. Cas moans as Dean circles his rim with the pad of his finger. Familiarises himself with the shape, before experimentally sliding the tip inside. 

Cas two’s ankle strokes along Dean’s hip. He looks up and they lock eyes. Mistake. ‘Cause Cas is absolutely fucking debauched. Tears glisten in his eyes. He’s bitten his lip so hard it’s swollen, and he’s flushed from his chest to his hairline as Cas one rails into him relentlessly. 

Dean’s forced to breathe out shakily and close his eyes, dropping his head against a quivering wing as he tries to concentrate on fingering Cas open. He gives way easily for him. Doesn’t need anywhere near the amount of preparation Dean does. Cheater, he thinks loudly, drawing a breathy laugh from both Cas’s. 

When he can get three fingers in to the hilt, Dean withdraws his hand and prepares to enter him. Squeezes his ass and spreads him open. 

Cas pauses fucking himself to lean forward and allow Dean easier access. Braces himself on two arms locked either side of Cas two’s head in almost the same position he was in moments ago. 

Dean takes a second to pray about what they’re about to do - ‘cause two (or three, in this case) can play at this game - and aligns himself against Cas’ entrance. 

As soon as the tip of his cock enters, both Cas’ moan. It’s so tight. Hot and slick and better than anything Dean could have imagined. He adjusts his grip on Cas’ hips. Massages the lean meat of him, leaving marks against his skin, before continuing to push deeper. 

Cas follows Dean’s slow movements, pushing even deeper into his other self, eliciting groans from all three of them. 

The sound is almost as intoxicating as the sensation. Dean struggles to remain composed as he realises he’s fucking Cas. He’s fucking Cas. 

He takes the plunge and begins to move. Cas’ wings chatter and shiver. A cold wind blows against Dean’s back, but he doesn’t think anything could chill him now. Cas one bucks his hips back into Dean, and Cas two wraps his legs tightly around Cas’ waist and levers himself up to meet every thrust. 

“Holy fucking shit, Cas…” Dean manages in disbelief as he watches the impossible scene unfold underneath him. “Is this okay?” 

“This is more than okay, Dean.” Says Cas. Dean isn’t sure which one of them says it. And then, in Enochian, “I long to be filled with every last drop of your essence.”  

So, he wants Dean to come inside him. 

Got it. 

Dean begins to fuck Cas the way he longs to. Has longed to. For longer than he’d readily admit. He pushes his hands into Cas’ wings, holds on for dear life, and impales Cas on his cock. The slap of skin against skin fills the room as Dean drives into him again and again and again, bringing them both closer to the edge with every thrust. 

Cas murmurs inexplicable things as he fucks himself and gets fucked in return. Dean senses the inevitable pull of his orgasm drawing in fast. His body takes control, causing his hips to stutter.

“Gonna come.” He manages at the very last second, “ Fuck, I’m coming. Cas… Cas…” 

“Ah - me too. Dean… Dean!” 

His moans of pleasure become cries as Cas convulses around him. He chants Cas’ name through every pulse - sure Cas has enhanced his ability to come more than should be physically possible, ‘cause it just keeps going. Dean pushes his forehead against Cas’ trembling wings as he fills him up. Comes for indeterminable minutes. When he’s done, he slips out of Cas, falling to the side. 

“We’re not done.” Cas pants, catching him. “Not yet.” 

He places two glowing fingers against Dean’s abdomen and - oh. Look at that. He’s hard as a rock again. 

“Cas.” He whines, bucking his hips, throat constricting as tears blur his vision. The two Cas’s separate. Move around Dean, slick with sweat and oil and come. 

“I want you in every way imaginable.” Cas two whispers against the shell of Dean’s ear. 

Dean lies on his side, still coming down from his orgasm while another brews in the pit of his spine. His limbs twitch and jerk. Muscles ache. And it’s fucking glorious. 

Cas two lies behind him. Lightly bites his shoulder, while Cas one sits up against the headboard, panting hard. Eyes glazed and gazing at Dean with an outpouring of adoration. His wings splay out behind him, curling up against the opposite walls. Too big for the room. Clinking amongst the broken glass on the floor. Snow drifts across his face. His body. His wings. Flecks of pure white against true black. Like a starling. He’s the most beautiful and perfect thing Dean’s ever seen. 

“I want to make love to you without using any Grace.” He says heavily as Cas two massages and strokes up along the dip of Dean’s waist. Soothes his aching muscles - thumbs digging into his thighs and his spine. Kisses the nape of Dean’s neck. “In this form,” Cas gestures to himself, “Grace will always be a part of our relationship. I can’t keep it out. But I wanted to”- He casts his eyes down, and for a moment he looks so much younger. Like he did the day Dean met him. Cold, pale moonlight casting illusionary shadows across his face. Smoothing out the lines and the years they spent torturing one another in a hundred different ways. “I wanted to… see what it would be like. To have you. On a - human level.” He finishes, slightly embarrassed. 

Dean just stares at him. “You know I… I’ll have you. However you are. I don’t care you’re not human, Cas.” He sucks in a sharp breath as Cas two’s fingers trail along the dip of his groin. Tantalisingly close. 

Cas smiles at him. “You don’t have to reassure me. I know how you feel. But - I’m curious. Aren’t you?”

To see what it would be like to get fucked without Grace? Dean’s not really thought about it. Grace has been such an integral element of their relationship since it began. There were the times when Cas was Graceless - then human - and on some, subconscious level, maybe Dean resented him for it. Used it to sharpen the hurtful words he threw at Cas during those times. Because Dean didn’t value Cas without his Grace. Wanted to. Pretended to. But his addiction ran so deep it just - fucked it all up. He knows now it was the bond calling out to him. Sure. Whatever. It doesn’t make it any better. Doesn’t take away the hurt Cas felt when Dean beat him with his words. Made him feel useless. Worthless. Kicked him out. 

Old, tired shame rears its ugly head. Cas two pauses his ministrations as Dean sits up a little. 

“S’that why you made another vessel? A human one?” 

Cas gives him a sad, beautiful smile. “It wasn’t the primary motivator to be honest, Dean. I was not thinking innocent thoughts when I had this idea.” Dean laughs, relieved, but he isn’t done. “Perhaps, on some subconscious level, I needed…” Cas trails off.

“You needed to know for sure if I’d still want you without your Grace.” Dean finishes for him, the lump in his throat making the words come out as a whisper. 

Cas nods. The movement so small and unsure that Dean has no choice but to reach out to him. He pauses, arm halfway outstretched. Takes a deep breath and turns his back on this Cas. Angel Cas. Just for a minute. Faces the other pair of crystalline blue eyes gazing at him from where he lies, naked and mortal, on the bed. No wings. No Grace. Just - Cas. 

Dean touches his face. Watches as he breaks into a smile of such relief - such love - that he can’t help but lie down and kiss him. Soft, meaningful kisses. 

“I love you.” He tells human Cas. “I have loved you in every form you’ve ever taken, Cas. I know it doesn’t - feel like it. I know I’ve been cruel to you, and I’ll never fully forgive myself for it. But you mean just as much to me like this as you would in any other vessel. I just. I need you . Not your Grace.” 

Cas’ eyes fill with tears, and when he next kisses Dean, it’s wet and salty and messy. They grasp each other’s faces. Kiss over and over. Two human bodies pressing together for comfort and warmth. For the sheer joy of being together and in love - finally. 

The rest of the world fades away as Cas prepares Dean. Their lips don’t part for a second. Still slick with oil and, yeah, his own come, Cas doesn’t need anything else in the way of lube to open Dean up. Dean nearly comes apart just from his fingers. Manages to last until Cas gently turns him around so he’s lying on his side again, and enters from behind him. 

It’s perfect. Of course it is. ‘Cause it’s still Cas. 

Other Cas - Angel Cas - watches from the head of the bed. Utterly still. Crouching on his hands and knees, head tilted to the side, eyes narrowed and distant. Naked and winged and stooping like this, it strikes Dean once again how not human he is. How enlightening this experience must be for him. He remembers what it was like to be human, of course, but he - was he ever truly wanted as one? Valued as one?

Dean makes sure he is now. 

He gives Cas everything he has. Moves against him like his life depends on it. Refuses to come until Cas does - slowly thrusting in and out of Dean - kissing the back of his neck and saying his name over and over. 

When Dean finally spills over himself and the bedspread, mouth open in a cry of ecstasy, so does Cas. Angel Cas. Without a hand on himself or anything, he just - shudders. His eyes flutter shut. And then he comes as well, wings chattering madly, Dean’s name on his lips. 

*

After, they lie together in bed, and human Cas falls asleep. 

Cas uses his mojo to clean them all up. Readjusts the blankets and tucks them in. Dean turns his head from where he lies in the middle of them both to stare at the sleeping Cas. His plush lips part, whole face relaxed as he breathes deep. In and out. Hypnotic. 

Dean touches his face. The feathery ridge of his brow. 

“Thank you, Dean.” Says Cas to his left. Laying a wing over them all. An extra, feathery layer over the comforter. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one thanking you?” Dean murmurs, unable to take his eyes off the sleeping Cas. 

“I think we both needed something from this.” Cas says eventually. Dean nods. Leans over and pecks the sleeping Cas on the forehead. 

“What’ll happen to hi - to this body now?” Dean asks, “You made him, right? Alchemy?” 

“Yes.” Cas confirms. “I actually consulted Rowena”-

“Wait, Rowena knows we did this?” Dean nearly gets whiplash with how fast he turns to look at Cas. 

Cas smiles at Dean’s outrage. “No, Dean. I didn’t tell her exactly what I planned to do with it. Only that I needed some guidance on replicating my vessel. Her advice was incredibly useful. It took quite a while - a few days of work. Some hours while you slept. But it was worth it, I think.” Cas sighs. He catches Dean’s expression. Frowns. “What is it, Dean?” 

Dean swallows hard. Doesn’t know how to say what he’s thinking. Takes a minute to form the words. “Is he… is the vessel gonna… die?” 

Cas’ face changes into one of realisation. “Oh. Dean, it was never really born . It doesn’t have a consciousness of its own. Even now, the vessel is empty. I only left enough of myself in there to allow it to breathe and keep the heart pumping blood around the body. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I know, but”- Dean struggles. Makes himself look at human Cas again. 

It. 

Feels wrong. After what they just did. Calling him an it. Yes, it was Cas, but - maybe he’s just not - 

Maybe he’s too human for this. 

“Just. Please don’t burn it.” And that’s all he can manage in the end. Cas’ eyes fill with understanding, and he gathers Dean up in his wings. Holds him while he doesn’t quite cry, but curls in on himself. Around Cas. Thinking. Mourning every time Cas died. ‘Cause Cas might be alive here now, but he wasn’t always. And Dean can’t get the image of his burning body out of his head. 

He can’t watch that happen again. Empty, unconscious vessel or not. 

“I’m sorry.” Cas whispers. “I didn’t think this through.” 

“No.” Dean puts his palm against Cas’ chest. Steadies himself with the feeling of Cas’ heart beating beneath his hand. “No, it - I enjoyed it. And you were right. We both needed something from this. I just - maybe not again.”

Cas nods with understanding. “Would you like to know what will happen to the vessel?” 

“Yeah. I’ll go crazy if you don’t tell me.” Dean admits, even though his insides shrivel up with dread when he thinks about it. 

“I will take it outside,” Says Cas evenly. “I’ll occupy it long enough to take it into the woods, where I siphoned the energy to make it. Do you remember the conversation we had about energy? When I was trying to explain why we couldn’t destroy hell?” 

“Yeah.” Says Dean, “Kept talkin’ about cars.” 

He feels Cas roll his eyes. Knows he’s smiling all the same. “Yes. Exactly. Well, if you were to go to that place in the woods, you’d find a dead patch of trees. Dry, flaking bark… no pine-needles on the branches. I’ll take the vessel there and - disassemble it. All the energy used to grow the bones, flesh, skin, organs… it will return to the earth, and the trees will grow again. Not a single atom will be wasted.”

“...Oh.” 

“Does that help?” 

Dean draws in a long, steadying inhale. “Yeah.” He says. “It actually does.” He moves his leg. Bumps it against the sleeping vessel’s knee. It’s still warm. Not dead. Not gonna burn. 

“Thanks, Cas.”

Cas kisses the top of Dean’s head. “Of course, Dean. Do you need help falling asleep?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. I’m good.” 

Lulled by the steady rustle of Cas’ wings and the soft thud of his heart beneath his palm, Dean falls asleep thinking about how warm he is. How surrounded by Cas he’s become. How he wouldn’t change anything about him. How the Grace doesn’t even matter anymore. It’s nice, yeah. Makes things fun and interesting and it’s a part of Cas so of course it’s important on some level, but - Dean doesn’t need it. 

When he wakes up the next morning, the windows are repaired and the human vessel is gone. They take a walk in the woods later that afternoon. Cas takes him to the place where he took the energy to grow the vessel, and it looks just like any other part of the forest. 

Maybe Dean’s imagination gets carried away, though, ‘cause he could swear the pine-needles are a deeper, more lush shade of green here. And he’s sure he hasn’t seen snowdrops in any other part of the woods. But they grow here.

They grow here.

Chapter Text

Unexpectedly, the first person to arrive at the house is Jack. 

He doesn't knock. Doesn't pre-warn them he's coming. Just appears in the middle of the kitchen while Cas and Dean are in the middle of chopping and roasting veggies. 

"Hello." He waves from beside the kitchen island, where Cas and Dean freeze in shock. 

"Jesus Christ, Jack." Dean breathes. 

Cas doesn't say a word. Just puts down his knife and envelops Jack in the longest hug. Places a kiss on his temple and says, 

"You made it." 

Jack smiles. "Of course. I said I was coming." He looks at Dean. His smile falters for a moment, "Oh… Hi, De"- 

Dean hugs him. Doesn't think. Doesn't second guess. Just follows Cas' lead and pulls him into a bear hug to rival Jody's. ‘Cause he doesn’t hug him enough. Vows to hug Jack every time he sees him from now on. 

"Hey, kid." Says Dean. Determinedly not meeting Cas' eyes. "I'm sorry 'bout last time."

Jack hugs back. Squeezes with unselfconscious strength, skinny arms thrown around Dean's broad shoulders. 

"It's okay, Dean. I brought you something." He pulls away. Plunges his hand into his pocket and offers its contents to Dean. "Rice crispy treats. For you." He smiles. Dean takes the snacks. His eyes sting a little. All hot.

He sniffs. "Oh. Thanks, man. We, uh. We got something for you, too." 

Jack's mouth opens a little and he looks between Cas and Dean hopefully. 

"You got me a present?" 

Dean laughs. "Sorta, yeah. But we'll show you later. When everyone else has arrived." 

Jack tilts his head to the side. So like his dad for a second it actually makes Dean's stomach lurch. He wonders for the thousandth time how he was so unthinkingly cruel to Jack. So blinded by their situation that he didn't see how fuckin' pure he is. 

"You got me something from both of you?" He asks.

Cas and Dean share a look. "Uh, yeah, buddy. S'that cool?"

Jack nods. "Yes." And then, turning to look out the window. "I missed you." 

Cas' expression softens. Doting. Melted frickin' butter. "We missed you too, Jack. More than you know." 

Dean doesn't know what to say. So he clasps Jack on the shoulder and agrees with a rough, 

"Yeah. We did. S'been tough without you." 

Jack's face twists. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to help." 

"Nothin' you could've done." Dean reassures him. "You can't be in two places at once. You did the right thing." 

Jack sighs. Faces Cas. "It was hard. To do what you told me to." 

Cas nods, understanding. "I know. But you were strong, Jack. I'm proud of you." 

"Why?" Dean can't help but ask, wary he might be opening a big can of worms. "What'd you tell him?" 

Cas smiles sadly at Dean. "I told him he couldn't use his powers to put everything back to normal. That it doesn't work that way. He's like you. Wants to save everyone, regardless of the consequences." 

Dean huffs. "Right. S'what got us in this mess to start with." He mutters. Shit. "Not your fault, Jack.” He corrects. “It was my, uh. Bad influence." 

Jack shakes his head. "It's not your fault either, Dean. But I - I did what I could to fix it. Helped in ways which wouldn't interrupt the balance." 

Dean resists the temptation to roll his eyes. The frickin' balance. He knows, logically, Cas is right. But there will always be a part of him that wishes Jack could just snap his fingers and put it right. Wish world peace into existence. But, as Cas has pointed out during many of Dean’s world-related rants, doing that would alter what it means to be human. It’s not something that can change overnight. It has to be done in increments, so as not to completely rip existence into separate realities. Or something. 

Point is, it would be bad. 

Cas loops his pinky finger around Dean's. Tugs. 

"We're all okay now." He reminds them both. "We're out of danger, and you don't have to remain overseas anymore, Jack." 

Jack nods again, his smile a little tight, but Dean doesn't push the issue. Besides, they've got a monster-sized dinner to finish making. 

They let Jack help with the cooking until Dean notices he's turned the potatoes blue - "But blue is an amazing colour, Dean. It's so rare in nature. The poison dart frog uses it to deter predators!" - so he sends him off to the living room to watch TV and meet Grace, who's warily emerged from her hiding place on top of the fridge to see what all the fuss is about. 

They bond instantly, of course, and Dean can hear Jack wittering away to her, his peppy, guileless voice carrying through the house while Cas whips up a cranberry sauce. 

"What'd I do to deserve not one, but two freaks in my life who can talk to cats?" Dean quips. 

Cas gives him such a mushy look, and he's torn between flicking cranberry juice on his face and pushing him up against the counter to kiss him senseless. As it is, he ends up doing both, only stopping because the doorbell rings. 

The next three to arrive are Claire, Kaia and Jody. Dean considers the peace officially broken, especially when Claire thwacks him on the arm and reduces him to nothing with a withering glare. 

"What?!" He challenges. 

She points at him. "You know damn well what . I warned you I'd kick your ass for leaving us like you did." She narrows her eyes and gives him a once over. "But you look better. So I guess you're forgiven." 

Dean considers it blatant favouritism when she doesn't give Cas the same treatment. Instead, she pushes a parcel into his arms and orders him to go get changed. 

Kaia and Jody help Dean with the rest of the food prep while Cas changes upstairs. It doesn’t take long before they’re done, but Dean’s exhausted. 

Sweating after hours over the stove, he flops down on the couch beside Jack and Grace, who stretches out across Dean's lap, claws out, scratching into the denim. 

He scritches behind her ears. Kaia gasps when she lays eyes on her, and her and Claire immediately descend on the cat, cooing and stroking her thick orange fur. 

Jody stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised. 

"You got a cat?" She asks, amused. 

"Yeah." Dean shrugs. "So what?" 

"So," Says Jody, taking in the surroundings. Fresh layers of paint. Books crammed into polished shelves. New rugs and cushions thrown over every available surface. "You're settled." 

Dean's skin prickles. He shrugs again. "It's comfortable." He says. "Cas likes it this way."

"Hm. I'm sure he does." Jody winks, and Dean officially crumbles. He gets up. Slaps his knees. 

"I'm gonna check on Cas." Goes for the door but Jody stops him with a hand on his chest. Scowls.

"Where's your shirt, Winchester?" 

Oh, no. No no no. Not the shirt. "Where's yours, Mills?" 

She smirks. Claps his shoulder. "All in good time. Go tell your boyfriend to get his ass down here before your brother arrives." 

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, ma'am." 

The fluttery feeling remains as Dean vaults the stairs two at a time. 

Settled. 

Huh. 

If Jody sees it, Sam will. And if by some miracle Sam doesn't, Eileen will. And that means a capital-C Conversation is about to be had. 

He's been strategically ignoring the dread bubbling in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of having to face Sam today. Not just about the whole angel barrier thing, but this too. Settling. 

'Cause it's not exactly a settling down with the wife and kids (or in Dean’s case, angel-husband and cat) kinda lifestyle they lead, is it?  

He's mid-thought when he opens the bedroom door, only to be met with a sight that makes him think he slipped on the stairs and hit his head. 

Cas is standing in front of the gilt-framed mirror they thrifted the other day, wearing what Dean can only assume is his belated Christmas present. 

It's not a matching 'I Wuv Hugs' monstrosity. No. Instead, in big white letters on a black background, it just says: THICK THIGHS, BLUE EYES. 

And, yeah. 

'Cause not only has Cas seemingly wrestled himself into this form-fitting shirt which is at least two sizes too small, he's also squeezed himself into a pair of Dean's jeans. The stitches ain't gonna survive. Cas' thighs really are - Dean swallows - thick. 

"Jesus fuck." Dean says by way of a compliment. 

Cas turns to him with a grimace. "Dean. I think this shirt is a little small."

Dean takes two steps into the room. Mouth dry. "Uh huh." 

"And it didn't really go with my slacks, so I borrowed a pair of your jeans. I hope you don't mind." 

Dean takes another two steps. Closer. "Nope." 

Cas tilts his head. "Dean, are you"-?

He doesn't get another word in. Dean gets his hands on him. His mouth. His. Yeah. He just. Frickin' swallows him up every way he knows how.

There's a thud and a short, "uh!" from Cas as the air is knocked out of him when he hits the wall. He lets Dean kiss him. All messy, open-mouthed, indulgent fuckin'-gimme-now. Cas laughs into Dean's mouth. Sends gorgeous, deep tones rumbling through him. He tastes fucking incredible. Like honey and fresh, clean air and cranberry sauce. His body is solid and hard and perfectly contoured under Dean's hands. He hitches a denim-clad thigh around Dean's waist. Pushes up against him. 

"Oh, fuck you." Dean groans into him. "You can't - you. Illegal."

Cas laughs again. And that sound alone makes Dean crazy. It's better than the best song he knows. 

Cas grasps hold of Dean's shoulders and manoeuvres him towards the bed. He falls when the back of his knees hit the mattress. Cas straddles him, straining Dean's jeans even tighter around his solid, thick thighs. Blue eyes gazing down at him. His biceps bulge out of the too-short sleeves. Pectorals fully visible under the bold text. 

"Behave." He tells Dean with a smirk, making sure to grind his hips down at the same time. "We have company." 

"And you. You're." Says Dean, the image of articulate. "Too sexy. Can't go out like that." 

"No?" Cas feigns innocence. Glances down at himself. 

"No, you whore." Says Dean. "And if you want me to behave, get off my dick."

Cas takes both of Dean's wrists and stretches them above his head, lengthening him out. 

"Dean," he chastises, "I don't appreciate your tone. Don't make me punish you for it."

Cas must feel the way his dick reacts to his words. His perfect ass is right on top of the damn thing.

"Try me. Tie me up. Edge me for six hours. I don't care. I can take it." Dean murmurs. Rough with longing. “Want to.”

Cas smirks. "Hm, no. You'd enjoy it too much. But I could find other ways to torture you. Maybe I won't let you come for a week. Like we discussed." He leans in close, "Or maybe I'll"-

The doorbell peels, high and clear, throughout the house. 

Fuckin' Sam. Cockblock of the century. 

Cas pulls back. Hops off the bed and offers a hand to help Dean up. 

Dean brushes himself off. Debates how possible it would be to dunk his head into a sink of cold water before running down the stairs to greet Sam and Eileen.  

Cas smiles innocently at him. 

"You'd better answer that." 

*

Turns out Dean didn't need to worry about dunking his head under cold water, 'cause opening the door to his brother's face has pretty much the same effect. 

"Hey, man." Says Sam. A kind of smile/grimace slapped on his face. Clearly Dean's not the only one who's anxious. 

Eileen waves from next to him. "Cute place." 

Dean invites them in. Hugs them both. Sam is rocking from foot to foot and looking around the freshly painted hallway like he's never seen a house before. 

He hands Dean a six pack. "Here. Might wanna put these in the fridge."

Dean takes the beers. Stomach doing something a little funny when he feels the weight of the small, brown bottles in his grip. "Yup. Kitchen's through here." 

He leads them in. Is eternally grateful for Claire, Jack and Kaia's exuberance. Lets them yammer on while he shoves the beers into the only space he can find in the over-full fridge and hangs around in the kitchen doorway. Hands in his pockets. 

When he finally manages to catch Sam's eye, he points his thumb at the door. 

"Take me to my Baby. Need to make sure you didn't butcher her on the ride."

Sam rolls his eyes. Follows Dean out. 

Priorities first: Baby is fine. Looks like Sam put some extra work into cleaning her before they left, 'cause she's extra shiny for such a long drive. He opens the driver door and sits inside, inhaling the old, familiar leather smell. 

He taps the wheel. Gives Sam a thumbs up through the window. 

Sam climbs into the passenger seat. 

"You didn't seriously think I'd bring her back in any less than perfect condition, did you?" 

Dean shrugs. "I dunno, man. I was expecting the worst."

Sam laughs. "You always do." 

"Rich." 

Sam snorts. They sit in the quiet for a minute. Sam throws him glances. Opens his mouth to speak before slamming it shut again. 

"Sam. Seriously." Dean snaps, patience wearing thin already. "You can stop lookin' at me like that." 

"Like what?" 

"Like I'm about to explode any second or something. I've done my twelve steps, okay? I'm good now." 

Sam gives him a pinched look. "Yeah, Dean. I know." 

"So, what's the problem?" 

Sam stares at the house through the window. Old, weathered bricks. Tall pine trees surrounding the driveway. Forest-covered hills covered in a fine dusting of snow. 

"There's no problem. I... I dunno. It's just weird, isn't it?" 

"What is?" 

Sam looks at him. "That there's no problem. I - I find myself looking for them, Dean. Everywhere. Feels like there's always a cosmic frickin' disaster just around the corner, but..." he lifts his shoulders. "Nothing."

Dean nods slowly. Gazes out at the world. All white and pristine. The hunter in him can’t decide whether this is the quiet before the storm, or if the storm’s already over. Or if there was ever even a storm at all and they just imagined the whole thing, ‘cause everything’s just kinda. Fine. 

"Yeah." He agrees. "But we should make the most of it, don't you think? Who knows what's waiting for us out there." 

A contemplative silence falls. Heavy with all the shit they haven't said. And then,

"You forgive me... Right, Dean?"

Dean sighs. Closes his eyes for a moment. Baby's wheel smooth and moulded to his palms. "Yeah, Sam. 'Course I forgive you. I know you were - you were tryin' to do the right thing. In your way. I'm not mad. I'm just..." He taps the wheel. Gnaws at his lip. "You remember when you came back from hell? Watched me - livin' a life with Lisa and Ben?" 

Sam frowns. "Yeah?" 

"Well, after that, I... I always thought that a life like that - y’know, a normal one - couldn't be possible for me. For us. I didn't see a future that wasn't us. In this car. On the road. Forever. And then, last year, when Cas..." he drops his head. Forces himself to breathe. "I just - I didn't see a future at all, man. I couldn’t even try . Hurt too much." 

Sam's quiet. Dean can practically hear him choosing his words. Treading the eggshells he's learned the precarious route around over the years. The maze of complicated 'ifs' and 'buts' that lead to nothing but false hope and false promises. 

"And... now?" Sam asks carefully. 

"Now..." Dean takes his hands off the wheel. Sits back. Faces Sam. "Now I'm worried you're gonna blow your lid 'cause I'm about to tell you I don't wanna hunt anymore." 

Sam's mouth drops open a little. He stares at Dean. Blinks. 

"You... don't wanna hunt." 

Dean waits for the explosion. Or worse, the disappointment. Nods once. 

"You." Sam repeats. " You wanna quit hunting."

"Am I speakin' in tongues? Yes, Sam. I want out. I've had enough. For real this time. And that's not to say I won't help, okay? I know you still got your outpost project goin' on and I promised to help with that and I will, but"-

Sam begins to laugh. Just - bursts with it. Flops forward, mop falling into his eyes, and clutches his hand to his heart. 

"What's funny?" Dean demands, throwing his hands in the air 'cause he's spent a good few hours mulling over that speech. Wasn't planning on getting interrupted like this . 

Sam reaches out and clasps Dean's shoulder, shaking his head in disbelief. Huge, stupid grin on his face. 

"I spent the whole journey up here practicing what I was gonna say." He says. "I've been working up to convincing you to stop hunting for months, man. Ever since Eileen and I first noticed you were acting different. No, since before then. Since before Cas and Eileen came back. And I - shit." He laughs again. Looks back at the house. "I really thought we were gonna fight over it. Thought we were gonna have a huge bust up, because I was convinced you’d see me asking you to stop hunting as, like, sacrilege of the highest order." 

Dean exhales. Scowls. "Okay, but why the fuck did you think I should stop hunting? My hunts were goin' great until the whole bond shit." 

Sam's eyebrows take a hike up to his hairline. "You're kidding, right? It was killing you, man. You've been using hunting as a stick to beat yourself with since we were kids. And I'm not saying hunting isn't necessary anymore. 'Course not. But things have calmed down, and there are more of us now than ever. You deserve a life Dean. You deserve - I dunno - stability. If that's what this is. You deserve to be happy." 

Dean suppresses the urge to argue. Reminds himself it was his idea to stop hunting. He doesn't need to convince Sam otherwise, 'cause he doesn't want to. 

"I am." He admits gruffly. "I am happy, Sam. Or - y’know. Gettin’ there." 

Sam's expression folds. He smiles at Dean. Maybe the realest smile he's given him in years. 

"Good. I mean it. Good. Stay happy, Dean. Please. And if that means moving to Canada..." he shrugs. "So be it." 

"Woah, who said anythin' about moving?" 

"You did. The second you invited us up here instead of coming back down to Lebanon." Sam gives him a skeptical look. "And you got a cat. You seem pretty moved in already." 

Dean can't argue with that. He snorts. Now that the dread's subsided, it's like he can clearly see what's in front of him. This place - so not what he'd have chosen for himself if he was alone - but so perfect for him and Cas. For this - thing they're trying. This life. Happiness. Could it really be this simple from now on? 

"So, um, you think Cas has forgiven me yet?" 

Okay, maybe not completely simple. 

Dean grimaces. Scratches his head. "Uh..."

Sam exhales. "I'm gonna get my ass beat." 

"Nah. Maybe just… don't try praying to him again?" 

Sam puts his head in his hands. 

"I just bought new bedsheets, Sam. Don't even think about pissing him off while you're in our house." 

Sam peeks at him through his fingers. "Our house? God, you're so married." 

Dean punches his shoulder. "Shut up. And get inside. The quicker we get on with this dinner, the quicker you can convince Cas you're not about to sigil his ass to Neverland." 

*

Cas' greeting is nothing short of frosty. He's in the hallway when they get back inside, bulging, tanned arms crossed over his ridiculously tight 'Thick Thighs Blue Eyes' t-shirt. 

"Hello, Sam." He says. Glacial. 

Sam audibly swallows. "Hey, Cas. We, uh. Got you a gift." 

Cas says nothing. Sam bends down to pick up the brown paper bag Eileen left by the front door and hands it to Cas, who pointedly does not take it.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Give it." He takes the surprisingly heavy bag from Sam's trembling fingers and reaches inside. 

He pulls out a terracotta pot planted with some plant or another. 

Cas narrows his eyes. "It’s an oak-leaved hydrangea." He comments, stepping forward to take the mystery plant out of Dean's hands. 

"Yeah, the guy at the store said that um. Bees like it. Or something. Thought you could plant it outside. Claire said you're building bee-hives?" 

Dean doesn't miss the excited flash which flits across Cas' face. He schools his expression back into one of cold neutrality when he looks back at Sam. 

"Hydrangeas also represent regret and repentance." He tells him without emotion. 

"I, uh. I didn't. Didn't know that." Sam stammers like a fish out of water. Flaps his hands and avoids Cas' eyes at all cost.

"That's a shame." Says Cas, before turning his back on Sam and marching off to take the stupid plant outside. 

Dean breathes a sigh of relief and elbows Sam in the side. "Okay. You're in the clear." 

"In the clear?!" Sam shout-whispers, "Dean, he looked like he was gonna smite the shit outta me!" 

Dean grins. "But he didn't. Nice move with the plant, by the way. He's totally gonna nerd out over it for the next hour." 

Sam just shakes his head, bemused, before following Dean into the kitchen. 

"You two are so weird." 

It takes a while to convince Cas to come back inside. He's scoping out a place to plant the hydrangea in the ground, grumbling about it not being the right season for pollination and having the wrong kind of soil here. Dean coaxes him back in by reminding him that other people are hungry, and if they don't serve dinner soon, it'll be midnight before everyone's done eating. 

Dean's ready to help himself to the haul they've been slaving over for half the day, but he's intercepted by Claire and Kaia (Jack trails cheerfully behind, carrying a purring Grace in his arms), who wrestle him up the stairs and into the 'I Wuv Hugs' t-shirt he'd unceremoniously shoved into the back of the wardrobe after he got back from hospital. 

He reappears at the dining table where the rest of the party are already seated, stifling laughs at the sight of him. 

At least he's not the only one in a dumb shirt. 

Kaia's got on her classic 'Pussy Wagon' number. There's Cas in his slutty 'Thick Thighs, Blue Eyes' one. Claire's, like Kaia's, has a picture of a hyper-realistic cat on it. Only this one is wearing a bikini and it just says 'Check Meowt.’ Jack's innocently reads ‘Bee Happy,’ with a picture of a bee flying into a flower (Dean doesn't need three guesses to know whose idea that one was). Eileen's has a huge, printed (and slightly distorted) photo of her own face on it, and Sam's reads: ‘Shawty Got Body’ on the front, and ‘Shawty Got Ass’ on the back. Apparently it's a reference to some shitty reality TV show him and Eileen have been watching. But the most perplexing of all is Jody's, which just has a picture of a shark on it and says ‘hawaii’ in all lower-case comic-sans. Claire finds it fuckin' hilarious. Dean's decided everyone's gone insane. 

A holy silence descends on the table when everyone starts eating, and Dean’s gotta say, he’s outdone himself. Well. They have. Cas picks at his food, but he seems to have taken a special liking to the cranberry sauce in particular, and it’s a good thing they made double the intended amount ‘cause he's eaten half a pot all on his own. 

Grace winds between Dean’s legs under the table, settling into her preferred donut shape on the rug by his feet. Beside him, Jack has arranged all his food into neat, perfect, segments on his plate. 

"Would it hurt ya to add a little gravy, kid?" Dean jokes.

"Yes." Jack replies, handling his knife and fork in his fists. Toddler style. "The molecules wouldn't fit together at all. The texture would be extremely unpleasant."

Cas nods gravely in agreement. Claire huffs a laugh into a bread roll. 

"Sorry for not taking the molecules into consideration." Says Dean, "Won't happen again." 

"You'll understand when you no longer have a need for corporeal food." Says Jack lightly. 

"That's kinda ominous, Jack." Kaia chimes in. 

"And morbid." Claire adds. 

"And true." Sam finishes. "How's that work, anyway? You get your wings yet?" 

Jody leans across the table. "Wings? What wings?" 

Dean blinks. Feels himself turning red. "Wait - how the hell d'you know about that?" 

Cas puts down the knife and fork he was (badly) pretending to use. "I don't think this is the right ti"-

"Gabriel told us." Says Eileen around a full mouthful of ham. 

"And Rowena's not been quiet about it either." Sam supplies. 

"You're the talk of the hunter network too." Says Kaia. At Dean's perplexed expression, she shrugs. "Ain't no gossips like hunters and angels." 

"Fuckin' Gabriel"- 

"So where are they? Can we see them? Are they pretty?" Claire plants her elbows on the table, grinning at Dean with an enthusiasm which, frankly, frightens him. 

“Slow your roll, Claire, y’don’t just ask a guy to see his wings. Take him to dinner first.” 

They all jump, ‘cause the voice didn’t come from around the table. It came from the set of French doors which have just been flung open, thrusting a chilly breeze on them all. 

“Seriously? No Thanksgiving invite and now this ?” Gabriel spreads his arms open wide with an exaggerated pout. 

Cas sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Sam’s still got his arm half raised, butter knife in hand. Eileen’s halfway into her pocket, reaching for her gun, and Claire, Kaia and Jody just gape in astonishment.

Jack waves brightly from beside Dean. “Hey, uncle Gabe. You want some sauce?” 

“Is it cranberry?”

Jack nods.

“Then, yes!” He lunges for the table, but not before Cas swipes the remaining pot of cranberry sauce and holds it out of Gabriel’s reach. 

“We have a front door.” He tells him haughtily. “Use it.”

“Or better yet, stay in the clouds.” Dean mutters with a scowl. ‘Cause he’s not quite gotten over all the shit Gabriel said in front of Sam. Y’know, when he outed Dean for being horrendously fucking gay for Cas and addicted to Grace, all in one fell swoop. Even though he maybe kinda deserved it a little. Even if he did save their lives the last time he showed up unannounced. How d’you stay mad at someone you’d be dead without? 

Dean’s had plenty of practice, so it’s really not hard. 

“Oh, c’mon, Deano.” Gabriel sidles over to Dean’s side, hooking an arm around his shoulders. “Thought you’d be a tad more chummy now that we’re brothers an’ all.”

Dean feels the bottom of his stomach slide out as he says. “What.” 

“The bond! The romantic declarations! Your eminent transformation! You’re practically one of us now. The next fifty years will fly by - ‘scuse the pun. If you live that long. And then you’ll be well on your way to”-

There’s an audible splat as Gabriel is silenced by a dollop of cranberry sauce flying across the table at inhuman speeds, only to find its home squarely in the middle of his face.

Everyone looks at Cas. “We do not talk about Dean dying.” He says sternly. Spoon poised and loaded for another shot. 

Gabriel ignores him and swipes a finger through the mess. Licks it. “This is good shit. I won’t lie.” He conjures an extra chair from nowhere and has somehow lengthened the size of the dining table to accommodate him, ‘cause when he scoots in beside Dean, there’s an extra plate setting there just for him. 

“What were we talking about again?” He says, wiping his face clean with a napkin. “Ooooh, right. Yeah. Dean’s wings.” He begins piling food onto his plate. “Y’see, when an angel and a human love each other very much”-

“Skip the talk, Gabe. We covered this.” Sam interjects.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and sits back. “You guys are no fun.” 

“We’re trying to enjoy a family dinner, thank you very much.” Says Dean. 

He gasps. Clutches imaginary pearls. “Now you’re just being mean.” 

“Uncle Gabriel is family, though. Right?” Says Jack. So genuinely confused it actually makes Dean feel bad. 

“In the technical sense.” Cas bites. 

Gabriel scoffs. “As if you didn’t come running to me for help the second you and your boyfriend had a spat.” 

Cas purses his lips. Says nothing. 

“Oh, boy. This is better than the Kardashians.” Claire whispers across the table. 

“And he did also help me a lot in Indonesi”-

“Jack. What did we say about secrets?” Gabriel interrupts, looking genuinely flustered for the first time. 

“ You were in Indonesia?” Says Dean, incredulous. 

Jack nods enthusiastically. “Yes! Gabriel was with me the whole time. Even when”-

“Jack. Do not make me commit nepoticide.” Says Gabriel through gritted teeth. 

“What happened to living it up in Bali?” Sam snorts. 

“Gabriel was never in Bali.” Says Cas. “As soon as Jack pulled him out of the Empty he began helping with the restructuring of heaven and the celestial planes. He was the first to volunteer, actually.” 

“Awwwh.” Kaia coos.

Gabriel, thoroughly put out, crosses his arms across his chest. “Like I said. No fun at all, guys. No. Fun. At. All.” 

Gabriel doesn’t leave for the rest of the dinner, but no one asks him to. And honestly? Dean doesn’t mind. 

After dessert, Cas pulls out a box of the weird Christmas cracker things he bought at Sobey's. Sam's equally baffled by them. But they're a Canadian Christmas tradition or whatever, so they each take turns grabbing one end of a cracker and pulling it across the table. Dean wins a small wooden ring puzzle off Jody, and a shitty little paper crown which Jack arranges on his head for him. By the time they're all crowned up, there's only one cracker left to go, and the only two who haven't won anything are Cas and Sam. 

Sam offers his cracker to Cas across the table, who resolutely folds his arms and glares. Dean's mouth waters at the way his biceps bunch up, exposed by the too-small sleeves. 

I could have you for dessert, he thinks. Deliberately loud. Cas' mouth quirks at the corner. 

None the wiser to the indecent telepathy taking place across the table, Sam wiggles the cracker at Cas.

"C'mon, man. It's your last chance to win something."

Cas sniffs. "I don't care about winning."

Gabriel snorts, his own head stacked with three paper crowns, all different colours. "Divine General Castiel, holder of the third trumpet of heaven, doesn't care about winning? Please." 

Cas scowls. Reluctantly takes the end of the cracker and pulls. A sharp crack echoes around the room, and Sam's left with the bigger half. 

He gives a sheepish grin. "Looks like I win." He tips it up into his hands to reveal his gift, but instead of a paper crown or a bottle opener, a black, fuzzy, eight-legged thing drops onto his outstretched palm. 

Sam's face is frozen in abject horror as the gargantuan spider takes a leisurely stroll across his hand, making its way up his wrist and arm. 

"What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck." He repeats in high, breathy tones. 

Dean's mouth drops open. Cas frowns. 

"This wasn't me." And then, under his breath, "Although I wish it was." 

Claire screams in delight. "It's a rose hair tarantula! So cute! Can I have it, Sam? Please?" 

Sam pivots his arm toward Claire like he's holding an active grenade. 

She scoops the spider up in both hands, cooing at it like it's a frickin' kitten. 

Slowly, everyone at the table turns to look at Gabriel, who's got his fist stuck in his mouth. 

He giggles into his knuckles. "Oopsie! Who put that in there?" 

Sam glares at him. 

Cas smirks and holds up his own end of the cracker, which has a bit of tissue paper stuck in it. "I got the crown."

Gabriel gets shoved on wash up duty as punishment for his crimes, while everyone else trickles into the living room. 

And this is where Dean finds himself at a loss. He doesn't know what to do. 'Cause Sam breaks out the beers, and Eileen pulls out a bottle of something golden and delicious looking, and then the whole room is filled with the scent of alcohol and chocolate and nice, dangerous things. 

Sam nudges Dean in the rib, offers him a beer. 

"Here, man." 

Dean takes the cold, sweating bottle from his brother's big, steady hand. 

Brings the smooth glass rim to his lips and sips. 

The beer slides down his throat. Icy and fizzy and everything he fucking loves after a long day. Then it sits in his stomach. Swirls around amongst the meal he spent all day cooking. Feels. 

Not good. 

Playing it off like he's going to the bathroom, Dean leaves and power-walks through the kitchen. Bottle slipping in his fingers. Makes it to the front door and tips the remaining contents down the drain outside the house. Sucks in lungfuls of chilly, January air and clenches all the muscles in his abdomen as he tries not to puke.