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Chapter Text

Castiel has little reason to ponder over or think deeply about particular human rituals.

At least, he has no ... useful reason, nor a required one, to think too much upon those rituals of a more emotionally intimate nature. Such things he will not, and does not, do; not in the least because doing so is what got him taken - no, captured, returned to Heaven and reprogrammed for the first time he can recall after rescuing the righteous man.

After gripping him tight and raising him from perdition.

I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You. They feel I've begun to express emotions.

The man in his charge had cocked an eyebrow at him, plump lips lifting into something close to a smirk. "Oh, an' they can't have that, can they, Tin Man?" he'd said with a slap to the angel's arm and a bite of his own lower lip.

He has little reason to believe Dean Winchester's teasing (at first or second hearing seemingly flirtatious words, as was his comment about he and Castiel apparently somehow being akin to a pair of humans named Thelma and Louise) is anything other than that. For after thinking on the words enough to register the possible connotations beneath, as much as the angel would be willing to act on any such suggestion, or impulse, with Dean had he requested, or offered, soon enough it becomes obvious to the angel that Dean is simply utilizing his -admittedly peculiar, to Castiel, as he so often makes references the angel does not understand- sense of humor.

And then they spend some time together. Just the two of them, with no one else. Dean asks what Castiel plans to do with his 'last night on earth' and the angel, with all the swirling feelings inside him that he was told would only get worse, does his best to quash them, push them down and bury them deep within.

I just thought I'd... sit here quietly.

But Dean afterwards said something about Bert and Ernie (Castiel briefly wonders about them, who they are, and why their sexual orientation would be known to Dean) before adding that Castiel wouldn't die a virgin, not on Dean's watch. And without saying much else in words after an introduction besides "go get her, tiger", prior to an interaction most people would consider a disaster, surely, between Castiel and a woman in a den of iniquity. AFTER the interaction, screams and thrown objects preceding Dean's tugging of the angel down a hall and out a door, Dean had laughed. Head thrown back, hands on knees, he expelled a truly uproarious burst of mirth that the angel holds inside as much as he does his feelings, or at the very least attempts.

Yet Dean takes off his coat for him, afterwards; hangs it up in their dark little room, the current room they are residing in, or that Dean is, rather - this man holds the angel in his arms after exhorting him to get in bed. Castiel obliges, feeling something humans might refer to as weariness, although his is more akin to...wearing.

Springs of mattress move as Dean also gets in bed, having discarded some of his own clothes as well. Letting Castiel know, he shifts closer as he notices tension in the guy's shoulders, how his traps are drawn up nearly to his neck. Placing a gentle hand on his back, running fingers gently back and forth before taking the angel's shoulders in a firm and rolling grasp, he whispers to the angel, "Easy, Cas, I'm here." He licks his lips and swallows before clearing throat and saying he's gonna hang on to him, if that's alright. Asking in a manner so gentle, almost tender. Carefully extending an arm and waiting to see if the angel is okay with that, and if he will respond.

As if anything in Heaven or on Earth, or within his being, vessel or not, could exhort Castiel to refuse Dean Winchester anything.

The angel nods, utters a quiet "yes."

And Dean, not needing to be told twice, presses his front to the angel's back. Entwines their legs as he practically nuzzles his nose, his face into the skin of Cas's neck.

The angel feels a brief damp touch, of what he cannot place, but then Dean's warm breaths skate over him, causing shivers (which makes no sense to him, though Dean, having kicked off boots and socks and jeans now has pinpricks of goosepimples raising his leg hairs and causing his body to shiver, too).

So turns Castiel, flipping himself over to lie on his opposite side, feeling Dean's muscles freeze even as those bright green eyes grow wide. He is almost unmoving, seems barely to breathe as his eyes flicker over Cas's features ever so slightly. Cas, to his credit, only hesitates the briefest instant before he lifts a muscular leg and wraps it around Dean's. Pressing his own lips together then, the angel as if tentatively reaches to put his hand to Dean's shoulder, over and against the place he had branded his mark upon Dean's soul; his handprint settles there as if somehow burning again.

Dean grunts and practically lunges, his own fingers trembling against Castiel's skin, his neck and his face. But the angel doesn't withdraw or hesitate as Dean comes in, meeting him touch for touch even as his muscles jump.

Castiel is... overcome at Dean's movements, the slide and grasp of his fingers down the angel's ribcage and sides to hips and then curling in, tangling in scratching hair under clothes, tugging elastic and cloth down and away even whilst moving his body, pressing whilst rolling up and down as if his sole purpose at present is to dip and rise at Castiel's front and legs' juncture.

Nothing is said about this, save for a whispered query of "Is this alright with you, angel?" Lifting one leg as breath is expelled, a slow choking hiss as Dean turns head and rests lips to smooth skin. Letting thighs rest on top of his shoulders, as he'd slid his own weight down to curl under Cas's, as if half to hold him in his lap but more to provide this, such closeness that keeps the angel transfixed, his muscles jumping as his eyes go wide.

"Oh - yes, Dean," his voice breaks out of its gravel depths to grow high, almost rising to a squeak before he clears his throat, feels himself shake. Somehow, he seems to lose the capacity to form complete sentences. "What can, what should-"

"'S okay," Dean soothes, reassuring him, lips travelling along the other's skin now. "-You're okay. Jus' lemme do this for you, Cas." His voice is rough, tongue pokes between his lips and drags a stripe up Cas's leg to its juncture with groin, and then trails sharply down the crease, feeling soft prickle of follicles of hair and then the answering pinpricks of goosebumps that rise to the surface.

Lips curved into a small smile whilst kissing and touching pebbled skin, hearing gasps and feeling continuous muscle jerks that Cas strives desperately to still, Dean feels a warmth within himself of almost pride as he curves both hands around Cas's legs in a squeeze. Though his skin is all roughness and callouses, bears a crust of blood that so often remains... against the paleness of the angel's skin, his touches are soft. Feeling almost shakes him apart as he shifts and all right, caresses.

Cas very nearly growls, voice caught in his throat as he gasps and throbs, stiff and aching whilst feeling Dean- who settles his shoulders, still smiling, and stroking, fingertips rasping gently across skin- he carefully extends his fingers and hand, resting before curling them. And when the angel looks at him, into his eyes and utters "Dean-" he takes hold of Cas, takes to him.

Allowing him, giving him the means to let go.

For the first time, but it won't be the last.

Dean knows, even as the heat in his chest grows sharp, almost painful as he tugs, and sucks, and tastes, that he'll keep doing this, if Cas wants him to. Saying nothing, but still being here.

Being together.

Chapter Text

"I wish things were different," Dean had said. I wish I could trust you like I used to be able to. But things 're complicated, now.

They glare at each other, stare at and then past each other, before Dean is turning away, and he expects the flutter of sound before Cas is poof! Gone, like usual; but instead he hears footsteps closing in on him and the angel's voice is growling "Dean-"

Dean is in the midst of an eye-roll, as well as a sigh, and he's set to turn around with a snippy retort along the lines of 'yeah that's my name, don't wear it out' when the angel spins him and grabs his head and shoulders. His eyes track all the way up and down Dean's face, as Dean's own eyes get huge and dark as he lets out an 'oof' from shock and brief loss of air. And then maybe he moves but definitely Cas moves and his back is slamming against the wall as the angel's hands are on his face and his lips are searing -

There's gripping, squeezing of sides and dropping, dragging down of lips and hands across the skin just above hips; fingers scrabbling and clutching, seizing hard enough to elicit a groan, but lips are pressing and releasing and then their hands are all over each other, touching and holding and digging into skin, holding as hard physically as their bonds of trust had been, before stretching, if not fully breaking, or whether or not they are already broken...

Dean is panting, gasping, his features flushed, eyes bright as much as hooded as he looks at Cas, whose face retains a veneer of impassivity, but the rougher Dean's voice becomes on his groans and gasps of "Cas" has the angel ducking head to disguise, or perhaps he finds no necessity to disguise, not like Dean, his wobbling eyebrows-

His hand is curled around Dean's face once more, in manner possessive, and their lips fasten together even as their bodies slam flush. Dean's eyes squeeze shut and then fly open as he finds himself wrapping hands around Cas, fingers curl into the waistband of his slacks and Cas's imperious face stills as Dean asks, voice more of a gasp "where - ah - where d'ya want me?" His tongue thick, tone nearly slurred as the angel has sucked and bitten at his lips with teeth. Kissing, holding, possessing in a way that makes Dean feel drunk on him.

His touch remains possessive as he practically orders "down." And Dean, knowing, as Cas's brief stint watching porn had been prior, that the guy obviously partook in more than what Dean witnessed him seeing, because he cuts his eyes, practically demands "will you pleasure me, boy?", with one eyebrow cocked up.

And Dean, Dean goes down to take hold of him in hand and mouth, muffling a mewl even as he breathes out a "yes" because fuck, Cas is hot, has always been hot- but that air of command makes him hotter, and clenching his hand into, tugging on Dean's hair does as well.

Dean rides the wave before being lifted, nearly dragged back up, lips locked to Cas's lips as the angel takes (or more like keeps) control. Dean's getting weak in the knees now as he's throbbing, and he doesn't manage to make a sound before Cas is turning and working Dean's body against him (his being rock-solid, or like a brick wall. Somehow unyielding). Thus Dean has all the give, which he does, spilling in silence, mouth dropping open in circle soundless as his body shakes.

He gasps out chokes of breathlessness, and Cas's fingers push through his sweaty hair. Clinically, it seems; in jerky pats, although his mind is foggy, and as such the lingering touch of the angel stroking his hair along with the skin of his face and neck, Dean doesn't register.

He is exhausted, though, aching and utterly spent as the angel bids a soft farewell and nothing else before he disappears.

Chapter Text

"Well I'd rather have you, cursed or not," Dean had said to Cas.

But there wasn't time subsequent to speaking thus; not even after the guy responded with "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, but I believe I detect a note of forgiveness" to which Dean had tossed off that line about them probably all gonna be dead tomorrow in return. Yet if there was - if they had more time, if they WEREN'T all gonna probably be dead tomorrow; prior to running through the Roman facility in search of Dick - (and Dean really is honestly tired enough of Sam's jokes at this point,) he can't help where his mind goes as he stops and locks eyes with Cas.

They are so damn blue. And clear, even if he is a little nuts right now. But at least they're not dimming or darkening, which is something he imagined, though telling himself all the while not to be dramatic about - but he wonders if he could somehow see within those eyes the programming of heaven or more likely all the crap Sam dealt with in the Cage swirling and sucking Cas down into a whirlpool of the crazy that he's dealing with.

Because the Cage is equipped, if not meant or built expressly, to drive you crazy. If it's like the rest of Hell turned up to eleven, or eleven thousand, because all that demonic shit will ramp up rather than do anything else, at least in Dean's experience - he doesn't know what all occurred inside the Cage, but he can guess, even if he doesn't want to. So many of his nightmares were from sendin' Sammy there by the fact he'd let his brother go, in a sense; to make his own choice. Called him a grown, well, over-grown man, and backed off. Let Sammy make the decision to take on the Devil.

But the thing is, he didn't choose this outcome now and here. Well, he chose to scratch the itch, Dean guesses; but he hadn't meant or wanted to break that wall. That ol' Death was willing to put in place for him, so as to save - or more like spare - his soul from the continued recollection of misery.

But Cas had busted it down, the wall. And then he took on all of the crap from the other side, even though all Dean really asked was for him to get Sam better, enough to sleep and handle his head.

But Cas took the ...trauma, the crazy, and kept it. Went into some sorta "hibernation mode" in the hospital that Sam had been in. Where he'd been watched over by a demon, which Dean is still not understanding (of course Cas is a badass who tries to do right and fights like crazy, looks damn good doin' it too) ...okay he might understand why Meg was there, but he doesn't know what Cas got from her, or what the guy sees.

And that really doesn't bear thinking about.

He just wishes they had more time here. That he could really sit with the fact that Cas offered to go with him on this mission - didn't even choose to accept it, he OFFERED to come - and if that in itself wasn't enough for Dean wanting to sink to his knees and thank him, it's everything else; the moving in sync, locking gazes as they sneak around, and the fight in tandem, Borax and slashing through the fat head of that Dick leviathan

And then timing doesn't matter, or maybe it does, still, as they end up in a place of monochrome colors and nothin' but monsters. Well, that's in Dean's case, because he barely has the time to lock eyes with Cas in some dark-ass freako forest and ask where the hell they are and receive an answer before the guy disappears, and Dean has to find him.

He has to find him, and give the both of them some more time.

Chapter Text

It's a bitter cold that creeps through the nights in purgatory.

It doesn't help that lighting fires would immediately bring all sorts of monsters - never mind that Dean is amply equipped to handle 'em with his weapon, both pieces of which he'd ripped out of a couple of his initial kills and bound together with sinew along bone-ends filed to deadly points. Heh, he says kills like this is some video game where he has a kill count, and a watch to keep; never mind that Benny can always do it - "Go ahead, you probably turn into a bat at night. Use some damn echolocation," Dean has cracked.

Benny bares his fangs. "No reason fer me t' do that, chief. I'm already enough like a bat anyways."

"-if you're saying it's 'cause you don't sleep, bats sleep during the day," Dean tosses back, closing his eyes at the nerdiness of that statement. Why does he know anything about bats, except for the fact that Cas does, because he digs all living creatures-

Benny rolls his eyes and scoffs, settling against trunk of a nearby tree and crossing his arms. "I know that, jackass. What I don't know is, why 're you so hung up on sleepin'?" And not sleeping, mostly; Dean shuffles his body out of cold dirt that's nearly mud.

He involuntarily groans, rubbing a hand over his face as he presses lips together, biting off the end in his head of yet another prayer to the angel Castiel. "None 'a your damn business, Benny," he snaps, and the guy raises both hands as he twists his torso towards Dean with

"Peace, brother. I'm still a friendly, y'know," he offers with that soothing rumble of a deep South drawl, and it's relaxing for Dean in spite of himself. His shoulders drop as he sighs. And the guy adds "...this wouldn't have anythin' t' do with your angel, would it?"

Instantly Dean's hackles are back up. His angel? If Benny goes on with all that... "What -" Dean's voice comes out so raspy he has to clear his throat. Shit. That doesn't give away anything at all. Smooth, Winchester. "What the hell 're you talkin' about?" He asks it roughly, and Benny sighs. Jerks down on the bill of his cap, looking sideways at Dean with sparking eyes.

"Look I ain't tellin' ya to relax in here, but what I am sayin', is I ain't judgin'." He nods sharply at Dean. "I know you been praying to him, Dean, as well as lookin' fer 'im. Hard not ta hear ya yellin' where's the angel in th' face a every Tom, Dick, and Harry we run into."

Dean winces. Not for the fact he's been wanting to know that, but thinking about how obvious he's being makes his face and neck feel hot even in this bone-chilling cold. He shuffles a bit more. "Look, Benny," he starts to say, but doesn't finish. He gets a lump in his throat instead, because how can he finish? What's he going to say? That they've literally been together through Hell? "....he saved me," tone of voice rough again, Dean adds with feeling "I'm just tryin' to return the favor."

His heart feels like it's thudding in his throat, ready to leave his body, but there's a stretch of silence before Benny says with an ease in manner and near-gentle way about him that fills Dean with gratitude "well alright then."

All right. Dean nods back, eventually curling up with his coat and arm as a makeshift pillow, trying to conserve his body heat and not incessantly shiver. Benny is cold as hell whenever Dean ends up leaning against him - no surprise, as a vamp he's basically a dead person - but once they find Cas, once he's with them Benny never turns away but stays sitting or standing close and alert, watching the angel as the human who's in their now-dual charge sleeps, and snores, drool dripping off his lips on occasion now. (Dean would never admit to sleeping so much better now that Cas is here, but he's definitely aware of it.)

Benny is aware of this, too, and makes no attempt to hide his hisses of warning to Cas, that he'd better not leave or do anything else that would fuck with Dean's head again, by the baring and dropping of his needle-sharp teeth.

Castiel, for his part, is acutely aware of what this means to Dean, and just as aware of his own pain, borne of the guilt for what he'd done, in letting loose the leviathan, in causing so much destruction... on a macro scale, but also in the most destructive manner for Dean, of causing his younger brother to suffer. Castiel is all-too-aware of the lengths Dean would go for Sam, and he had created something in Sam's psyche that Dean had no way in which to help him with.

Surely, that took a toll. Such an enormous toll.

And yet, Dean wanted him back, afterward. They hadn't parted friends, and yet he kept Castiel's coat. He has prayed to him every night stuck in this land of abominations. And even now, he curls up next to Cas, one fist clenching, balling in the fabric of his trenchcoat as if to reassure himself, even in slumber, that his angel is beside him.

And, in spite of his raging guilt, his surety that he does not deserve this, any of it, Castiel shifts closer to Dean. He carefully shifts the hunter, easing the grasp of Dean's hand open, letting their palms slide briefly together before he gently tugs Dean's arms up and wraps his own arms around him, pulling Dean against his chest securely.

Dean's head rests in the crook of Cas's neck and as if automatically, he shifts his own arms with a grunt to encircle the angel's shoulders in turn.

Castiel freezes stock-still as Dean settles in, making small high noises and smacking his lips before nuzzling face close, resting his plump cheek against Cas's skin and softly exhaling. With the slowest movement imaginable, Cas raises one arm to cradle Dean, hand coming to curve around the back of his head; and as much as his heart aches, as certain he is that he does not deserve this, to Dean Winchester he holds on.

Chapter Text

"Talk to me," Dean had said. And then, he hadn't said anything.

Castiel told him about going back to Heaven... seeing the mess he made of it and being afraid he might kill himself as a result, for all he had done. Because of all that he had done to his brethren, his brothers and sisters. To the angels, who didn't know what to do with free will, who never had to exist without following orders. He (alone, perhaps) has managed, but he thinks he's only done so (and 'managed' is, as one of the Winchester brothers might say, a strong word) Castiel knows his doing so has been largely because of Dean.

Very nearly all because of Dean.

Dean, who's looking at him with his own white button-down cuffed at his elbows, the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up, tie loose around his neck, untied and draped around his collar- both iterations are antithetical to Cas's typical way of wearing his own suit. As he currently sits, drawn-in and buttoned up, jacket and trench coat still on, John Winchester's journal resting in his lap. His fingers have curled around it as his left leg now nudges Dean's toiletry bag, jittering up and down as he sits, clenched up and stiff subsequent to speaking only to raise his eyes and look beseechingly at Dean.

Maybe Cas isn't aware that he's doing it. But whether he's looking for help, or just wants Dean to understand, or simply listen to him...

Dean, whose brows pinch together a little. Dean, whose nostrils have flared with the sharp sound of an inhale. Dean, who isn't speaking but who's licked his lips and now pushes himself up from his chair with one hand.

The inner parts of the mattress spring and squeak as Cas raises wide eyes to Dean's as the hunter abruptly settles beside him. "Dean," he intends to appease, or apologize; to say that he's all right, or he shouldn't have mentioned this, really - he only feels this way sometimes, surely it must pass, the melancholy - but the guilt, no.

Never.

Yet a rough strength touches him, Dean's right hand curls around Cas's left as his bag clinks where it's briefly pressed between their legs. "Cas," Dean says, reaching across his own torso to get the bag out of the way, and then easing his father's journal out of the vice grip Cas has on it too. "Here, man. Lemme move this for you." His voice is low, with a roughness and a warmth that the angel can just catch. Even as Dean catches the itching at the corners of his own eyes and the fact that his chest is getting tight as he breathes shakily through his mouth, now. Come on, Dean, get it together. Cryin' about it ain't gonna keep Cas from thinking of offing himself.

Instead, Dean keeps hold of Cas's hand. Squeezes his fingers and drags thumb across the guy's palm, feeling a shudder rack his angel's shoulders as Dean gently pulls him in, their joined hands resting in Dean's lap as Cas's shoulder presses to the side of Dean's chest. His head is close, and Dean turns, pressing lips to dark hair in a kiss before he turns his face forward again, wrapping his right arm around the seraph's shoulders and squeezing his upper arm. He takes the guy's hand with his other one and lifts chin now, throat bobbing on a swallow as he clears his throat and blinks several times in a row, teeth gritting together as his breath whooshes out.

He doesn't have anything to say, but his now-free right hand moves of its own accord up and down Cas's back, stroking waves and lines and circles. The tenseness in the guy's muscles seems to at least begin to ease, and "I'm here, man," Dean murmurs. He doesn't know what else to say, talking about how Cas deserves way damn better than those flying-ass monkey douchebags as his family doesn't seem right at the moment. He definitely WILL talk more crap about them, but. The sight of his dad's journal hits Dean in the gut with yeah, family might be shitty, but sometimes it's all you've got.

And nobody else forgiving what you did, maybe even what you had to do, to your family is enough. Dean knows that personally, firsthand. You either have to forgive them, or forgive yourself.

Dean huffs out a wry, nearly-silent laugh.

Yeah, he's not the best person for Cas to talk to in either department.

He can sit here, though. Hold Cas's hand. Let him know that he's been heard.

That counts- that's gotta count for something, doesn't it?

Chapter Text

"Would you rather there be some... increased amount of distance between us, Dean?"

What? Dean blinks, stares with lips pursing but stuck open in shock, not closed completely. Cas has come up to him in this shuffling way he's started doing, now that he's human. It's like the guy is... hesitant. Which doesn't compute for Dean, honestly. Awkward the guy is, sometimes, yes; but he's always been that way. This is like- an unsure thing, an insecurity about whether or not Dean wants to be around him, like, at all. And that fact clenches up Dean's chest. What does Cas think his issue is, first of all? He shuffles around and then lays out the fact they're- they have been sleeping in Dean's room together quietly. As if it is not something to talk about at full volume; which yeah, okay, as little as Dean allows himself to look, think, or talk directly about something like this - okay, about any'a this. It's not like they're sneaking around, exactly, but. If Cas isn't bein' seen or sensed doin' this with Dean, why change it? Why make things more complicated, is the way Dean thinks about it, whenever he makes himself before shying away.

He has been checking up and down the Bunker's halls as if Cas wouldn't notice, or rather as if he would not ask Dean about his actions straight-up.

But this is Cas, and he always asks questions. Even when speaking them as statements, and honestly, as much as his heart thumps from hearing Cas ask such things in the straightforward way he does, Dean knows himself well enough to know as much as he can push everything away, shove thoughts and feelings down beneath jokes and misdirection or even just silence ...or failing all that, with music, he knows he does (and 'll always do) his best to answer Cas's questions. (Even though if he was driving he would be turning up the radio or picking a heavy metal mixtape to put in right about now.)

As it is, he tastes a bitterness on his tongue, feels each taste bud drying out pebbly as maybe, deep down, he wanted Cas to ask. Wanted the guy to bring this up.

Maybe he's wanted to do something about this.

"You sayin this ain't comfortable for you? Is that it, pal?" Dean licks his lips, blinking and dipping his face to catch Cas's now-drifting gaze.

"I am 'saying' that I don't want to cause you any sort of discomfort, Dean," that rough gravel tone is very close to a mumble. Even as he still uses scare quotes in the wrong damn place, which makes Dean's heart beat fast with fondness. But Cas's tone is as low as his voice had been when admitting to hearing each and every one of Dean's nightly prayers from- when they were apart in Purgatory.

And oh, damn. Dean's heart thuds and aches the way it had immediately after Cas said he had run so the Leviathan would chase him - to keep them away from Dean. So much was in that choice, in the words Cas blurted about it. The same way the guy is right now, prioritizing Dean's feelings and potential reactions to somethin they're doin' - and have been - for days. It's been a solid week since Dean brought him back to the Bunker. At least. Longer, honestly, and Dean can't stop himself from registering the fact that cuddling close to Cas each night (while it may not get Dean any more sleep because his guilt pounds through him unrelenting -even worse when he isn't up and trying to help Sammy regain his strength or keep Kevin from eviscerating Crowley ...or vice-versa, honestly; can't trust a demon that slippery; meanwhile sending up flares to find Metatron and attempt to locate Cas's grace whenever he's awake long enough to make a search on his laptop...) It's still a comfort.

Having Cas close is a comfort.

Yet it hits Dean that Cas feels like he doesn't belong here, like this; can't be with Dean if he isn't useful, or somethin'; and now that he's human, he's -not.

All because Dean sent him out to face the world and its music alone, which he had to do at first because of Metatron, but actually because after that Dean couldn't tell the renegade angel wearing his brother to stick it... and Cas left only to die at the hands of a crazy reaper chick and get returned to life BY the angel who even as Cas said the guy was a good soldier, wouldn't let Cas stay. Which maybe tracks, because what's worse for a soldier in a combat situation than dead weight? Except, Cas ain't that at all, but he obviously thinks he is. When he came back with Sam and Dean to the Bunker... only to get thrown right back out again, because even without his grace, somehow his angelic essence could broadcast to everyone from Heaven.

The damn angel in Sam's head was so friggin worried about that. After Cas was, had been so... stuck, in a web of toxic heavenly programming bullshit and his own self- Dean bites back the word flagellation, but only because he doesn't hold with that sort of thing. Being tortured is bad enough, but choosing it- making one's existence a sort of penance as extreme as Cas had - Dean hadn't said anything about that choice to Cas before, other than snapping that he didn't need to feel like he failed Cas, the way he failed every other godforsaken thing he cares about, has ever cared about.

Everything that he-

Now, here, having stood up to an angel (who may be stabilizing Sammy but who's also lied for the whole time about who he is) for his best friend. Who may have fallen fully from Grace (more liked tricked outta his, and Dean cannot WAIT to get his hands on Metatron to make the smarmy little scribe pay for that) "No, Cas. I don't want you to leave, man. I mean-" Shit. He's blurted out more than he meant, as is evident from the shock in Cas's wide blue eyes. Dean swallows hard, measuring his voice as best he can, as it had come out loud and wobbly just now. "... I mean, you're not causin' problems for me by bein' here," Dean adds lamely, clearing his throat. Other than the ones I've been dealin' with since meeting you years ago.

The remainder of Dean's words remain internal, and are gonna continue to be if he knows what's good for him. They aren't Cas's problem, for one. Dean coughs, ducking head and lifting gaze even as he feels his cheeks heating up to burn. "l told you, I said I needed you, buddy, and -" ah, fuck it. Dean swallows heavily. (As he'd done first with dried blood and gore spattered all over him, grabbing the other in his arms by the sluggish rush of a river and then reaching out again while being beaten bloody; one eye swelling shut, spittle and blood dribbling past his lips as he was kneeling, crumpling onto stone.) Telling Cas-

Cas, this isn't you. C'mon. We need you. I need you. "And I still do, if that, uh." Backpedaling, rubbing his neck and over his hair as he clears his throat, "But if ya want your own space I c'n-" He didn't have to drag the second nightstand in here, Dean thinks wildly. He'd practically told Cas this was his room as well as Dean's; didn't give the guy much of a choice on whether or not he wanted to stay here. Wasn't like there was an option. Of course as an angel he would've stayed here to watch over Dean, but

Now, right now, he isn't.

Cas's eyes narrow, his head cocks to one side. He shakes his head, once, before lifting his chin, and that little movement almost stops Dean's breath. Which is when Cas verbally continues "I recall you reminding me about personal space in the past, Dean." Shifting from one foot to the other, hands going behind his back in stance somehow soldierly, as if ready to receive some sort of order. As if he expects Dean is to GIVE him an order. "And since I have none of my power, I am aware that I'm not useful. I'm unable to watch over you, so I'm willing to leave if that would be best."

"What? Cas-" Dean steps closer, his arm abruptly extending. Fingers curl into and clutch the sleeve of Cas's trench before he wholly registers what he is doing. Even as he shakes his head immediately. Automatically. He has to put a stop to this crap Cas thinks. "That isn't what I-"

It's pounding through his head that Cas thinks... what? That angel power is all Dean would be needing him for? What does he think about this, between them?

Okay, sure, he told Cas that without his powers he was "basically just a baby in a trenchcoat" but that was one time, years ago. Surely, Cas doesn't still.... Doesn't think Dean MEANT it

Nobody cares that you're broken, Cas! Clean up your mess!
Cas, you child. Why didn't you listen to me?

Fuck. Of course, he hasn't said- Of course Cas doesn't think he is needed except to be useful. As is made abundantly clear when Dean continues "I don't need ya to be here so you c'n DO anything, man. Since you don't have your mojo-"

"I will prove myself by assisting you, then." Cas interjects. "In other ways." He settles his shoulders and practically leans into the words. Speaks so earnestly, damnit- those bright blue eyes are soft with something like desperation. Almost hurt. "I can do research, and act as an agent of the FBI on hunting -cases. I'm sure - I still have that badge you gave me..."

"Cas," Dean lifts his head and raises both hands, fingers slightly curled with palms facing Castiel as his lips work on a shuddering exhale. It's a nonverbal stopping motion, but his grasp drops as so do Cas's shoulders, and Dean can't stand to see that. "Okay, buddy. Sure ya can help if you want, but 's not like- you - there isn't some sorta price you gotta pay to be here" damn, does he actually think -? "I want you here. I need you here." Dean blurts this last part out, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders.

No matter what. Cursed or not.

With that, there's silence save for their breathing, and the way their gazes track over each other.

"Okay, Dean," Cas replies eventually.

Reiteration brings the point home, and Dean's bright green gaze stays locked on him.

Castiel can recognize that bringing up Dean's potential discomfiture from their physical proximity at night, as it had begun and has continued every evening subsequent to his return to this ... Bunker wherein the brothers live now, causes a reaction of more heightened discomfort than the minute actions and reactions be had witnessed from Dean prior to inquiring about this. He ponders deeply, for he knows Dean's judgements of himself are harsh.

When listening or attuned to his thoughts, manifested as prayers, and even the less formulated longings -the anger, guilt, and immense emotional... agony this man feels -he has to call it what it is- thinking on it now provokes a returned grasp from Cas, though he lifts but one hand to provide what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze of the other's shoulder.

That same shoulder he branded his mark upon, the first time he touched Dean. When gripping him tight and raising him from Perdition.

Dean gasps, a high, desperate little sound. Briefly he closes his eyes.

You can stay a little longer and just hold a little tighter, emotions can be satisfied. You look up at me-and somewhere... there's a man I'll never be, Dean thinks, his eyelashes fluttering, his face burning at the amount of gratitude he catches in the depths of Cas's sky blues.

He feels as though he's drowning. And yet also like he's been dragged up from depths; understanding hits home for Dean in a way that makes him look at Cas in another light.

Is he- was he holding his best friend to some crazy standard? Expecting Cas to just-insert himself and fully understand that Dean offered for him to stay around because he WANTS Cas close?

(The short answer is, yes.)

But screw short answers, screw anything else but this. "We don't gotta talk about it forever but the main thing is," Dean speaks gruffly as he keeps holding Cas. He takes a breath "It's- for you to stay." His voice goes quiet, eyes lowering even as he speaks so soft "... Please stay." Don't leave me again. I need you.

Dean's hands are tightening on his arms, and Castiel's heart leaps. He nods once, lips pressing together on the beaming smile he holds inside his now-human heart that seems to flutter within him from how fast it is presently beating. He's here, with Dean. He is staying with Dean, being asked to stay with Dean, and that is a boon the former angel had never asked for.

Never thought - never knew he could have.

Chapter Text

Of course together, them being like that could never last for too long.

That's just the way it goes for Dean, and always has. He shouldn't expect anything different, even with his best friend, even in an underground Bunker that only has so many spaces equipped for long-term living.

Cas is an angel again, and ostensibly he has his own room so he doesn't disturb Dean by always staying in Dean's and not sleeping. (Which, okay, makes some sense since Dean had always called Cas watching over him during the night at the very least "borderline creepy, man. You should go watch a movie or somethin'.") And thus he had.

Dean offers his laptop computer, now, for Cas to use, since the guy doesn't have his own computer because he "doesn't trust them". Which, alright, it's a very 'open the pod bay doors, Hal' sort of sentiment, which again Dean understands. He doesn't even think too much about other things Cas could find on his computer were he to get bored at night and start looking.

Dean just hopes they never have to talk about whatever he does inevitably find.

What he ISN'T gonna find is anything related to the writing about ... Supernatural that Dean has just dealt with, and witnessed, on a case. A very weird case involving an angry Greek muse and lots of gross purple gunk that he still can't get the sensation of out of his head. Along with all of those girls singing a Kansas song basically to Sam and him, in the wings of this crazy musical-ized version of their life. When things get weird....

Well. Dean doesn't have to finish that thought himself. Nor can he the one about - he hadn't registered doing it, but not only did he kinda dig the performance, he found himself offering direction, and assistance. Turned Cas's tie around for the girl in costume as him, after all. And didn't punch Sammy for all his stupid comments about - ship names. What the hell even WAS all that crap? Dean still isn't certain what Sam had been doing, other than razzing him. But he seemed like, not only was that nOT the craziest thing in the world to him, but it was like Sammy has - spent some time with this. Like he's - for some unknown and absolutely uncanny reason thought about Dean and Cas - together.

And Dean can't stop thinking about it.

Well, not all of it - it's not like - it's not like he never knew what Cas meant to him or something, but it's.... Having what they do, and have pretty much always done, for each other put on a stage like that, showing how Cas just - waits and does things for Dean when he asks. Or even when he DOESN'T ask. Or, in the sense of certain aspects of the apocalypse as well as right now with the mark of Cain, telling Dean things he supposedly can't do, or alternatively, being told by Dean things he doesn't want Cas to do, and then. Doing them anyway.

Dean knows this because he knows him, and it's not a shock at all to come knocking on Cas's door in the Bunker and hear a prolonged rustle and several thuds of objects, paper and books being dropped and tossed somewhere - and then a gruff "come in, please, Dean" after he hadn't even said to wait. There's no sense of privacy between them, at least not on Cas's end. Dean restrains himself from rolling his eyes with difficulty, but he can't stop an upward twitch of lips at the sight of Cas, the way he's attempting to lean against his own hand, hair not mussed up quite as sexily as it used to be, but he sits there in collared shirt and slacks with no tie and some buttons open, shoes off, even - which is relaxed for Cas. Honestly as relaxed as he ever gets now that he's not wearing hoodies and jeans.

Dean wonders why that had been a human thing for Cas. Well, one of his human things. He was a lot more vulnerable then; physically, too - it was like he automatically needed or wanted to touch. Dean found himself providing a lot more shoulder pats or arm rubs for Cas when the guy was human.

He doesn't seem to need 'em, now. Just like he doesn't need to stay in Dean's room with Dean.

He may not want to, either; and Dean regrets not asking him. Not stopping him from leaving to do that, but. What would he 've said, if he had? 'hey buddy I know you're not a human anymore and don't need to sleep, but I still wantcha to sleep with me' fuck, no. That's crazy, stupid, utterly ridiculous. It makes Dean's stomach flip and churn just thinking about it.

Of course there's also an ache inside him, but that he chooses to ignore. Or attempts to, which he fails at, as he's pretty much always failed.

It's gotten worse since just before they got stuck in purgatory.

It REALLY got worse once he was out, and seeing Cas everywhere. Got so that he could barely stop himself from makin' a comparison to when Jessica kept on appearin' to Sam after she died. (There was the whole other thing of her being the form the friggin DEVIL took to initially talk to Sammy, which he'd admitted to Dean after the fact. Way after. But there's no leading questions from Cas, nothin' to show him as anything other than an angel who's now been human and has -a different view of things.)

Sam had told him about the PB&J thing, how Cas waxed philosophical to him over a friggin sandwich, and if that ain't par for the course for Cas, Dean doesn't know what is.

Only thing that would've made it more on-brand is if Cas had given the thing one of his ridiculous modern pop music names.

Just as for Dean, somethin' that's on-brand for him (or would be if he allowed himself to think about it) is that right now he's failing to leave Castiel the fuck alone, instead he comes and sits on the edge of his BED with him, for crying out loud; asking what's up, how's it goin'. "How're you hangin', Cas?" And Dean runs, or nearly runs away from the matter-of-fact response:

"I 'hang' in a balanced manner, Dean. My ...heft is balanced equal, I suppose." His eyes flicker up from beneath lashes as he asks "and you, how are you doing?"

Dean could choke on his reply about him having some help for a good hang, and even he isn't sure how he'd like Cas to respond to that. He shrugs to answer Cas's question. "I'm okay, man. Just keeping on keepin' on, you know?"

The angel nods, speaking a little slow. "Yes, Dean. I do know." And then his hand reaches out, taking hold of Dean's arm and gently turning it to show the mark of Cain, visible due to his wearing a Tshirt now that they're back in the Bunker. Home, Dean would like to call it, and does most of the time. Sammy still isn't comfortable doing so, and he doesn't think he's heard Cas reference the place at all, apart from saying when they should be getting back to the Bunker after a case.

Anyway. Dean bites his lower lip and inhales slowly as Cas touches him. It's not like the first time he could tell Dean had the Mark, a swift fiercely tight grab; no this is softer, gentler. He has grown used to the sight, and it pierces him with sorrow, not in the least because Dean thinks so little of himself that he would make of his body a weapon, and extension of such, in order to go against their enemies.

Castiel stays where he is with the warm length of Dean's forearm resting in his hand, and he wishes he could cut the Mark of Cain out; that he could show, or prove to Dean, that he never needs to ... sacrifice himself in these sorts of ways. That he isn't expendable, especially not to Castiel. That he has never been; upon the very first sight of his soul in Hell - subsequent to fighting and blasting through the ragged bunches of demons jumping and rumbling with the other soldiers in Cas's platoon, so to speak. (He has watched some - war movies, Dean has called them; not many are accurate, but the names for every piece of militaristic might utilized on Earth come from some place, from the beings that have, nearly since their creation, learned to fight; that place is Heaven, and angels are soldiers in perhaps the truest possible sense of the word.)

Yet Cas holds and caresses Dean's arm, this soldier, this hunter with callouses and scars, within and without; he swipes across soft skin just by the inside of Dean's elbow with his thumb. His eyes flick to catch Dean's as the other gasps, exhales something almost sounding like a groan. Dean's eyelashes flutter against his full cheeks as his plump lips part, his throat bobs. Tongue wetting lips, the man sways his torso closer to the angel, tips of his fingers flexing against the cloth of Castiel's clothes.

"Cas, uh. D'you ever -" Dean's tone of voice is rough, quiet as he inhales, and Cas feels the pads of Dean's fingers touching his wrist just beneath cloth of his shirt in manner hesitant, gentle, light. Even as his breathing drops heavily and his gulp is deep as the clearing of throat preceding "I mean, can't believe I'm sayin' this," he grumbles "but those damn books - "

"Which books, Dean?" Cas asks, cocking his head in that way he does, at once so earnest, serious, and honestly curious, making Dean breathe out a second epithet as his shining green eyes soften and he speaks fast enough to manage to get most of the words out.

"-Carver Edlund's. Chuck's. Y'know, the-"

"-The Winchester gospels, yes," Cas says, face brightening as if he is remembering. "I admired his work. He certainly was able to capture the... spirit of what occurred in writing them, yes?"

"Yes," Dean grumbles "...and it definitely wasn't creepy at all, just like seein' us acted out onstage totally wasn't the weirdest friggin experience ever."

Cas squints a little. "Was it, in fact, the weirdest experience you've ever had, Dean? Because I can think of a few more and would beg to differ. Certainly none the likes of speaking to one killer through glass in order to locate another, but,"

It seems like he's honestly asking, but the guy's lips twitch before he goes still after making - was that, did he just make a reference to The Silence of the Lambs? It takes Dean aback, smacking him in the face with how much - it isn't exactly ease that Cas has, after bein' human, but it's somethin'. Something that makes Dean inch closer, hold on a little tighter. It makes him wonder what the friggin "nature" of the two of them is, if he has to use a word those girls did. Kudos to them, though, for having a vision. He gets the feeling he's like Butch told Sundance, but he hasn't got - he's not the one with the vision. Dean's in bifocals, like the rest of the world. Though his are of convenience; he doesn't want to take them off. Leaving em on is easier.

It's a whole helluva lot easier.

And that's why, at the feeling of Cas's touch and the way he sits close, Dean is torn.

Chapter Text

It hits Dean that Cas feels like he doesn't deserve to stay, to be here - near Dean, or maybe near anyone after the whole attack dog thing. But hell, he doesn't deserve to be alone, either; he shouldn't have to leave-

Not like he was made to do when he was human. Not again. Never again.

Cursed or not, Dean would still rather have him.

Besides, after the whole tomato salsa-puree-in-a-blender analogy and Cas lookin' like he's gone twenty rounds deep in some crazy grudge fight, Dean isn't gonna let the guy out of his sight. Especially when he had to hold Cas's head up, practically feeling as though he was holding him together after getting beaten to a pulp by the dude (he knows it wasn't Cas though, and even if it was, he had it coming).

He said that, too, when Cas offered to heal him, afterwards. So sorrowful, an aching expression in his eyes as he apologized, and Dean said he didn't need to. His face aches and is hot as he knows he sports a purple shiner on one cheek, a split in the skin at the corner of his mouth. Probably has a few burst blood vessels and cracked ribs. But he looks at Cas with an ache of his own as the guy gazes back all sad and ... resigned.

There's a pull at him, towards him, now, from Dean - a tug of what seems to be conflicting feelings and emotional ... agony.

"Cas-" Dean says, clearing his throat, tapping at the table with his knuckles. He turns to more directly face the angel, pausing as the other's bright eyes lock on his and shuffling a little.

"Yes, Dean?" Cas's voice is soft as he still looks on with that sweet sorrowful expression. He also looks exhausted, almost to the level he had when being human, and maybe that's what causes Dean to think about it.

Think about the fact that when the two of them shared space - were in Dean's bed together... It was the best rest that Dean had gotten in months. Years.

And truthfully, he wants Cas as close as he can get. At least for tonight. If the world is going to crap because Dean unleashed the Darkness, at least maybe he can make sure his best friend gets some rest. And heals, before he has - before they all have to deal with this.

So he jerks his head and beckons, throat so dry that his voice goes rough and quiet, dropping close to nothingness "-c'mon, buddy. You c'n get some rest and I'll show ya how to watch movies and cross the, get the streams on my laptop." Scrunching his lips upwards, he sniffs. "Long as you don't judge me for what I've got on there," his lips now twitch and he winks even whilst stopping himself just barely from blushing like crazy.

Chair legs scrape across the floor as Dean stands and moves closer to Castiel. Whose eyes brighten, even in his exhausted face, countenance still drawn but something seems to ease, somehow. Almost glow. "Okay," he says, and adds whilst also standing "-of course not, Dean. I've got absolutely no room to pass any judgement. I'm - happy to learn from you," he speaks an echo of what he'd said when he was human, that Dean (and Sam) would be good teachers. He speaks so earnestly that Dean very nearly laughs in response as fondness fills his chest with a heat that clenches, almost painful for a moment before it loosens. His heart begins thumping rapidly as he licks his lips and swallows.

"Thanks, man," Dean croaks. Sweet sonuvabitch. His face is hot as he clears his throat and adds "I uh. Want it to look a little different, though;" he wants to smile again as they walk out of the main atrium and down the hall towards his room, but Dean feels his hands start sweating (really? Come on, he's Dean Winchester, he should be able to handle this by now-) but his chest is twinging as his heart still thuds.

They've stopped, more like paused, almost beside Dean's bedroom door, and Cas steps back, eyes dropping, shuffling his feet, "Oh. Of- course, I understand. You certainly require some -personal space," but Dean shakes his head and reaches out, grabbing the sleeve of Cas's jacket.

It's mostly the sleeve, but also the guy's wrist under cloth as he continues shaking his head and tugs gentle but insistent at the angel. His jaw muscle is jumping, teeth are now nearly clenched. "No, get in here - that ain't what I meant." Opening and closing his fingers, Dean's hand is shaking. Both hands are. Christ if his neediness isn't embarrassing enough-

Cas notices, because of course he does. And his gravel growl is one of concern, his eyes widening. "Are you - all right, Dean?" You're shaking, he could add; and ask if Dean is hurt, but the wounds on his body are superficial things. It is inside his soul that the angel perceives a flickering and flaring. He reaches up and briefly presses Dean's hand with his.

That seems to help Dean steady himself, and he exhales breath in a hiss from his throat as he laces his fingers with Cas's to squeeze. "I uh. I will be, pal," he says, and it's like a weight has been at least slightly lifted. Which helps Castiel to ease and relax, a little- as his own powers are at such a low ebb he cannot simply use Grace to heal Dean at present. (Well he could as he'd previously offered, but it's more the fact that Dean had refused, and though he wants nothing more than to heal Dean of his hurts, he will never do so without the other's consent.) The angel does feel a spiking drive of shame inside him, but it's as if Dean knows, because he squeezes Cas's hand reassuringly. "I promise," his voice roughens. "But right now we gotta get ready, 'cause a movie's callin' our names."

'Getting ready' in this sense includes Dean unclothing his legs of pants and urging Cas to do so too, before he brushes his teeth and says "here, Cas," offering another toothbrush to the angel who, though he has no need for it anymore, as he isn't human, brushes his teeth and washes face, cold water soaking into the collar of his pale blue button-down. He carefully settles next to Dean, leaving space between them until Dean grumbles and fluffs up pillows, bouncing before settling on the bed at, practically pressed to, Cas's side with his laptop at the ready. He types in his password and shows Cas the various streaming services they have access to - the two main ones being Netflix and Amazon.

Dean brings up the movie Tombstone "This is what we're watchin' to break ya in. Gotta cut your teeth on a western, Cas," Dean smiles, one where his plump lips tug higher on one side, and his eyes are crinkling. "Best way ta lose your, ah, movie virginity," tongue catching between teeth, Dean winks and then pats the angel's shoulder, urging him to "get comfortable, man," as he'd turned off the main light prior to pulling up the film, subtitles on and sound soft so they can catch everything.

Cas shuffles stiffly onto his side, face towards the laptop. "I can see it, Dean," he assures when Dean snorts, but allows him to tug a pillow closer, because he is weary, he realizes; his vessel - body - is aching and ...heavy, it seems. So much so that it's easier for him to lay out mostly flat, arms by side, with head slightly tilted towards the screen.

Eventually his cheek presses part to the cool slip of pillowcase and head, hair and temple to the soft and warm prickling of hair on skin; as part of Dean's thigh is exposed. Cas tries to jerk away, provide space, but he is tired, or not thinking clearly, because it's as if Dean shifts closer to him, hand wrapping around Cas's shoulders and rubbing up and down his arm before nudging ever-so-slightly to let the angel rest head completely on his lap.

He is mouthing words, mumbling lines as the characters do; these rough Western men with blood-spotted handkerchiefs and lined faces, tired eyes. Cas murmurs over the doctor evidently being the most ill, and if only he could heal -

Dean drops his hand to take Cas's, and squeezes.

His thumb traces across skin, and Castiel flutters, inside and almost physically, shuffling incrementally closer to Dean as the night goes on. Dean slowly shifts lower in bed until his head is just above Cas's, hand having gently nudged the angel's up from his legs to chest. Cas's hand carefully does not touch Dean until with a roll and groan, Dean links their fingers and pulls the other's hand across his chest and abdomen, tucking Cas's arm around him.

They settle, Val Kilmer's drawl of 'Well I guess I'm your huckleberry' echoes from computer speakers to Dean's fingertips and then in the both of their heads as Dean rolls completely onto his side and pushes the laptop onto his nightstand, eyes barely open as he feels Cas's weight against his hip, his chest to Dean's back as their hands remain entwined.

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry, Dean. I just wanted...to return this." Cas came over with that look of contrition, the dropping of his eyes and awkward fumbling with words that he has - a lot more often since he was human, Dean has been realizing - but even as his fist clenches as much as his heart does, he doesn't look at Cas, only listening to the clatter of the tape he'd made, the one with his top Zepp songs on it. Which Cas sets down on the edge of Dean's desk so gently the movement is pretty much ginger. Dean sighs. He'd started making this for Cas a while back, if anyone would believe it.

Dean doesn't even really believe it, but he has the ways and means -a tape maker, he knows when Zeppelin plays on the radio, and has enough tapes of their stuff that he could record the less-often-played tracks onto this one without much of a problem. Which he actively started doing after Mom came back. Was returned. Whatever. With how he told her "-he was cute and he knew the lyrics to every Zeppelin song, so when he asked you for your number, you gave it to him."

Those words had made her register meeting Dad, remember it. How she looked at Baby so fondly, and talked about listening to music while riding with John; to Reno and elsewhere. It got, and still gets Dean to thinking....

He doesn't lie to her, damnit; he wouldn't - but he also doesn't have it in him to tell mom about what their dad had been like after losing her. What he'd become. Because the man who wrote that journal, the obsessed bastard who treated Dean like a soldier and made sure he knew he was expendable - telling his mother any of that wouldn't do anything other than hurt her, and besides she's already gone; left the Bunker to figure some things out.

Dean wonders if that's why Cas has been leaving, too; or at least he did, until the guy admitted, blurted out with his voice seeming desperate "I wanted to come back with a win for you." Cas spoke in manner so earnest and sincere that Dean felt his chest clench up, his eyes burn as his throat grew tight.

And here the guy is again just... standing here not getting it, not even keeping what Dean had given to him, and Dean is sitting still as his jaw is jumping, because he's not gonna yell or blubber or blurt out anything crazy because he'll most likely get the "what's wrong, Dean" treatment or an attempt at healing, when he really wants -

"It's a gift," he snaps, fingers closing briefly around the tape before he flips it over and holds it back out towards Cas between first digits as his arm extends. His voice is rough with what probably reads as anger but is actually holding back the ache of want that's been twanging through his body more and more often now "You keep those."

He sits and waits, heartbeat thudding in his throat as well as his fingers. And it's the lightest brush of touch but it's stupid how light he in turn feels, how much his heart is soaring when Cas takes the tape back. When he says "okay" more softly and then adds a "thank you, Dean."

Something about that has Dean stopping work. He snaps shut his laptop with a sigh before spinning his chair to look up at the angel. "You're welcome, Cas," he says with voice still rough. Throbs of heat are pulsing in his gut, damn it, but Dean inhales deeply and licks his lips. Eyes remain locked on the angel's, and it's as if something clicks.

He doesn't know exactly what, or what causes it to happen at this exact moment, but there's an intentness filling Cas. He looks at Dean fiercely, almost; his eyes becoming slightly narrowed. And then, then his gaze drops to Dean's lips, as if deliberately. Dean inhales sharply through his nose as Cas utters in that deliciously low growl of his "Dean...,"

Dean's heartbeat speeds up to pound in his neck. His voice is a croak, totally undignified until he manages to swallow and clear his throat. "Yeah, Cas?" It's a question, barely whispered; in fact his tone is almost a whimper now on his words.

Cas reaches out, fingertips apart, extended. It's as if he means to stroke or cup Dean's face, and Dean's eyes flutter closed. His lashes briefly rest to cheeks before eyes burst open again and are dark with what flares in his soul as -wanting.

\\\}^^{///

Suddenly his lips are pressed to Castiel's, his hand free from gripping the mixtape. He reaches, has reached up and grabbed onto the lapel of Cas's trenchcoat just beside his neck, and then with a gasp fingers are in and clutching hair before Dean jerks back as if he'd been shot, whispering "Cas, I, is this - " his voice dies, eyes flickering across the other's countenance.

Cas, bent forward over Dean as he still mostly sits beside his desk, hands clutching coat and dragging Cas's face to his, curls his body into Dean's space again as the Winchester had been releasing and leaning away from him. Cas is not clear on what the appropriate verbal response to Dean would be, smiling in befuddled, utterly bamboozled shock as his mind cuts off. I believe the only thing we have left, Dean and I, is each other, he thinks in manner unbidden, drastic, and... very potentially true if this moment is any indication.

Cas whispers, lips a breadth away from Dean's, his own hands - of their own accord, it seems - reaching to catch and hold and cup, clutching the sides of Dean's face. In joy and awe after the initial shock, "It's okay, Dean," he murmurs soothingly whilst caressing with a thumb one of Dean's full cheeks. "This is all right."

"Y-yeah?" Dean's voice cracks as his adam's apple bobs. He looks... worried. Hesitant. Almost -afraid.

But Castiel firmly nods, "Yes," he replies, fingers flexing around Dean's face before he continues "I admit I have... wanted to do this."

"Do what?" Dean's query is a gasp as, bracing his arms- more muscular, honestly, than they'd been originally when the angel inhabited Jimmy Novak as his vessel; yet now that it's him, this body is his, he seems to 've bulked up. And Dean had been trying not to notice. Well, trying not to acknowledge what he does notice. But what it is, and means is that Cas more than is, he looks pretty damn strong. Strong enough to take hold of Dean, arms dropping to wrap around him and pick him up out of his seat. Dean lets out a whine and Cas's eyes flicker over his face before Dean swallows hard with the tiniest nod.

Cas makes the move this time, mouth on Dean's, moving his lips as Dean opens them, needy, lower lip sliding between both of Cas's. A blast of air is exhaled on a sound, dry and thin and just as driven as Castiel's lips are. He tightens his arms around Dean as Dean clutches his hair.

Pulling Dean to him, then, the already curved extent of the Winchester's bowed legs widen as he lifts them to wrap around Cas's waist. Cas feels an insistent pulse as he holds Dean close, and moves into him almost instinctively, one hand cupped and gripping Dean's posterior through pants.

Dean closes his eyes, breath exhaled on a sound, thin and trembling.

And then he continues, gasps and yips and whimpers practically forced from his mouth as he rubs and rolls, ruts his body into Cas. "Ah-ah-ah-ah, oh, god-" Groaning, swallowing again, Dean buries his face into the side of the angel's neck and presses mouth there. "Stay, Cas, please" Dean's voice is the barest whisper, almost a slur, muffled in skin. Head is spinning as he feels himself pulsing and he really cannot believe this is happening -

Cas now tightens his hand on Dean's ass and moves - strides some steps before with a sharp and sure motion he drops Dean more than lays him on his back on the bed. Dean's eyes go wide as his mouth, forcibly disconnected from Cas's neck, drops open and he lets out a near-shouted groan.

Dean swallows another sound as Cas slams hand beside him on the pillow, curling fingers forcibly into it as his other hand slides firmly up Dean's side to now cradle him, fingers curled into hair from around the back of his neck, and lifting a very willing Dean to brush lips to his, to his jaw and cheek and neck as Dean gasps out inarticulate sound prior to arching chest and back. And then the angel, with the tightness of his grip on Dean's pillow, feels the hard outline of a gun beneath.

The Colt.

\\\}^^{///

An instant has the angel going still before he decides and continues to press long and tender kisses to Dean's skin in a fervent pattern which Dean responds to with gasp and shake; he moves with Cas, expelling another groan even whilst holding on to him so desperately, so tightly; wrapping both arms around the angel's neck and clutching as if he could disappear.

Yet even then his fingers and palms are gentle, pushing through Cas's hair, which makes Cas almost cry. Such a caring man Dean is, a gentle presence. He cants his fingers through Dean's hair, then, and clenches grasp to pull experimentally. Dean moans, a breathy sound, and clutches at Cas as white hot desire shoots through him in sharp waves that don't stop.

Dean's head is thrown back as he pushes Cas's head towards his exposed throat, and a flutter and sharp heat coexist within Castiel as he moves in eagerly - incredibly so, the edge of his teeth grazing Dean's skin. He would withdraw and apologize for that, but Dean's whole body undulates, jerks as he expels a higher sound than the angel has thus far heard.

In that instant, Cas's eyes widen and then slam shut as with a loud hissing Pop! the bulb of Dean's overhead light buzzes and explodes, showering a tinkle of glass that Cas unfurls not visible wings to protect Dean's body from, even as his hand moves with gun gripped within.

There is silence in the now-complete darkness and then Dean's voice, breathy before but now firmer in amusement: "holy crap, Cas. Wanna shed a little light on the subject, or are you workin' on ambiance?"

Dean's lips retract from Cas's, and the other blinks and bows his head, breathing out contritely. "Oh -I'm sorry Dean," comes his rough gravel voice. "Now we have no light to see by."

The seraph feels Dean's chest and shoulders heave in a shrug, and the sound of his chuckle fills up the dark. Hands that had skated down to hold hips now squeeze, one thumb rubs at a place where Castiel's shirt has come untucked. The other hand climbs now to and past the side of Cas's neck. Fingers stroke his hair "-No shit, Cas," he responds, and then adds "But s'all good, man." licking his lips and shifting slightly, the sound and movement apparent "...uh. Kinda hot, actually." His voice has gotten deeper, almost rough.

Blinking and cocking his head for an instant "Does that mean the temp-oh" At Dean's sharp inhale and clearing throat, he understands and feels himself flutter as he leans in, tilting his head, feeling the slope of Dean's nose brush his own, and the intake of breath-

He feels the deepest shiver all through him, body and sparking Grace, causing a whipping twist of power as the pinions of his feathers tremble, his wings flutter. He wraps arms around Dean and clutches, eyes flashing in the darkness. "I can recreate your light source, Dean," he offers.

With a head shake, lifting a hand and covering Cas's lips with his fingers, Dean soothes with another chuckle (so antithetical to his immense frustration expressed earlier). His whole body seems to have relaxed. "It's FINE, Cas. Seriously. ... You know us humans have adjustable eyes right? Our vision still works in the dark." And then as proof, moving hands to grip fistfuls of shirt and coat, Dean rolls himself up as much as pulls, yanks Cas down to press their bodies together.

At the way Cas gasps and he sees the widening of the guy's eyes, a bubble of warmth leaps inside Dean's chest. Fondness.

Gaze flicking across the angel's countenance "... 'S this okay?" he asks low, almost in a whisper. "Don't wanna waste the dark...," Dean gulps, clutching spasmodically at Cas's clothes and wondering if he's insinuated enough to make sense. He feels as much as listens to the rapidity of his best friend's pulse, and Cas keeps eyes on Dean, shifting shoulders and rolling, pressing into him.

Staying close and replying "Yes, Dean," Cas's voice is measured even as his eyes twinkle in the dark "As long as this is to your liking." And before I must go, again, with this - what I must do.... A weight and chill having naught to do with the present darkness fills Castiel.

Gun lies heavy as does guilt in one voluminous pocket of his coat.

But he is here with Dean. They are here together, for now, and despite what he knows he must do, for these moments he is grateful.

Chapter Text

"I said I needed a win. We got Cas back, that's a pretty damn big win."

Dean said that to his brother and meant it as much as he's ever meant anything. He couldn't keep the grin off his face, and if that made him ridiculously goofy, all right, who gives a crap? He sure as hell doesn't care. He's in a hotel that's dedicated to cowboys and he's gonna be acting as a Texas ranger on this case (if he can) and Cas is back, with them.

He's home.

After getting coffee and beckoning for the guy to sit and wait for him to finish it, Dean feels himself relaxing, easing into wakefulness with a sigh as he looks over at Cas. To check on him, and alright, make sure he's still here - only to see not exasperation at being told to wait for Dean and sit back down anymore, but a ... softness, and what appears to be the slightest uptick of lips into a smile before a look of sorrow, or what registers to Dean as pain flits across his pensive features.

Dean swallows the remaining coffee in his cup and clears his throat. "What's up, Cas?" He asks, and blames the heat of the beverage now for the roughness in his voice instead of being half-asleep, or ... anything else. "...are you good?"

The clink of pottery against wood, of clay fashioned into usefulness as a drinking vessel, more useful than he is, maybe than he has ever been causes Castiel to lift pained eyes to Dean. "I have seen inside your head - I know what you hate, and who you love. There is nothing for you back there." The voice of the Empty hisses through his head, taunting him once more. He briefly shuts his eyes, and shudders.

Licking dry lips and hating the burst of spittle that expels as the rough gravel of his voice dissipates into a whine, he replies "Dean -"

And Dean moves from the bed, his warm hand clamping on Cas's knee, his own body dropping to a knee and crouch before him with those beautiful eyes focusing on Cas. "Hey, hey buddy. Yeah, I'm here," his voice is gruffly soothing, dropping into gentleness as his thumb rubs circles in the side of the angel's knee through his slacks.

Castiel closes his eyes. Squeezes them shut, and clenches hands into fists. He mustn't reach out and burden Dean with this, it is too much, there is no hope; just as it is no good, there is no possibility for the man to feel like this...

"Like what, Cas?" Dean's voice asks, and the angel feels as cold and pained as he had in the Empty's endless darkness. He had not meant to speak aloud. Those eyes are so warm, and worried. "Talk to me, man. What's goin' on?"

"I'm sorry, Dean," the seraph gasps. "I'm back, I know that. I shouldn't -" shouldn't feel this way, or act this way. I should not burden you.

"Shouldn't what, sunshine?" Dean's brows are wrinkled, and the urge to press his lips to them is strong. Stronger still at the quiet, gentle way Dean speaks endearments. The angel resists his urge with difficulty as he lurches into the touch of Dean's hand's bracing squeeze. "Course you're back, and I'm - it's damn good to see you," Dean's voice is rougher now, he licks his lips and Cas traces them with his gaze. Dean's eyes lift and drop, tracking - tracking what? "So damn good." Dean's voice breaks, it's the smallest crack, but the angel hears it. Just as he hears and feels the shuffle of Dean's legs, the heat of his body as he moves closer to Cas. He sees the slow way Dean looks up at him, hand still kneading his leg and then sliding, the other coming to brace his opposite knee as he sways closer and draws chin back in a similar manner to the way, and reason, Castiel tilts his head.

Cas feels the brush of soft t-shirt material as well as the solid feeling of Dean's chest and stomach beyond it. Feels him shiver as he was sitting in bed - and now kneels on the floor - in dark blue underwear with nothing clothing his legs. Cas notes the warm skin of his muscular thighs with scattered freckles he aches to touch, to press with his lips, and he mustn't, yet he moves - one hand catches Dean's face and the other reaches, takes hold of his side through soft grey shirt cloth.

His eyes prickle. What would Dean say, if he knew how much Cas has cried over him, near as much as over his own failures, in the Empty? He cannot, will not tell, for it could only hurt Dean, and that is the last thing he wants to do. His breath is a wet gasp as he responds "I - it is so good to be back, Dean." with you "I... I can still hardly believe it."

Dean's mouth opens, eyes go wide, and he grunts a sound whilst coming in, because the angel now holds him with hands and arms and entire body shaking. Ah, Cas. "Hey," Dean nearly whispers, shuffling himself so that his body is pressed between the other's parted legs, eyes flickering up to Cas's. He reaches and wraps a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing circles into the flesh, and tips his forehead forward to lean against the angel's. Gently, carefully.

The angel aches with this, from Dean's goodness, his impulse to comfort, always. And then he feels as if his heart stops as Dean withdraws, but only to look in his face, eyes questioning something before he must see the offering, the acceptance in Cas's face. Or more likely the unadulterated wanting; because Cas feels raw, stripped bare in the agony of being this close to Dean again and all such proximity entails.

His breath hitches as Dean's lips move close to his, breath shuddering against Cas's. "Believe it, buddy," Dean nearly growls. He gulps. "You're here, an' I'm right here with you."

Fingers sinking into the angel's hair at the back of his head, Dean nudges to tilt Cas's face, and moves his own to drag lips across the seraph's cheek. A burning stripe of feeling throbs in his wake, and Cas gasps as much as freezes. Dean's mouth presses light to his cheek, to his nose, to just shy of his lips, and then gripping onto Cas tightly, he pulls the guy in. Wrapping an arm around head and neck, chest pressed to the angel's, his own heart pounding, Dean licks his lips, parts them, and decides fuck it, they can do this. Sam and Jack are out running down leads for an hour if not a few hours. (Because Dean knows Sammy, and he knows he's gonna teach Jack how to do research.)

Stands to reason that Dean has time to teach Cas a few things, and learn some.

So he now kisses Cas, tugs him to his feet and shuffles backwards towards the bed all the while, hands fumbling as the other freezes before making flapping motions with his arms, as if to shake his trenchcoat off.

His head follows Dean as his heart sings. He knows this is, comes from a joyful place, that Dean is just happy to have him back, and physical intimacy is a way Dean expresses happiness. He thinks of the "welcome home" Dean had said into his ear, the way he clapped Cas on the shoulder and stayed there, looking for a second long, and then longer.

It had felt new as much as it felt familiar, as does this here and now. As Dean's lips press to and release his, hands open and close on his garments - the trenchcoat falls at last, dropping from his arms and shoulders. He shuffles feet and kicks off shoes as Dean's legs hit the bed and he sits, yanking Cas by the tie to stay close, lips working on gasps as much as kisses, eyes wide and dark and hand sinking into hair again. He pulls Cas onto him, twists to lay on the bed and rolls up as the angel straddles him, pausing until Dean grabs him by the leg and practically throws it to the outside of his hip, wriggling to press pelvis to Cas's.

He gasps as his cheeks flush, his chest heaves, and Castiel expels half a growl, half a whimper as he rolls down into Dean even whilst carefully touching his face, stroking his hair. Disbelieving his eyes and ears and feelings as he still hears the Empty's words.

"All your doubts, all your failures... How could anyone need you, or want you?" Dean's hands are at his hips, fingers pushing under the edges of his shirt

"Especially the man you've failed most often while telling yourself that you're saving him?" Dean's lips, warm and a little damp on his face and neck, part and the strong scent of coffee is on his breath

"All the pain and death you've caused... you are nothing, worthless" Dean wraps arms around Cas, curling and then flattening his hands, pressing fingers, pulling the angel into his body, his chest.

Cas buries his head against Dean's, feels chin rest to his shoulder, feels a throb by his stomach, an answering one in his chest. He closes his eyes as he holds Dean tightly, and moving with him, lets thoughts fall away.

Chapter Text

Castiel finds himself grateful to be sitting, alone, in this little room at the bed and breakfast as he reads some rather in-depth and, what are certainly qualified as, erotic letters. The human capacity for feeling physical intimacy has never been more apparent to him, as is and as much as he registers the tightness in his core, a throbbing warmth that begins to ache as he thinks of how he might describe various aspects of - Dean Winchester's anatomy.

He has not had the honor of bearing witness to the sight of Dean's heft, weight and length and yet...oh, if miraculously, he was or could be allowed...

The angel closes his eyes and rolls his head back and forth, lifting chin in fruitless attempt to focus elsewhere. But there is no elsewhere, he is alone in this room with this young woman's eager words and such descriptions that she makes as to make the imagination run, well, wild. Shifting, rocking backwards and forwards slightly on the bed, working to provide friction as much as lessen it, the angel thinks of green eyes and strong hands, of plump lips and full freckled cheeks, and then flushed skin, pink and pert and also throbbing, the protuberance of a vein, a liquid sheen that collects and coalesces until it drips and - he fumbles at his pants, at undergarments as well as the handkerchief he keeps, and the (dare he think it, blessed) lack of sight from anyone else. He squeezes his eyes shut even whilst unhooking slacks and unclothing himself -

He grips, and squeezes, fingers brushing and then sinking into the scratching curls of hair about his base; he fondles his testes in awkward swipes and pats, wishing he could do this for Dean, or - that he could have Dean do....

But no, that's entirely selfish of him.

And yet...

His hands are slightly sweaty, his heartbeat throbs as much as he; and squeezing eyes tighter he imagines doing this for Dean, or - the wish to have Dean here, hanging over him, helping Cas along is immediately burning in his mind as much as the heat of this act burns within his body. It is the thought of those bright green eyes and mouth curved in an encouraging grin that has the angel letting loose a whine and unintentionally crumpling some of the letters he still holds. His eyes shoot open and he fumbles himself away to clear up and clean. Skin burning in embarrassment, now, at his response, his ... eagerness; the fact the bedclothes are sticking, wet and sticky due to sweat from his limbs and another bodily fluid. The papers now require some extra work to smooth and help them dry.

His heart aches as much as thuds hollowly as he thinks of the landlady saying he would know about letters like the ones this young lady wrote, of Sam's discomfort and the slightest hint of... disgust when Castiel had begun describing them; but most potently he feels the piercing longing to discuss this with Dean, to see his waggling eyebrows and hear the inevitable joke - made without judgement, because Dean takes no issues with various and sundry sexual practices, as far as Castiel knows.

He simply doesn't know if Dean would be willing to hear his thoughts about this, about the way Castiel feels for Dean - this very carnal, selfish, needy feeling; the wish for possession, to provide such an immense amount of pleasure that Dean's very soul will brighten from enjoyment of it.

He supposes Dean's joy at the mental image of Sam with a man-bun, glasses, and a cardigan will have to do, as Dean had practically cackled when the angel told him that portion of the information about their case; he left out the terror he'd felt thinking Sam was lost to him, not in the least because he would have needed to inform Dean of the fact he very nearly thought he wouldn't be able to bring Sam back to himself, and no amount of ... anything they have been through would exhort forgiveness from the older Winchester had Castiel been unable to reach his brother.

Yet he had, and they had succeeded in a way that felt somewhat less successful as he pondered how a girl had lost both her lover as well as her father. People had returned to their lives, but what happened for the time they were away? Did their families and friends miss them, mourn or move on without them? No amount of erotica in the world could substitute for Cas the surety of another's physical presence. He somehow believes this young woman had felt the same, or she would not have helped them in the end.

Thinking of Dean, the way his eyes crinkle, the depth and richness of his laugh ...the way he focuses on others, on talking about what he'd done with Jack as if "it wasn't much, but I took him to Donatello," he says gruffly. "He says we just hafta keep an eye on the kid and guide him."

"So he isn't too far gone, and you are - and have been - an excellent source of guidance for him, Dean," the angel replies with the intensity of his feeling, and heat crawls up Dean's face as he ducks his head with a responding blush.

"I don't know about all that, but appreciate the vote 'a confidence, Cas."

"Of course," Castiel tells him, though he's aching with the wish to add on it's more than a vote of confidence, it is what I have seen, in evidence. I know you, Dean Winchester, and your heart is as loving as it is full of determination and devotion. As I wish to be full of your- he cuts his thoughts off, inhaling a hissing breath. Warmth, love, but how selfish is that? He has assisted Sam, and Dean has helped Jack; they both have taken care of the best part of the other (is how Cas feels, and he knows Dean well enough to know he would say the same). But his heart gives a pang as he thinks how he very nearly - he could have lost Sam to the piece of that man's mind.

It was only by talking of Dean, and Jack, of their family that had cleared the fog from Sam's mind; and he is grateful for it even as he feels at a low ebb. If he were in command of heaven's power in the manner he once had been, surely he could assist Jack and have instantly saved Sam.

\\\}^^{///

After the sight of Jack turning his pet snake to dust thoroughly unnerves him, Cas feels the clenching cold fear and fury that he associates with Dean in his despair over Sam - as he was when saying yes to be possessed by the Devil, or breaking down the wall within his head that helped house the damaged portion of his soul, or being plagued by the horrors of the Cage, and Lucifer.

He would not claim to feel what Dean can feel; he isn't human, after all - and Dean is the most feeling, the most selfless and loving of human beings besides. Cas only knows that he freezes, dread rooting his feet in place outside of Jack's door before he rips himself into motion thereafter. So to speak, at least; he has a better handle on such metaphors than on the meanings behind Dean's particular brand of idiom, he believes. He now strides swiftly down the hallway to reach Dean's room and stops, as unbidden his thoughts pinwheel into something akin to terror.

He doesn't want to distress Dean, or anger him. Cause him any sort of negative response to the time he and Jack had spent in going to see Donatello (which the angel is exorbitantly grateful for, as he saw something of Dean's initial... distrust of Jack, or -distaste. But Dean is loving, and nurturing, and it didn't take long after the start of Jack's decline in health for Castiel to see how much Dean cared). Of course, who wouldn't love Jack, once knowing him? A burst of pride in and affection for his son needles into and clashes with the sharp frigid pain of worry, and Castiel finds himself in stasis outside of Dean's door.

He doesn't know he makes a sound, but suddenly Dean is there, his door opening after the swift thuds of movement and running feet emanate. He wears socks, hair tufted and bleariness in his eyes of almost-reached sleep. At least it isn't morning and he hasn't been awakened, as Castiel has told Jack from experience that Dean is an angry sleeper. Like a bear.

As it is, Dean blinks as he stands with the flat of his palm holding open his door, opposite hand held back and a gun in it now lowering to rest back on top of his dresser. "Hey, Cas," Dean's voice is rough - perhaps from sleep, or the surprise of hearing the high, brief broken sound that had exited Cas's mouth before he could stop it - but his eyes have narrowed, concern in body language as much as facial expression evident. He licks his lips and clears his throat. "What's goin' on, buddy? You okay?"

"I-" pressing his own lips together, eyes flickering to left and right before settling on Dean, the angel rocks on heels a bit. Awkward. He inhales past tightening in chest, and looks at Dean's dark shirt and slightly ragged at the edges pair of flannel shorts that, if he hadn't yet been sleeping, were just put on in order to sleep.

The shifting shuffles of his feet on floor as Dean curls his toes inward has Castiel's mind going - unfairly, he might add, in rather petulant fashion - to the thought of what he might say of Dean in any sort of - intimate - letters.

What he would be honored to say TO Dean, if there was ever, could ever be a chance.

But...he knows about his happiness. He knows, having made the deal. And yet, even knowing about it, he finds himself powerless to not accept Dean offering for Cas to enter his room with a jerk of head and a "well c'mon in here, pal."

\\\}^^{///

As the seraph stands inside Dean's room, rocking a bit on his heels, Dean looks at him expectantly.

"You wanna talk, or something, Cas?" Dean pauses still by the door, holding its handle as he waits and listens expectantly. His concern is evident as it always is, with the working of lips and pat to one of Cas's shoulders. It's an extension of his arm, at least, but he hesitates, fingers curling in, and Castiel aches to touch him.

He aches so much, he's started shaking, and Dean's face grows intent at that, his gaze flickering over the other before he pushes his door back to close it the rest of the way behind the pair of them and says "whoa, hey buddy, take it easy," his voice though gruff still soothes, and Castiel with difficulty keeps himself from whimpering at this man's decency and goodness "-why don't ya siddown? C'mere, come on." It's as if Dean murmurs assurance automatically, a hand to the angel's forearm as he guides him to the side of the bed, leaning over and grabbing a blanket to wrap around Cas's shoulders once he sits, and the angel recalls Dean wrapping him in such a blanket before, when he'd been - subsequent to laboring under a spell years ago. He had hurt Dean viciously whilst under that spell's influence, even after this selfless man had tried to help him deal with its effects.

Yet another thing he has yet to, but surely cannot atone for.

Dean is sitting across from him, now; he's grabbed his desk chair and dragged it close, hands drifting, fingers offering a little stroke to the tops of Cas's knees.

Castiel swallows, feels a burning in his throat, and in his eyes.

"I... almost lost Sam, on this hunt," he says.

Dean snorts "well yeah, but you got him outta the cardigan in the end," he's teasing, eyes crinkling in that way Cas likes to see, but he can't focus on it the way he would like to. Dean seems to notice, and grows serious. "Okay, well. Ya didn't lose him, so what's buggin' ya about this?"

"The fact that - it wouldn't have been to the mind control, if I had lost him. It was more - Sam seemed happy, Dean. It was a strange happiness, because he was so...unlike himself, and yet. He enjoyed the town, the bed and breakfast, the food there. He told me, he enjoyed the-"

"Apple-pie life," Dean is nodding, now. "Yeah, he would." Leaning back and resting arms behind his head for a bit, affecting nonchalance even with the increasingly heightened amount of tension in his shoulders, Dean licks his lips and adds "he's tried it a couple times already."

"And so have you," the angel speaks morosely. "And you would have that life, still, if I hadn't...meddled in things." He bows his head, folding his hands. If I were not such a useless angel and had simply followed orders without making caveats of my own -

"Whoa, hey," Dean is leaning closer to him again, actually shooting himself forward abruptly, dropping arms from behind his head and increasing Cas's ache with his proximity. He appears almost angry, and Cas can't blame him for it. He will lose Dean anyway, once his deal comes due. Why wouldn't he do so now? A pang shoots through his body and he winces, there is no denying it.

But he underestimates Dean Winchester.

Actually, that's untrue; he simply has never reached the point where Dean fails to surprise him.

"I told you to do the whole memory thing on Lisa and Ben, okay? That wasn't your fault, you - helped. And, c'mon, I wasn't - I ain't cut out for that kinda life anyway," Dean shrugs about it, but Castiel is sorrowful, because he thinks Dean is.

Wants him to be.

"You've done a lot of moving forward in this Bunker, Dean," he says instead.

"Yeah, I was nesting," there's a hint of brightness in Dean's eyes now, catching hints of gold in the chartreuse lit by light from his bedside table, as that is currently the only light source that illumes Dean's room. "-but hell, I barely know what I'm doing- aside from the cooking and making sure we get enough laundry done."

"Even, as you've told me, ironing your brother's shirts in beer," Cas reminds him.

Dean laughs aloud. "HA! I can't believe you remember that, classic."

"Of course I do, Dean," Cas replies to him without thinking. "I recall everything about you that you've shared with me."

Dean's eyes drop, hand rising to rub the back of his neck as his smile gets smaller, almost shy, except that Dean Winchester is never shy. "Uh - thanks," his voice almost seems to crack as his face flushes. "No clue why ya would, but hell, Jack seems to've decided he's gonna act as much like me as possible, so. He was sentimental because'a me, or at least he said he learned to dig the simple things in life because that's what I do. You believe that?" Dean laughs a little quieter, at himself this time. He shakes his head, drops hand from back of neck to rub at his face. "...after I was such a dick to him," he mumbles now, not quite looking at the angel. "Claimed you as his father, but I was too pissed that his birth dad had killed you and I couldn't-" Dean's voice cracks as his jaw muscle jumps. He breathes out a shaky hiss of air. He couldn't get past it, is basically what he'd yelled at Sam. You might be able to forget about it, but I can't!

Made that sweet kid's life hell, and now he's used his power so much to help them that he doesn't have his soul.

"He's always tried to prove himself to me, Jack," Dean adds. He sniffs, swipes at the skin under his eyes in rough fashion. Reminds me of you, that way, he thinks.

Castiel nods, as the words he'd just heard Jack speak to his snake before disintegrating its body into dust indicate that, as much as all else he knows about the nephil boy, as well as himself. His nod turns into a shiver as he wonders whether he should say something about such things, but a big part of him is tugging, urging him to be silent in order to protect Jack.

As Dean has just admitted, he held some strong opinions about the nephilim.

"You've done so much for him, though, Dean. Whereas I - just myself, couldn't reach Sam. I talked about you to him, Dean - you, and Jack. His family. That was what broke through the control upon his mind, for which I'm grateful, since I wasn't enough."

"Me too," Dean's voice is low and rough as he adds "but -just because you bein you didn't work for Sam, evidently, it doesn't mean you're not enough, buddy. Was Sammy just - not hearin` you, or somethin?"

Castiel squints, shifting his weight. His hands open and close on the edges of the blanket - a dark grey. Surely there are not an abundance of blankets in the Bunker, so it stands to reason the fact this is the same blanket Dean had wrapped, nearly swaddled him in nearly three years ago is not of import. He simply is making much out of nothing, and should stop. Instead, he slides his fingers along the stitches at its edge and finds a modicum of comfort in it, though he's no longer meeting Dean's eyes. "I said once, that- you and I have a more profound bond," his eyes flick upwards and then back down again as Dean's gaze is so forthright, direct with his eyebrows pinching together a little, that as if automatically angry facial expression that precedes him inhaling a breath and exploding with

"Yeah alright but that doesn't mean you can't help Sam at all, Cas, what the fuck -?"

"It does if I don't know him, Dean," Castiel's tone is a bite of gravel, like little rocks flying from beneath car tires to crack a windshield. "If I - as I couldn't even discern whether or not he had his soul when rescuing him from Perdition as I rescued you," Dean sucks in a heavy breath as Cas drops his chin to chest, lifting his face back upright whilst closing his eyes with a broken blurt of "as I clearly couldn't register that, how am I - how can I possibly do anything to assist Jack" his lips work soundlessly on my son "...now that he is soulless? Or, if he hasn't fully lost his soul, there's a difference. You can see it, feel it. You stood by Sam, and helped him. I - couldn't. I can't, and that makes me-"

Suddenly the angel is stopped from speaking. Dean's hands are cupping his face, one shifting to cover his lips with fingers, and then Dean's voice is throaty on "Cas." His eyes are wide, warm and open as much as the skin of his forehead has grown smoother once more.

Dean's thumbs shift and he strokes them back and forth across the angel's cheeks as he leans face close, licks his lips. Voice a near-whisper, "Yeah, alright I've been through it with Sammy bein' soulless, but ya still helped him. Doesn't matter how ya needed to do it, what matters is you did. An'if we got that more profound bond or whatever - it's a good thing." He smiles, a little. Eyes crinkle even as he seems to look a little hesitant. His thumbs move in more gentle swipes across Cas's sharp cheeks. In a face broadened by age, even as no longer a vessel's, but his own - Dean clears his throat, shakes his head. Lets out a little chuckle, seeming to deal with a thickness in his throat as he clears it and swallows several times. His bare knees brush Cas's clothed ones as he cocks an eyebrow. "... You were the one who told me that," voice deep, quiet. Gaze steady as he drops his eyes to catch Cas's, "... you said good things happen. Right?" His question seems unsure, and squeezes Castiel's heart with the pain of that insecurity. He reaches out to Dean, then, automatically seeking to comfort him.

Slim, strong fingers lace with and curve around Dean's, and he jerks against them as slowly the angel lifts his own eyes back up. "Yes, I did," voice matching Dean's in volume, if dropping past his register in roughness.

His intonation and belief is earnest, though. "I still think - and firmly believe - they do," Castiel offers. You did. You are And then his tongue fumbles out the words "You happened, after all. You - you've happened to me."

\\\}^^{///

Dean stares. He seems a little vacant, almost; lifting chin in a nod as his lips slightly twitch as they part, and he slowly ducks his head. "Ah, well. I mean, you hadta get me seein' as I was the righteous man an' all. Same as you havin'to see me as good," he lifts his head up, shaking it as he lets out a quivering breath. "You've always believed I'm better than I actually am."

"That's not true, Dean," Castiel tells him, squeezing Dean's fingers. "I know of you exactly as you are, and as you deserve."

Everything. You deserve all that is good and bright. You deserve to be happy. I am happy when with you, he wants to say, but stills at the thought and notion. He desperately does not want the Empty to take him.

Dean shakes his head, withdrawing his hands as his shoulders hunch and he tucks himself in; a physical representation of his negation of Cas's words. The seraph aches to see it, and his own grasp tightens.

"Dean, I've seen your very soul," Cas tries instead. "Its light was and has always been the brightest I've ever encountered, ever since I initially saw it. Saw you."

Dean's eyes squeeze shut as he shakes his head jerkily. "Cut the crap, Cas," he breathes out just shaky enough as to not sound as though he's seething. "You know how things went down in Hell, you saw what I -"

Cas takes his turn to stop the movement of Dean's mouth with his fingers. Far softer than the first time he put his hand over Dean's mouth upon dragging him to the wall in the green room before Sam broke the final seal that would free Lucifer. It was so long ago, but as he covers Dean's lips this time, the man shakes, eyes wide and dark and ... helpless, as they had not been back then.

Or at least, had not appeared to be so. "You did what you had to," the seraph tells him. "And I saw you as I always have," his voice is a gentle growl as Dean shivers, Cas's words brushing his lips even as tips of his fingers trace, hand dropping away from Dean's mouth as Castiel speaks again. "You are beautiful, Dean Winchester." And I love you.

The words are there, in his head as much as his heart as Dean shudders, letting out a soft mewling whine in response, eyes tracking as if from one to the other of Castiel's before dropping to his mouth. Dean wets those plump lips with tip of his tongue. His face is flushed, eyes wide. "Damn, Cas," he croaks. "You mean it."

Castiel tilts his head. "Of course I mean it," and then as if in conversation both typical and easy between them, containing nothing of the ends of things, nor any worries of the past or the future "I love you, Dean," he adds now. Seriously, but with a catch in throat and burning eyes nonetheless. He doesn't know what, with this information, Dean will do.

He sees Dean's eyebrows shoot up almost to hair and then feels hands on sides of his neck, and once more carefully touching his face. Dean's gaze is vivid, his voice heaving as his hands, the grips of his fingers tighten. "Cas -"

The angel doesn't move; he can't. As much as he cannot imagine the response, he cannot move closer or away; simply staying once more in stasis, as if his body is a magnet to Dean's lodestone.

A grunt, and lunge, and Dean's lips press to Castiel's lips in searing fashion. Hands' grasp slide upwards to fist in the angel's hair. Cas's eyes flutter shut as he gasps and then tone drops into something wrecked and deep, nearly a moan, as Dean's lips and tongue touch, as his strong hands hold him, body pressing forward, curling over and settling on top of Cas and back into bed.

Cas whines, looking up at Dean; the blanket has fallen from around his body and he is shaking, though not from cold.

His voice is wrecked and body trembling as he nearly whimpers out a desperate "Dean." Wanting to assure, to stay, to ask - to let this man know that he is the most wonderful human being, the most selfless and loving, that the angel Castiel has ever known.

He half expects - more than half expects - the Empty to come for him. For his deal to come due even as Dean now kisses him, and he Dean. He gasps and wraps arms hesitantly, careful. Not daring to allow his hands to fall and clutch at Dean's shoulders or head or any portion of his body. Not yet. He is regretting his deal, has never regretted making it more, but still Dean holds on to him.

And the Empty is not appearing. Dean's lips are moving, his teeth now finding Cas's skin, lavishing the tiniest of nips and trails of tender presses of mouth to lips and cheek and chin, dragging to just beneath the lobe of one ear "Oh -okay, Cas," Dean's breaths are heavy and hot, air tickling inside the angel's ears as the sound of Dean's rapid pants of breath send shivers across his neck. He twists and twines his legs with Dean's, feeling as much as seeing the other smile as his lips continue to press and release, groans shaking out of his throat as he tries to speak. "It's -"

Dean's body is buzzing, a thrill goes through him at the unguarded and adoring way Castiel is gazing at him, spots on his cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling and that morose manner finally nowhere to be seen.

Wrapping his arms tightly around the angel, Dean presses lips to and breathes against his skin the best promise, as well as acceptance of what Cas said, that he can make.

"It's alright, sunshine," he whispers. "I'm here. I've gotcha."

Castiel expels a high sound, nodding, utterly in Dean's thrall.

The Empty has not appeared, not yet. Is he to...can he possibly dare to hope its darkness won't come for him at all?

Chapter Text

A canopy of leaves under an oppressive grey and grimdark sky, gnarled trunks, colors washed-out and faded - though whether or not such things as trees can be living in any way here is not something the angel Castiel is certain of.

The only knowledge he held (for certain, during and as a result of his time in purgatory before) was that this is a land of abominations. And now, the abomination is him - never right, always going wrong, causing pain in Michael as much as he'd pained the entire Host of Heaven before destroying so, so very many of them. As he continues his wanton path of destruction.

As he continues destroying Dean.

He allows himself to be taken prisoner by the Leviathan, because he deserves it. Deserves it even more than the penance he'd attempted to perform when here before. He knows the only thing he can still do, the path he takes is for Dean Winchester.

He can keep Dean safe, and in doing so also assist Sam by gathering the ingredients for this spell. He can do what he must, though he has no one; even Jack would be better off without him; at least he would be safer, as surely he shall be once this spell is done.

He almost wishes to be taken by the Empty, but is so far from happy.

Everything here is shades of grey and black, even the flora and fauna. He remembers as much as notes it now, the cloying scent of ancient rotted and still-rotting ground, the only richness in moist wetness of blood. Even the water rushing through rivers shines dull and flat, a whiteness in it. Monochromatic. As though a constant haze of ash or dirt drifts through the air, tinting, tainting everything.

Or rather, rendering this place as tainted as Castiel himself is.

For tainted he is, to Dean, and that is all he knows. All he can know, or cares to, though heaviness aches within that seems immense enough to swallow him. As he walks he wishes to be swallowed here; taken into the Empty's choking black liquid goo, its nothingness rising to enwrap him. He hears an echo of its sentiments to him, sounding and resounding. Taunting from a distance.

I've seen who you love. You are wrong, for him. You are nothing to him. Only a source of pain. There is nothing left for you.

Its words are twisted as much as taunting; they echo through his mind as he slogs, head low as he shuffles more than marches in the midst of these leviathan.

To reach Eve. They are taking him to Eve.

How fitting, then, it would be to see her in a mother's form, to see Mary Winchester again, one last time. To pinwheel into sight, here, amongst packed brown dirt and valleys choked with vines, hills covered with thick shrubs and jagged rocks… knobbly roots poke up out of the ground at every perfect opportunity to trip up anyone who is walking. Thick trees with disintegrating leaves fallen in the loam around them cause a sharp smell, almost sweet like blood but with the catching in one's throat that mould and fungus has.

Flowering vines choking the life out of another tree close by the path they are walking catch the angel's attention. The colors are bright, their buds a rich purple-red. Startling, and nearly beautiful compared to the rest of this dingy place. Still washed-out, but visible and familiar.

They are what he needs, what he is here for.

Fuzzy vine and dark petals, pink tinged with red - deep green tendrils put him in mind of a pair of eyes, gleaming brighter than everything in this place, as bright as the soul to whom they belong. He tries to push thoughts away, he does not deserve to think of them, of Dean.

A sick and twisting agony stabs inside him, as his hurt festers in response to Dean's anger, his viciousness borne with the life of a hunter and the fatherhood of John Winchester.

The one and only aspect Castiel esteemed about that man (other than his part in creating Dean) was his handwriting. And when reading it, he had understood the wrath of God and his orders to avenging angels, though he would bring the wrath upon one human being for his treatment of another, for the one Castiel loves.

And that, he knows, is blasphemous.

Something of that blasphemy sparks and seems brighter than all else that he has seen in Purgatory thus far. It seems to color his vision - and then a sound, a touch skittering across the flayed raw edges of his oft-depleted, embattled and embittered grace catches his attention. Grabs it, more like; jolting as from how humans would to an electric shock.

A voice that speaks desperate words, and then calls his name. In manner ... questioning. Hesitant.

A voice he never thought to hear raised in prayer to him again.

No, oh, no no no. -Cas?

The angel nearly sinks to his knees, lets out a silent gasp as his legs lock and nearly buckle as they feel like liquid, boneless. He knows that is impossible save for in the application of a spell, and Rowena had not cast anything upon them. No; she simply told them to talk. In her particular way.

It's Dean's voice, now. Talking to him. Praying. In manner almost... tentative, which screeches through Cas's grace and in his head as being wrong, antithetical to the bright and fierce being that is Dean Winchester. It strikes the angel that he'd run from Dean. From Jack, and that could tear away the tenuous peace they'd formed, or it could not. Of, if Dean could come to see Jack for who he is, without Castiel's influence... Without the wrong that's always him, has always corrupted Dean's view, causing that gorgeous soul to flare into anger.

And yet, this isn't anger manifesting through the bond of grace and soul. Dean isn't bitter or furious...no, his tone is focused. Desperate on the words:

Cas, I hope you can hear me. That wherever you are... it's not too late.

A ragged breath. The weight of sorrow, building like a wave about to crash in and obliterate any single semblance of calmness, of comfort. Cas wishes not for the first time that he could reach back to Dean - that there was a two-way connection through prayer, as there was with angel radio.

Yet if there was, he cannot be sure... Would Dean keep talking, if he was to start speaking?

Dean's voice is lower, now. Breaking in prayer, wobbling with emotion.

I should've stopped you. You're my best friend, but I just let you go... Because it was easier than admitting I was wrong.

A thickness, choking. A swallow, a breath. He almost feels the stinging of tears, the thud of Dean's heart. I can hear you, Dean, and I haven't left, he wants to say; but finds himself nearly frozen, listening.

He aches for Dean, for the way he is trying to keep control, to get through to Castiel. But his voice is breaking as his head is bowing, and he drops to his knees. Braces side of fist to the bark of a tree, shifting gun in readiness, glancing around where he is. Cas senses these minute things as much as he feels Dean's guilt dragging at him, threatening to pull him down like a whirlpool or riptide.

He sounds desperate. Dean is desperate, and the next moment has his voice wet and choked and oh-so quiet on words Castiel cannot be sure that he actually does hear.

I loh - starting and then the thoughts shift, change to him explaining himself, in a manner and with a desperate vulnerability that makes Castiel's heart ache. I don't know why I get so angry, Dean confesses in the way a believing man might speak to a priest in the act of confession. But no man has felt for his priest the pointed amount of feeling Dean currently has. The angel is almost certain of this, and yet he is frozen and cannot believe...

I know that it's – I just know that it's always been there. Dean grits his teeth, forcing words through, the angel can hear it after speaking through tears with the tenor of a child asking why? And whenever things get bad, it just – it comes out. And I can't -- I can't stop it. No matter how bad I want to, I...

The ache he's felt for Dean, deadening he's forced to numb himself with, is now trickling away. A cold he hasn't allowed himself to focus on, to feel, is receding. Calming him as much as calling to him. It's as if warmth could grow, somehow; if something else could, can grow in a place like this. For them, between them? He half-expects to hear a bird start singing at the squeeze of hope he feels in his chest.

It spreads a warmth throughout his body as he hears

And I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. I'm sorry it took me so long t – I'm sorry it took me till now to say it. Cas, I- I'm so sorry.

The sound of Dean's voice in prayer is wobbling as well as thick, now. Man, I hope you can hear me. I hope you can hear me. Okay.

With the last, his desperation in words cuts off, his voice flat and focused again. And yet the tugging, the yearning that has been present in Dean's prayers since he first prayed to Cas with all sincerity... that is what causes Castiel to move. What has him swiping a Leviathan blossom and letting his angel blade drop into his hand; has him duck and move back into a crouch as he swipes fast and deadly as a soldier of heaven would do, before lunging forward to kick and slam foot into the chest of an abomination. Like him and unlike him, to stab blade through face and clamp grasp to smite another, holding, crushing flower to his chest with an arm as tightly as he would Dean, as he yearns to do for Dean, to keep him close and safe from all the struggles of the world, protected. Secure.

He cannot be everything he was meant to for the host of heaven; perhaps he never could. But for Dean Winchester he wants to be, to do something good. To be anything but what goes wrong. Curling hand carefully around the blossom now spattered with leviathan blood, the seraph carefully tucks it into his coat.

\\\}^^{///

Less than three minutes on their timer has Dean moving quick, eyes scanning around as his heartbeat ratchets up. He keeps searching, checking; and then as he comes level with a particular tree, he hears movement as well as Cas's voice saying

"Dean," prompting the automatic raising of his gun before he turns and sees the angel, hunched and a little worse for wear, leaning against the bole of a tree.

"Cas?" It's full of wonder, the way he speaks Cas's name. It makes a flutter engulf the angel's form in its entirety, not simply the remnants of his wings.

"You made it," his tone is rough as he feels the sheer brightness of Dean's soul sparking out relief.

"I made it?" Dean practically scoffs the words as the angel gets, swaying slightly, to his feet. "You -"

Dean moves forward with a grunt, mouth pressed shut on jaw trembling as they hug. He feels Cas rest against him, head turned to one side, sagging, almost, albeit briefly against Dean's shoulder.

Pushing back but still holding Cas's shoulder and offering to it a pat, "You okay?" Dean asks.

"Yes, I'm fine." The angel speaks gravely, keeping himself still and unsmiling with extreme difficulty. This is Dean worried, this is his loving nature once more on display. Gone is the spitting vitriol, the dead-eyed stares at and past him. The roughness of refusal, to be what they are to one another. What they have always been, even though knowing surely since the initial time in this realm - part of the way Castiel kept apart from Dean was in his recognition of his feelings for him, and knowing he did not deserve to have them. He needed to remain alone, to do penance; he was an abomination.

That he may still be, but Dean is here. Dean cares about him, for him enough to - bless Castiel with his affection, though the angel would never vocalize such a description to Dean, as he knows all-too-well the man's struggle with faith and divinity (as much, and more, than such descriptions thereof).

"What the hell happened?" Dean demands now, that wonderful voice cutting into the angel's thoughts.

"They ...were after me, not you. I figured it would be safest to give myself up." He pauses, hearing himself across the years I had to keep them away from you!

He wonders if Dean understands, now. If he will be angry, remembering. But evidently, he still has the capacity to be surprised by Dean Winchester.

Dean merely nods once, beautiful eyes full of nothing but understanding. "They take you to Eve?" He asks.

And at that, Castiel feels himself relax, feels his worries ease. He is explaining, and Dean is listening. This is not about what Dean wants him to do or who it is best for him to be. This is about what he has done because of who, and what, he is. "Yeah. We were en route. I waited until I... saw this," wincing a little he pulls the blossom from inside his coat. "It got a little smushed," he offers. Not quite apologetic, but almost.

Dean chuckles a little, sound as wondrous to hear as his awe after Cas tells him that he fought, catching the Leviathan off-guard. "They fought back, but... I managed to get away."

Manner in which he stands, favoring one leg, and the slightly ginger way he holds himself tell Dean this.

He wants to hold Cas, to check him for injuries and sew him up with stitches and hell, maybe even lips and words. But all he can currently say, with every bit of what he feels for, all his gratitude and care about the angel infuses "You did it. You did it, Cas."

Cas drops his eyes and shifts them, presses together his lips. He seems awkward with the praise, maybe even discomfited. Dean's chest aches to see it, even as he understands. Hell, he gets exactly what the guy is trying to do by telling him "Well, they're still after me, we should go." In response.

Dean gets it, but there's something else he needs Cas to get. "Alright. Cas, I need to say something."

"You don't have to say it," the angel assures him. "I heard your prayer."

Dean blinks, nods, draws back his chin and Castiel releases his shoulders, begins to turn. He gave Dean the ability to remain comfortable, to not have the need to be so vulnerable, but suddenly a hard huff of breath and hand reaching out, gripping his arm just under the elbow, precedes "No," Dean turns him, licks his own lips and looks at Cas, eyes wide and unguarded. "No, you didn't hear this, what else I've gotta say, man."

"Time is running out, Dean," Cas says gently. Heart feels as though it is tearing open, pouring blood. Oh, how much he wants to lean into Dean's touch, or turn into it. In to him.

He pats a hand on Dean's briefly instead and, heart twisting, adds "...we have to help Sam." Because he knows that will galvanize Dean when nothing else can. It is a catalyst, a spark to ignite inferno, not merely flame.

And thus it seems as though a deluge of darkness douses Castiel as Dean says "We c'n walk an' talk. Come on, Cas." Tugging on his arm, keeping grasp there, Dean tightens his fingers as he pulls Cas close, holding him as tightly as one would, perhaps, to a - he can hardly think the word, it barely whispers in his head, even as the last age he was upon Earth, when he inhabited a female vessel surely could have utilized such a description - lover in a bygone age.

He cannot help it, now; with sap from crushed leviathan flower and the scent of blood in his nose, Castiel feels the warmth of Dean Winchester's hand beneath his fingers, the tightness with which he now grips and tugs Dean's grasp to hold within his own, head already buzzing with the wonder of what else Dean has to tell him.

Chapter Text

Dean holds onto Cas's arm, inhaling through his nose and licking his lips as he pans eyes around, still holding the gun that is too long and friggin cumbersome for just one hand, honestly, but - he can't let go.

Not even that.

He doesn't wanna let go.

Feels like his heart beats in his fingers as he swallows, as then he says "Cas, uh. I've-we've had some hard times, man, an' this ain't meant to be a pity-party so don't you dare start doin' somethin' like you do -apologizin' for shit, I just." He sighs, his brow drops, and his tone roughens. "I've been a real dick to you about things. Things you knew about, maybe, but I knew about em too, I just wouldn't let myself think out all the crap I knew could happen. Like I - I knew Jack was getting bad, he was havin' trouble controlling his power anyway and the whole not havin' a soul..." Dean's voice goes quieter as he offers a squeeze to the angel's elbow now. Cas's body stiffens, he feels it. He feels the guy get on edge, and even feels as much as sees in the angel's eyes, the tinge of regret and self-loathing and defeat. That stuff all comes in, threatening to pile on, but Dean isn't gonna let it happen.

He grips and shakes the angel's arm sharply.

"I'm saying I shouldn't 've blamed you, man. Shouldn't have told you that if he..." his voice fails before he blinks away burning tears and continues "if he did somethin' to Mom that YOU were dead to me, because - if that-" Dean chokes on his words, drops his head. He feels Cas turn, feels those eyes on him, worried, but he waves the concern away. "I'm good, I just. Need ya to know that was -horseshit, what I said. 'Cause there's no way I'd be able to even handle you bein' dead to me, not while you're still here. I couldn't even take it when you -" Dean inhales through his mouth, an almost whistling slow breath before blinking hard, clearing his throat. "When you were- whenever you were gone." Dead. "Ya don't know how much that tore me -" up inside, "absolutely to hell." I couldn't sleep or eat and you know how nuts that is, his lips nearly twitch even as his eyes are flat and full, glistening with sorrow. He blinks as he feels that damn tear bead up and start to fall. He sniffles, reaches up and swipes at his face, his nose with a jerk of the arm.

He still hasn't let go of Cas, his fingers now rubbing circles through coat and shirt, hoping to reach his skin as much as reach the guy with what he's saying. What he's trying to say. "I need you, buddy," Dean speaks gruffly. "And I don't mean I need you to- do anything. Just to ...just to be here" with me. "And stick around." He feels himself sweating, prickles of moisture at the nape of his neck and edge of his hair. And - to stay. Please, stay. "I'm so fuckin sorry I ever made you think you hadta leave. That isn't what I wanted, friggin -ever." You're my best friend, Cas. You're ...more. Dean swallows, blinking hard and desperately, his vision blurring, a tear sliding down his nose. "You keep me goin' as much as you save me, pal. Which is a l- which is all the damn time."

Cas is looking at him with an expression damn near to his squinty-eyes-and-tilting-head look. Those sky blues are quizzical, and Dean swears quietly. He's got to make the guy understand -

Again, Dean swallows hard. "I keep sayin' you're like our brother, Cas - but you're not, to me. You're -"

"You said I was your best friend, in your prayer," Castiel speaks quietly, and Dean starts nodding rapidly. Sweet sonofabitch giving him a lifeline, and he probably doesn't even know it.

"Yeah, exactly," Dean catches his breath. They've reached the area of the portal now, and he scans around again for signs of leviathan or anything else, but sees naught for the moment but that shimmer of dark blue and white that strikes him in the chest with familiarity, with the last time he'd been with Cas here, and the guy had ripped himself away and bellowed for Dean to go.

No. This time he ain't going. Not without saying this, getting across what he needs to.

Not without Cas.

He's staring at the angel, now; devouring the dude with his eyes, and alright, there's some begging in there too, begging the guy to get it, to understand what he means.

"Cas," spinning his body and sliding opposite hand to hold the back of the angel's coat, shifting shotgun to keep upright and distant enough so it doesn't hit the guy, Dean takes his hand from Cas's arm and grabs his face, thumb to cheek, fingers extended and pushing through hair. His eyes track across the angel's face and then he comes in, tilting face, nose brushing along Cas's cheek. With a thready inhale he presses his lips to Castiel's. Grabs at the angel's clothes and face and hair, feeling Cas's closeness, that same hint of relaxation with which he had sagged, during their hug, into Dean.

Despite the fact the angel has been so focused on procuring the ingredients for the spell and keeping thoughts on providing the necessary assistance, and possible rescue...

Cas is frozen in the moment, here; his eyes shoot wide and then flutter closed at the sight of Dean's lashes spread down across his freckled cheeks. He hears the rapidity of Dean's breaths through nostrils and then feels the soft yet insistent presses of plump lips. Dean has kissed him before, but not like this; not as if the kissing is speaking, as if this is meant as the culmination of something, of everything.

Grasp of his hand has traveled down Cas's side, sliding under his trenchcoat to grip ribs, and then hip, to tug the angel flush to him even as Dean drops his lips from the seraph's now and rests together their foreheads, exhaling another shaky breath. He's withdrawing, his entire body trembling. There are tremors in his fingers' grasp, and Castiel says "Dean." Drops one of his hands to cover Dean's, and then with the other cups his face, traces his lips. He blinks and lifts eyes to meet Dean's.

Dean gulps and says "Brothers don't do that," his voice is quiet and so, so rough. "Brothers don't even think about it, an' you and I - uh." Dean falters with his cheeks now burning red.

Castiel nods at him in understanding and hand fisting sharply in the cloth of Dean's clothes, the angel tugs at the man's shirt and drags his body even closer. Dean's eyes widen as he expels sound in half-grunt, half-whine. "I'd love nothing more than to continue this, but we have to get back, Dean. We have to do this spell and spare the world from God. -I can't believe...," He shakes his head, eyes widening in wonder.

Dean almost chuckles, one side of his mouth lifts. "Can't believe you're sayin' this, huh? Who'd a thought Chuck would be -"

"Such a capricious god?" Cas asks.

"I was gonna say, who'd a thought he'd be such a dick, but sure. Capricious works too." He winks at the angel. "You an' your big dorky words," though his tone is light and teasing, Dean's gaze is so warm and fond that it makes Castiel's heart flutter.

They've stepped back from one another and turned, reaching the portal itself now, and Dean extends his hand. They are still so close as to be bumping shoulders, but Cas doesn't hesitate to reach back. He threads their fingers together as Dean runs his thumb across skin of their joined hands and squeezes.

"I'm with you," he says, voice retaining a hint of roughness. "-we got this. Let's go kick it in the ass."

"As I am with you, Dean," Castiel replies. And he shall be, for as long as he can.

"Let's go."