Pull Me Under - AwesomeDistractions (2024)

Chapter 1: Nothing Else Matters

Chapter Text

Dean wasn't exactly sure how they'd gotten to this point.

He was sitting there in Rufus's cabin and staring at his cell phone, willing it to just ring, dammit. He hadn't heard from or seen Cas since their Loony Tunes adventure, and it'd already been three days... Which, admittedly, considering it was Castiel, wasn't the longest time he'd disappeared for, but--

Dammit, Dean just wanted to know he was alright. Freakin' angel.

It was hard for him to shake that incessant desire of making sure he knew Cas was okay. After all of that time spent in Purgatory; the endless searching, hunting, killing, looking for some sign that he was there-- that he was alive. And when he climbed out and spent all of that time trying not to blame himself for Cas not making it out with him, telling himself that it wasn't his fault... The relief he felt when the angel popped up and showed him the truth, that Castiel felt as though he needed to serve his penance... It was drowned out, though, by the looming question of "What the hell pulled him outta there?" Not knowing was making Cas's absence even more nerve-wracking. What if whatever got him out did it for a darker reason, instead of peace and love and all that crap? None of them were ever brought back just 'cause. What if it had plans for him, wanted to use him and his knowledge of-- well, everything? Cas couldn't go through that again, and Dean wanted to be there to make sure nobody could get their grubby mits on the guy.

If only Cas would freakin' call--

The sound of a rustle in the sudden wind and the distinct smell of ozone and lightning were the only warnings Dean received before the familiar deep voice rang in the air around them.

"Dean."

With one word, Dean felt all of the tension, all of the worry drain out of him the second he felt it reverberate in his ears. He didn't speak immediately, just let the relief wash over him before he could even dare look up and meet that cerulean stare.

"Cas," he finally responded, hoping it'd sound like a simple greeting, but able to feel the heaviness in the single syllable.

Okay, so he was kind of angsting over the guy. He was his friend. He was worried. It's not like the guy had abandoned him; he just stayed behind for a few days, probably did a little "grace-searching" or whatever the angel equivalent was for hippie Buddhist meditation or whatever. It wasn't any reason to sound so... forlorn, though, Jesus.

The corners of Castiel's mouth quirked up in the barest of smiles, but it was something, and it made the knot in his stomach unfurl even more so. "How are you, Dean?" The angel asked, stepping forward and taking a seat in the chair across from him at the table. It was such a mundane act, so simple, and he couldn't help but take note of the fact that Cas was appearing more and more human ever since he came back. Like he appreciated the small things humanity offered, the minute reprieves and actions those in this realm had the luxury of taking advantage of instead of spending every waking moment running for your life, killing the things-that-go-bump-in-the-night first before they can kill you.

Dean swallowed and allowed himself to really absorb the fact that he hadn't worried himself into delusional behavior and that this was really happening. "I'm fine," he replied, tone almost terse through his suddenly dry throat. He coughed once and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms and stretching his legs out in front of him. Cas didn't flinch or move away when Dean's calves brushed against his own. "I'm fine," he said again, voice sounding much more sure this time. "You?"

Castiel's brow furrowed and he looked upon Dean with confusion and that familiar tilt of his head. "You seem... concerned about something," he said suddenly, ignoring Dean's question. "Is there something the matter?" He took a second to break their locked gazes and look around the room as if he hadn’t taken notice of his surroundings until that moment before meeting his eyes again. "Where is Sam? Did something happen?"

Dean shook his head and bumped his leg against one of Cas's in a sign of reassurance. "Nah, he's okay; he just went out to do laundry and grab a bite to eat since he lost this week. He also owes me an extra slice of pie." He couldn't help but mention the pie with a nice, smug smile. He'd been waiting forever for Sammy to lose again, and it'd been almost as pathetically long since he had a delicious slice of dessert.

He wanted that damned pie.

Cas seemed even more confused by the answer, though, and took upon a look of deep concentration. Dean refrained from shifting uncomfortably under that heavy gaze, always feeling like it could see right through him whenever it was fixed upon him. "Oh," the angel said after a minute, once it finally dawned on him. His eyes shone bright with that same 'I Understand Now' look he'd developed when he suddenly comprehended one of the many meaningless things humans do to make life more complicated and interesting. "The game you and your brother frequently play involving a piece of parchment, a dual-bladed cutting utensil, and a stone symbolized by overly simplistic hand gestures. Sam finally lost, and now he must reward you with your favorite dessert and clean both yours and his soiled clothes." A tiny smile played on his lips. "I understand."

Dean did a double-take. "Dude," he said, clearly affronted, "don't say 'soiled' like that. It's not like we friggin' peed all over them! They're just, y'know, dirty."

Cas at least had the wherewithal to look slightly apologetic. "I am sorry. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable." Dean brushed it off with a vague gesture of his hand and took a sip of the beer he'd been nursing for the past while. "But, if your brother is safe and you have pie to look forward to," he began again, fixing Dean with a look of both curiosity and care, "what has you so concerned?"

"Nothing," he replied, too quick, too clipped. Cas could see right through him and Dean knew it. He could practically feel those intense eyes brushing over his mind and pulling out his secrets for the whole world to see. He broke their stares and took a long pull of his beer, maybe keeping it to his lips a bit longer so he didn't have to speak anymore.

"Dean," Castiel said, ever patient with him. "When I arrived, I could feel your worry as if it was a tangible force. Something must be--" And suddenly, it looked as though he'd come to another realization. Dean didn't pull the bottle away, regardless of how ridiculous he felt just holding it there.

The angel fidgeted in the wooden chair. "Is it because of me?" He asked after a moment, the whisper of the words practically booming in the sudden silence of the cabin. "Were you concerned about me?"

Dean didn't know if he was imagining it or not, but he thought he heard hopefulness in his friend's voice. "Maybe a little," he gruffly admitted, finally pulling the bottle away and setting it heavily upon the table. "You practically just got back, and it didn't feel right to just leave you there, even if you wanted to stay to watch over Fred or whatever."

Castiel gave him a warm smile, bigger than just the curl of the corners, but not a full-out grin. "Dean," he said, injecting that warmth into the single word and making Dean's chest clench strangely, "I appreciate that you are worried for my sake, but I am fine. There were a few things I needed to... Mull over." And f*ck if Dean didn't see the almost imperceptible twitch of the angel's hands as though he were about to lift them and make air quotes. The thought almost brought a smile to his face. "I said I couldn't keep running from my past anymore, but that doesn't mean I can return to Heaven, either. I..." Cas looked down at his hands folded upon his lap. He suddenly looked very small, almost fragile. "I need to... I need to think about what I want to do; I know I still need to help people, and I would like to continue to assist you and Sam along your hunts, but... I don't feel I have completely served my penance just yet. I think... I think it'd be best if I..."

Dean hung on to every word, the uneasiness in his stomach rekindling. He was all for Cas clearing his conscience and trying to make up for his mistakes, but... He could feel the words bubbling up before he could stop them. "What, you think it'd be best if you run off and join a convent or something?"

Confusion. "Dean, convents are for nuns. My vessel is not a female, and therefore cannot--"

"Become a priest, whatever," Dean snapped.

Castiel took a deep breath, the first real falter in his usual mask of calm stoicism. "Maybe," he admitted with a hint of frustration. "I'm not sure. I don't know what I think is best yet."

Dean scoffed and didn't reply. Castiel's blue eyes hardened and became more intense in a way that sent prickles along the back of Dean's neck, and he could sense the sudden thickness in the air. "What?" It sounded more like a demand than anything. "Dean, I do not appreciate your attitude regarding this situation. I would think that you would be glad that I am trying to consider all possibilities, that I am trying to look at this from every angle--"

"And what angles are those, huh?" Dean retorted. Just stop. Dean didn't want to do this. He had been enjoying the relief pooling in his core at seeing his friend safe and sound, knowing that nothing had gotten to him. But he couldn't stop himself from voicing these stupid thoughts. Cas is safe, outta Purgatory, sane once again, free of God-powers and Leviathan alike, and now... Now he suddenly didn't need them anymore, was that it? He didn't want to be around them? Dean didn't know where this fear had come from, and hating it, he knew it was a fear. After everything, Cas was just going to leave? Maybe he'd return to the wife he'd had-- what was her name? Daphne?-- when he had recreated himself as Emmanuel, when he'd forgotten everything he'd done-- to the world and to Sam, when he'd been blissfully ignorant of what he was and what he'd become, when he'd forgotten about angels and demons and the apocalypse and being a fake God-- when he'd forgotten about Dean. And it stung. The pain curled around his insides, nestled in deep along with all the other pains Dean preferred to bottle down and drown with booze and easy lays-- not that he'd been participating much in the latter, but that was beside the point.

Cas didn't take any time before responding blunt and to the point. "The ones where I consider what is best for you and your brother, Dean. The ones where I consider what happens if I stay after--" for a second, there was no other sign of Cas's struggle for the words other than the repetitive bob of his adam's apple. "-- after everything I've done to you both," he finished lamely.

Dean's grip tightened on his beer bottle, and for a second there, he would have welcomed the sharp dig of the glass splintering beneath his fingers. That pain deep within him, a pain reserved specifically for the angel before him, writhed in his middle and swam its way to his esophagus, burrowing within itself to form a lump for him to choke on. "So, you think Sam and I can't take it? You think we'd rather have you run away, like a coward, than see your face? To be reminded of everything you did?"

Cas ripped his gaze away guiltily. "Not running away," he corrected through clenched teeth as his hands curled into white-knuckled fists in his lap. "I'm not running away." Those cerulean eyes met his once more, and there was an undefinable fire burning beneath him.

Shut up, keep making him angry, stop it, push him away, tell him you want him to stay, remind him how badly he f*cked up, remind him that we've all f*cked up. Dean choked on it all, his thoughts warring within him. He wasn't any good at this. He just wanted to know Cas was okay, he just wanted to see him and to be reassured that he really was back and not once again a tool for another evil.

"I just need..." The angel's shoulders slumped with defeat, and the weary look upon his face reminded Dean all too much of the expression he'd made when they'd trapped in the flames of holy oil. "I just don't know what to do."

"So you think it's best to go off and deal with this by yourself? Haven't you learned a friggin' thing yet? Jesus, man, why don't you just ask for help like a normal person?" Dean didn't need the exasperated glare to remind him that Cas wasn't a normal person. "Are you ever just gonna ask me for help if you need it, Cas?" Before he could shut himself up to keep the words from spilling out, he knew he was encroaching even more so on the real matter at hand, one he'd have given anything to keep from addressing right now-- right ever. "It just seems like you'll go to everyone but me." He knew part of him was exaggerating, that Crowley wasn't everyone, but damn if Dean didn't feel that way at the time.

And there it was, the look of hurt lining the angel's face as his mask slipped even further out of his grasp. There was a certainty in his eyes, though, as he locked them onto Dean's. That fire within them intensified, bordered on desperate. "It will always be you, Dean," he uttered, a thickness in his voice that grated against Dean's heart and made him want to hit something for the hell of it. He had a feeling they weren't on the same topic anymore, and he really didn't want to deal with this right then. "I will always choose you," Cas said again, leaning forward in his seat closer to Dean, as though if he just looked hard enough at Dean he could burn his sincerity into his being.

Dean couldn't accept those words, though. "You didn't when it came to winning over Heaven and booting Raphael's ass out. When it came to either coming to me or making a deal with friggin' Crowley, of all the scumbags on this planet!"

And there it was once again, out in the open.

He watched as Cas wrestled with the words stuck on his tongue, his eyes glassy and almost begging, full to the brim and then some with seemingly endless anguish. They stared into Dean with the weight of it all, pleading for him to just understand all of the things his mouth couldn't even begin to translate into speech.

Dean was a hairsbreadth from taking the words back, from grabbing onto the lapels of Cas's ridiculous trenchcoat and tugging him to his chest with all the force he had in his body. He wanted to wrap himself around the angel like a cocoon, keep him as close and as safe as he possibly could for-- well, forever. He wanted to tell him how much he f*cking missed the sonofabitch and how much he blamed himself for everything and that if he'd just paid a little more attention instead of being so wrapped up in his own crap and always waiting so hard for the other shoe to drop that he might as well have toed it off himself...

If, maybe after Sam had taken the nosedive into the cage with Michael and Lucifer, when they were in the Impala together and he was rolling his promise to his brother around in his head...

Maybe if he'd just put it all on the backburner and asked Cas if he'd stick around for a little while, maybe kick back with a couple of cold beers with him...

Maybe if he'd just tried harder to make sure Cas knew that Dean really was his friend, really did think of him as family, that he really would be there for him if he ever needed help...

But Dean wasn't that type of guy; Dean didn't do those kinds of things.

The words didn't come. Instead of holding the angel against him, telling him that it was all okay, that he suffered enough, that Dean didn't hate him, could never hate him no matter what Dean said or how overemotional he got despite (because of?) how hard he shoved everything down and out of the way instead of talking about it like a normal person...

Or a girl.

They both sat there, each gazing at the other with mirrored expressions, needing the other to know, to listen, regardless of whether or not the words were spoken aloud.

"I," a syllable finally escaped from Cas's lips. His mouth opened and closed a few more times, his mask of stoicism long since shattered and replaced by a look of desperation so human Dean wanted to scream at the wrongness of it. "I was trying--"

"Trying to what?" Dean snapped without realizing it. "To spare me? Spare me from what? 'Cause I think we both know how well that turned out." The words escaped his mouth without a second thought. He wanted to hit himself for it, for the pain he saw etching its way across his friend's face. His brain was running on auto-pilot, though, and he knew it was out of fear; Fear of what they were doing, what was happening; fear of what had already happened; fear of whether or not he and Cas could ever truly be the same again-- hell, if Cas would ever be the same again.

Fear of never seeing another look on the angel's face other than pain and self-loathing and a darkness so deep it was as though all the grace he'd ever had had been ripped from him and replaced with an unfathomable ocean of guilt.

Fear that those big blue eyes would never stare at him again for far too long to be comfortable for anyone else but them, that he'd never see them crystal clear with thoughts and emotions and other things he tried his damndest not to think about except on those achingly lonely nights when those unnameable things crept out from the corners of his mind and lured him towards thoughts of invasions of personal-space and the deep timbre of a voice he'd gone a few too many times in his life afraid he'd never hear again... Never hear his name practically growled with that voice's distinct rasp, whether in faint amusem*nt, exasperation, or just blatant confusion-- like when he used metaphors or pop culture references or--

Through the haze of thought, he saw the dams break even further in Cas's expression, and he found himself yanked harshly back to this wholly undesirable moment by the rattling sob wrenching its way out of the angel. It was a noise so harsh, so unrecognizable, and so unheard of from this creature of God that something in Dean hated himself for being the cause of it. "I was trying to keep you from having to sacrifice anymore!" Castiel suddenly shouted, shocking Dean even more so as he suddenly slammed a hand on the table and leapt from his sit to loom over the hunter. "Haven't you done enough?! Haven't you lost enough?! Who was I to ask you for-- to ask you for anything? Who was I t--" Cas's voice cracked and his face crumpled into something so distraught Dean couldn't come up with an accurate word to describe it. The angel roughly raked his fingers through his hair, leaving the dark locks even more messy and haphazard, like an glimpse of what his thoughts must've been like inside. He took an abrupt step away from Dean and turned his back on him, clenching fistfuls of his wild hair as he tried to find some way to let Dean know whatever the hell it was he was trying to tell him.

Dean rose to his feet, shaken by the unfamiliar emotions rolling in waves off of his friend. He was expecting anger at his words, not-- not whatever it was that he was witnessing. Anger he could deal with, anger he was good at dealing with; he could always use a fight. But this... When Dean had taken note of Cas's newfound human-like behavior, he had never imagined that it ran so deep, that all of this was thundering under the surface of his straight-faced angelic friend. The small coy smiles and light-heartedness was one thing, but this anguish he was now witnessing... Dean almost wished for the old Castiel back, the one who only ever expressed confusion at humanity's inane and ridiculous methods and behaviors.

There was another wrecked sound and Castiel swung around to face him once more. "No matter what I do," he began as he took that all too familiar position too many paces within Dean's personal bubble, voice thick and even raspier with choked-down tears. "No matter what I say... Nothing else matters anymore. I can say I'm sorry, I can beg for forgiveness, I can offer my existence up, I can lock myself within Purgatory--" his hands drew up and fell to his sides with hopelessness. "I can never make amends! I can never be at peace with myself and what I've done! And I don't deserve to be! All of those people? All of my brothers? What I did..." His voice wavered beneath the haunted words. "There are no words for it. No matter what, I will never forget what I did to them. I'll..." Without breaking their stare, Cas's hand rose to reach across the small space between them, and Dean's heart an elaborate (and thoroughly embarrassing) tapdance at the promise. Promise? His mind hollered back at him. Obviously, your alcohol tolerance has dwindled and you're f*ckin' stupid drunk right now. His brain scoffed at him. Promise, gimme a break.

When his fingers were merely inches away from brushing against the shirt stretching across Dean's chest, though, Cas suddenly hissed and clenched his hand into a tight fist back at his side, as if his body had been subconsciously betraying him. Dean refused to admit to himself that he was kind of disappointed.

Maybe his brain had a point.

This time when Cas spoke, his voice wasn't bordering on hysterical desperation, but instead it was quiet and defeated. "I will never forget the expression on your face when you found out about the deal, about my deceit. Your disappointment was practically tangible." He let out a small humorless and almost bittersweet laugh. The sound was harsh upon Dean's ears. "No matter what Sam and Bobby said, you tried... so hard to believe in me, that I wouldn't sink that low... You made every choice I had made, every situation I'd found myself in, sound so unbelievably solvable had I just simply asked for your help." He took a small step closer to Dean, his gaze too open and too wide-eyed for Dean to handle, but he couldn't look away. "And every time I think about every opportunity I had to turn to you and say, 'Dean, help me'..." The angel swallowed heavily and waited a moment before he finally broke the stare and cast his eyes towards the ground, biting hard into his lower lip. Dean was actually glad he lost sight of that shadowed azure stare, because he didn't think he could handle all of that torment cookin' in it. And it was torment; Cas was haunted by it all, probably his every waking moment-- which, for a guy who didn't need to sleep was a pretty long time.

"No matter what I do to make amends, I will always hear your words in the back of my mind," Castiel spoke once again and slowly, deliberately, looked back up to meet Dean's eyes. There was that intensity there that almost frightened him, and he knew that Cas was far from done. "'Remember what you did, Cas'. Every chance you had, you took it and made sure that I hadn't forgotten, as if by some miracle--" he spat the word as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth, "--that was even possible."

"You forgot when you became Emmanuel--"

"Quiet, Dean, I'm not finished."

Dean was about to open his mouth and make a remark, but he bit his tongue and quelled that suicidal desire before Cas's smiting "look" turned into literal smiting. Bearing that same expression, he took a step even closer to Dean, and he had to bite down even harder to keep from taking a step back-- or thinking of doing something else that was entirely freakin' stupid. Seemingly oblivious to his internal struggle, Cas carried on, his tone quiet and heavy with the gravity of his words. "I would die for you-- have died for you, in fact, a number of times. I've put myself in the line of fire for you-- against demons, Leviathans, my own brothers, God's plans-- and yet, nothing else matters anymore. I have done things that dying a thousand times over could not even put a dent into what it would take to be forgiven. Because I can't be. And every time you look at me since--" Cas huffed a sigh. "-- since then, you'll make it your duty for it to be such. You'll look at me with... with hatred, and-- and disgust, and... And worst of all, with disappointment. And there is nothing I could ever do to change that."

Castiel's furrowed brow relaxed and his stare dropped to the floor for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts-- or his courage. "Hester was right," he whispered, his tone suddenly wistful and shaken. "When I first laid my hand on you in Hell, I was lost. But when I first saw you, when I first felt you, when my mark seared into your soul... I was more found than I'd ever been in my existence previous. I found a purpose, Dean, a reason. You were the most... beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on. Heaven and its gardens could never compare. Though Hell had scarred you in unimaginable ways, I was given the opportunity to make you pristine, to take you in my grasp, to know you and everything about you, and to make you whole again. And doing so was the most..."

Dean's mind once again unhelpfully clung to every word just as much as it wanted to deny each and every syllable that left his friend's mouth. He wasn't beautiful. He was broken. He was drenched in ugly truth and pain, and he had sins comin' out the wazoo. He was scarred and damaged, and he would've told Cas that he was insane if he hadn't already seen what the guy looked like in that state of mind. His shocking blue eyes had been earnest and certain, though, and his breath had felt warm against Dean in a way that was unerringly pleasant despite the current circ*mstances. He veered his mind away from that, however, and focused on the clench of Cas's jaw as the guy practically choked on whatever repairing Dean's broken and tattered soul was 'the most' of...

"But none of that matters anymore," Cas repeated, seeming to have given up on expressing whatever he'd felt all those years ago and once more leaving Dean hanging. "So, I will go away and return when you call on me whenever you need something, like always. And you will look at me once again with hatred and a bitterness that makes me want to react in ways such as all of this that I do not fully understand. Then, you will talk down at me as though I am a child, while possibly throwing in another 'Remember what you did', just because you feel as though you have to. And after everything is said and done and the current evil has been vanquished and we save another life, I will go away again, because you can't take the reminder, and I can't take the coldness, and the cycle will repeat itself anew."

And suddenly, the warmth from Cas's body in such close proximity to his own, from the breath ghosting over his lips, was ripped from Dean as the angel turned from him and began to retreat. Panic immediately rang throughout his mind; he didn't want Cas to leave. He didn't want to see him only when they needed his help.

He didn't want to be so cold.

I don't hate you, please, I don't hate you.

But his mouth wouldn't listen, wouldn't speak the words he needed Cas to hear, the words that if spoken aloud would rid the air of a weight that had clung to them for far too long. I swear, I could never hate you, please, Cas, don't leave again. His mouth had another idea, though.

"You once said that you sensed forgiveness in me, y'know, for you." And though it wasn't exactly eloquent or the words he really needed Cas to hear, it still served his purpose and stopped his friend in his tracks. "You're goin' all friggin' Metallica on me with all this 'Nothing Else Matters' crap, how all's I do is remind you of your mistakes and you can never make up for what you've done... What about that?" Dean remembered that moment; He could easily recall the open, yet coy smile Castiel made after Dean had told him that he'd still rather have him, cursed or not. For a nervous second there when Cas had said that he didn't want to make him uncomfortable, he was afraid the angel was going to comment on his choice of words.

Cas turned back and gave him a rueful smile, looking all the worn and weary of the millennia of his existence. "I think," he sighed and looked at Dean with those sad blue eyes, "that it is one of my many punishments; to be tempted by the spark of forgiveness yet fear looking any deeper for another glimpse in case of the mere possibility of finding nothing."

For some reason, that sent its own spark of anger through Dean. "You listen to me, you sonofabitch," he growled out and stomped his way into Cas's own personal space this time. He took a small bit of gratification in the quick flash of surprise he caught on the angel's face. "You think you can just poof out of here after delivering me some cliché chick flick woe-is-me bullsh*t? Well, think again. If you're so freaking afraid of even looking, then don't you dare tell me what you think I feel. Maybe you can see emotions or whatever, yeah, but that doesn't mean you know what they're about, especially when you won't look deep enough."

There was a strange light in Castiel's eyes then as he looked up at Dean with a tilt of his head and absorbed the words and their conviction. "Dean..." There were so many things in that one whisper of his name that he couldn't pin any of them down. The angel's brow furrowed and no other word left his lips. Once more, though, his hand rose to reach out to Dean, and this time, there was no hiss or flinch. Cas's hand moved towards him at such a slow, hesitant pace that with every second, Dean could feel the nervous burst of his heartbeat in his stomach. I don't hate you, his mind supplied again, willing Cas to hear the words. But when the tips of the angel's fingers made contact with the skin on Dean's left arm, goosebumps rose along his flesh and every word was wiped clean from his mind. There was a sudden tingle and wave of warmth that spread through him at the slow brush of them upward, just barely touching the edge of where the handprint scar was once branded upon his shoulder.

He felt that touch roil through him, gentle and slow, but determined to make every cell in his body feel it.

"Wh--" Dean gasped out, and just like that, the sensation was gone. Castiel's hand returned to his side in a blink of an eye, clenched into a trembling fist. "Cas--" But Castiel looked just as surprised and rattled as Dean felt, his cheeks suddenly mottled red with heat, and Dean had to take another look to fully grasp in what he was seeing. Before Dean could get out another stuttered word, the angel was gone, and Dean was left standing in the empty cabin with every nerve-ending in him thrumming and his mind going through a borderline panic attack. The sudden silence rang too heavily in his ears.

"Son of a BITCH!"

Chapter 2: Drink All You Want, You'll Still Think of Me

Chapter Text

Dean wasn't handling it well, whatever it was.

Dean couldn't, for the life of him, focus the next few days after he and Cas went through that... He wasn't even sure what to call it. Fight? Argument? "Emotional confrontation"? Whatever the hell it was, it followed him around like a friggin' shadow, endlessly scratching at the back of his mind and waiting for him to do something about it-- to... to fix it, or... or at least poke at it with a damn stick, or something besides let it sit there and rot. He found himself picking up his cell phone more than once, scrolling the couple items down until the angel's name was highlighted. And just as Dean was about to click 'send' and shout at Cas to get his feathery ass back down here so they could finish yelling in each other's faces until either one of them relented or they ended up beating the sh*t out of one another...

Dean's mind flashed back to that dark alley those few years ago, when Dean was ready to offer himself up as an Archangel's meat-suit because he just couldn't take it anymore, had lost faith in... everything. He could still almost feel the force with which Castiel had tossed him between the hard brick buildings, enraged beyond belief that he'd put so much hope and faith in Dean only to have done it for naught. The old ghosts of the wounds he'd endured that night ached at the reminder, and the angel's declarations that night rang in his head in a faint echo of the words he'd spoken a few days previous. Cas had been through so much because of him and yet even so, he still stuck around-- he still went through all the motions and suffered and prevailed and made mistakes and died and came back, all because of Dean.

Why?

The question was always there. He'd been doing way too much thinking lately about everything his friend had said to him in his grief-fueled breakdown, and it was almost more than he could handle. That Dean was worth such devotion was a ridiculous notion, and he refused to accept it. Castiel didn't care, though; whether Dean accepted it or not, Cas freely offered all of it, regardless of how he was treated. Dean wasn't always the nicest person to him; he could admit it-- if only to himself. He's was aloof at best most days, but... Part of him just knew-- took comfort in the fact, even-- that Cas would stick around no matter what, that he would accept Dean's unpleasantly gruff attitude and take it in stride. Maybe part of him hoped that the angel could see even what Dean rarely admitted to himself most of the time; that he cared a lot about Cas. Hell, he spent a nice chunk of their time in Purgatory lookin' for the freakin' guy-- of course he gave a damn about him.

Nobody cares that you're broken, Cas. Clean up your mess.

Dean inwardly cringed at the words and took a swig from the whiskey bottle he remembered was thankfully sitting upon the coffee table before him where he'd left it. Sometimes he just couldn't believe the things he let come out of his mouth. Maybe the angel had a point; seriously, how many times had he taken it upon himself to remind Cas that he royally f*cked up? Admittedly, Dean was hurt, y'know, by the betrayal and what the angel had done to his brother, but there was only so much any of them could do about it, and dammit, maybe Cas was trying, regardless of the brief streak of insanity he'd relinquished from Sam and took upon himself. Even though Castiel was the one to put his brother through that craziness in the first place, that should've meant something to Dean. It should have at least made him less harsh towards the bastard, but if anything, it just pissed him off even more and made his very slim amount of patience practically non-existent.

You're not a machine, Dean. You're human.

Dean should be stronger than all of this, though. He shouldn't have been let down so easily, he shouldn't have felt so betrayed-- he shouldn't have been affected by all of this so damn much. Even after a year in Purgatory-- and God only knows just how long that actually was in that realm-- all of these things, all of these problems and betrayals and emotions... They all still hung in the air, patiently rocking back and forth until the moment they would suddenly fall and shatter into millions of pieces in a brilliant spray of chaos. And it was only a matter of time until then; that whole scene a few days before was just a taste of what was to come.

Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.

Dean heard the sharp crash and shatter of the whiskey bottle hitting the far wall before he'd even registered his own movement. Still, the sound did not shake him from this reverie that had consumed him. He was wholly tired of it; all of the chaos hanging in the balance, just waiting to destroy whatever semblance of the world they happened to scrape together and save.

Why should we give you anything? After all you have taken from us?! The very touch of you corrupts!

It was an old song and dance, and Dean had been through it with himself thousands of times. He didn't have it in him, though, to go through the Winchesters' long, long list of all of the lives they'd destroyed along their many merry journeys to save the families and towns and the world alike. At the moment, there was only one corruption of life he was determined to blame fully upon himself.

He felt like Destruction Incarnate. Now, angels weren't the most innocent of all species, and Dean Winchester would know that better than anyone. They were junkless douchebags with the biggest superiority complexes ever, accompanied by major Daddy issues and sibling rivalries to boot. They were self-righteous assholes, and more than once Dean wished he'd never found out they were real.

The only one of them who was worth anything--

Hester was right. When I first laid my hand on you in Hell, I was lost. But when I first saw you, when I first felt you, when my mark seared into your soul, I was more found than I'd ever been in my existence previous. I found a purpose, Dean, a reason. You were the most--

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, scoffing to himself at the memory of those words, spoken in that deep timbre but shaken, almost fragile. He was unnerved by the effect that those words had on him, and he was doing his best, however unsuccessful, at not thinking about it. "Don't... say stupid sh*t like that, man," he growled aloud through clenched teeth.

-- beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on. Heaven and its gardens couldn't compare.

Dean launched himself up from musty couch he'd been sitting upon for the past few hours and hastily tried to find something to occupy himself with. He considered his options. There weren't many; Sam had taken the Impala to go grab some food since he was most likely on the verge of killing Dean if they spent any longer in each other's presence. (Did Dean mention that he'd been a bit... unpleasant to live with these past few days?) He'd also polished their weapons earlier (twice) until he could basically see his reflection perfectly. (It’d almost scared Sam how annoying methodical about it Dean was being. "I'd ask you if you'd like to have a little alone time with them, but with the look you have on your face now, I feel like it'd be less 'romantic evening' and more 'serial killer montage.' He'd just glared wordlessly at his brother until Gigantor looked even more uncomfortable about the whole situation.)

Dean would settle for friggin' cleaning right now if it meant it would distract him from the stupid things that stupid nerd angels say at the most stupid times with those stupid looks on their stupid faces. "Stupid," he grumbled noncommittally under his breath as he retrieved a towel, broom and dustpan for the whiskey bottle debacle; it was probably best to clean it up now before Sam came back and asked questions-- or worse, gave him those sympathetic puppydog I'm-worried-about-you-Dean-Let's-talk-about-it looks.

Dean hated those looks.

If Sam hadn't noticed that there was something wrong with Dean before, well... Now he definitely had to know something was eating at him, if being snapped at and practically ripped a new one over forgetting the pie again was any sign. Let's just say Sammy really started paying closer attention after that.

Like, at the moment, where he was wearing the Concerned-Brother Furrowed-Brow face and slowly pivoting in Dean's direction after placing their 'breakfast' on the table. "Dude," he began with a tone of incredulity, "it's just pie. I mean, I know I've forgotten it before, but you've never pulled a major bitchfit on me." Sam took a harder look at his brother, as if he could find the explanation merely in Dean's composure-- and with how well Sam knew him, he probably could, if given enough time. "What's wrong with you?"

Don't even think about it, Dean thought as Sam drew closer and took a seat beside him on the couch. "What's wrong with me--" he ground out and jumped up from the couch as quickly as if it'd just been lit aflame. "--is that I don't have any pie when I need some. Y'know--" and here is where he put on his snarky face and his words dripped with condescension and sarcasm. "--usually when someone asks someone else for something when said latter person is going on an errand, this other person tends to actually bring said thing BACK. I WANT PIE, SAM. IT MAKES ME HAPPY. DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ME BEING HAPPY, SAM? 'CAUSE I THINK YOU DO. AND THAT'S WHY YOU JUST HAPPENED TO FORGET MY GOD. DAMN. PIE."

Sam blinked a few times, even went so far as to wriggle a pinky in his ear and give Dean a tiny bitchface, as if to say 'I need a moment 'cause your whiney little PMS act just blew out my eardrum, and you can totally stop heaving like a Neanderthal, aren't you too old for this, I'm pretty sure you're too old for this, you're like, what, thir--' Okay, so maybe Dean was reading into that expression a bit too much, but he knew he totally got the gist of it.

Totally.

"Okay, so..." Sam clapped his hands together after a second and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and look up at his brother. "We're going to talk about this." Calmness, patience, acceptance; all were the general aspects of what Sam was exuding at the moment.

Oh no, Dean could see it; Sammy was revving up to go into Bonding Mode and make Dean talk about his feelings and offer to let him cry on his shoulder, and then they'd hold hands and vomit rainbows and teddy bears and Kumbayas all over the place, and just the thought of it made him want to punch his Sasquatch of a brother in the face and hopefully knock him out for at least a good hour or two. "No. No, we are not. There is nothing to talk about. I'm fine" He turned to stomp towards the bathroom and hide away until, well-- until as long as it friggin' took for his brother's attention to shift somewhere not on Dean. Like a case. He wouldn't mind killing a few creepy-crawlies right about then.

"Dean," Sam said with that familiar exasperated huff. He could already hear all of the words underneath: We're going to talk about this sooner or later, whether you like it or not. So you better just suck it up and tell me already. Dean, how many times do we have to do this, stop being emo and just spit it out? Insert here all the obnoxious hair flips, flails of gangly limbs, and frustrated whines. Dean was nothing if not a fluent expert in translating the language of Sam.

"No, Sam," Dean cut him off before he could go any further. "Just-- no."

And Dean was almost there, almost safely (pathetically) close to the bathroom, and his hand was already turning the doorknob to the bathroom and if Sam would just take the hint and shut up for five seconds and leave this be--

"So, what happened with Castiel?"

Dean's body went rigid with tension immediately. He jerked to face his brother and caught just a glimpse of a gratified smirk before Sam adopted a look of 'serious concern'. "What?" He choked out, his surprise at his brother's words palpable. "No, nothing." He was stammering too much, too slow to cover up his mistake, yet much too hasty with his words. He cleared his throat and hoped to rid it of his annoying squeak. "Nothing happened. At all. Stop it. Shut up, Sam." He was too nervous, too shocked by the fact that Sam had caught on so quickly, though he had to begrudgingly admit that Sam was bound to guess sooner or later. It irked him that it'd only taken one go, and as much as he wanted to deny it, of course his brother was going to be right. He knew his retort was as paper-thin and transparent as he usually was when Sam got into his soul-bearing moods.

Maybe, though, it was even more so now because a tiny stupid part of Dean wanted to talk about it, y'know? But most of all, that part of him wanted to talk about it with Cas-- where they were stuck together with no choice but to get it all out, where there was no escape for either of them and Cas couldn't fly away and Dean couldn't hide behind avoidance or snark or booze and they'd have to confront this, they'd have to clear the air. Because there was no option for them otherwise-- there was no way they could exist like this, with this silence, this darkness, this distance between them, fraying at the edges of their entire friendship. Just the idea of what Dean wanted, even the mere fact that somewhere inside himself he really did want it, scared the holy hell out of him, made him want to curse and deny and run until he keeled over and was free from it all; until he was so far away that he didn't have to deal with it anymore.

Instead, Dean decided to be as stubborn and as disagreeable as he could until Sam just friggin' dropped it.

"Dean," Sam said, bearing that I Know You expression. It was starting to piss Dean off that that was probably the most frequent thing ever heard out of his brother and his-- the angel; his name, always grumbled or whined or huffed out, usually laced with annoyance or wilting patience or an intolerant gruffness at all the denial and running in circles. It was strange how that thought made something in Dean's chest ache, just a little. "Come on," Sam continued, pulling Dean away from his thoughts. "You've been angsting at everything ever since he left the other day. I know you guys talked and you're not just pissed about the fact that he wasn't even here a whole day before disappearing again. You might as well--"

"Shut up, Sam! You're imagining things!" Dean snapped, and Sam just barely flinched at the volume and force behind the words. Dean took a moment to close his eyes, take a breath, collect his thoughts, and calm his agitated nerves. "He's a big boy, Sammy. He can come and go as he pleases, and if he doesn't wanna be here with us--" With me. He tossed his hands in the air and let them fall back heavily to his sides. "-- then that's his choice. Bully for him."

And before he let himself notice his brother's eyes make that predictable shift from suddenly sympathetic to full-out pity, Dean trudged his way to the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table next to their food. (Thank god for spare stashes) "Can we just drop it for now, man? Seriously." Without making eye-contact, he screwed the cap off the bottle and tilted it back, letting the booze burn its way down his throat and pool warmly in his stomach. He made a face at its potency and wordlessly offered the bottle to his brother. Sam looked up at him, silent and still, before taking the bottle from him and taking a swig of his own.

Dean seemed relieved, taking the action as Sam's consent to leave the topic alone for a while, and that was good enough for him.

They didn't talk about it again until a week and a half later, when Dean's mind couldn't handle it anymore and got carried away with asking stupid questions.

To say Dean improved over time would be a dramatic overstatement. Sure, his angsting decreased, and he hadn't snapped at Sam since the pie incident, but, well... He realized he was beginning to spend an exorbitant amount of time scrolling through his cell phone's contact list and call history. Maybe Cas had called recently to apologize for being a douche (or, y'know, make him apologize for being a douche...) and Dean just happened to miss it and not realize it.

Okay, so he was grasping for straws. It'd been over a week since he'd heard from the guy and he'd admit that he was a bit... concerned.

A few days after Sam and Dean came to the silent agreement not to talk about "It", they'd finally gotten a lead on a case. It was a bit far, but they'd both taken turns during the long drive and were able to make it into Windsor, Colorado and find a motel before 2AM rolled around. Dean had been ecstatic at the prospect of killing something, and even Sam seemed to be feeling the effects, since both of them had practically been suffering from cabin fever with nothing to do since their last hunt. They'd been hoping that it may have been demons at play; maybe they could have beaten the bastards into telling them where Crowley and his half of the tablet were.

Unfortunately, there was no big brawl or something's throat for Dean to wrap his hands around; it was a vengeful spirit, a simple salt and burn.

Dean's disappointment was palpable, and he could tell that Sam was nervous about this, didn't want Dean to start friggin' moping again-- not that he ever moped, but this was Sam and he happened to assume things most of the time. Dean had voiced his opinion as such after the millionth awkward glance in his direction, and Sam had just given him a look telling him that he wasn't fooling anybody. And if he hadn't gotten the gist of it from his expression, Sam added with that stupid You're Kidding Me, Right tone, "Dude, you so mope."

Sam's intense search for another case turned up squat until two days later when he found news on a bunch of strange deaths occurring in a small town in Missouri.

"Really? Knob Noster? What kind of name is that for a freakin' town?" Dean grumbled once again as he and his brother drove east on I-70 towards their destination. He'd been glad about a new case until he heard the details from Sam-- most likely another intangible force that was impossible for Dean to throttle.

Sam rolled his eyes at what had been Dean's most favorite complaint for the past five hours. "Dean," he said, with what Dean could only describe as an extremely agitated whine. He'd been doing that a lot lately. "Look, you wanna kill something, right? Well, here's a case; missing persons popping up mutilated, reports of strange noises near the site of an old train wreck. This has got 'Our Kind of Thing' written all over it."

They both knew it was a bit of a stretch to suggest that this was a full-fledged case yet, but they'd checked out situations with much less to go on. Besides, Sammy was right. Even if it was just another vengeful spirit, Dean planned on sending the bastard straight to Hell pronto. It might not have been something he could beat the crap out of, but they'd still be helping people and one-upping the bad guys, so why not?

However, that didn't mean Dean was going to stop complaining any time soon. "How the hell do you even come up with a name like that, anyway? What does it even mean?"

Sam let out an irritated huff. "Well, apparently, there are two hills in the town, which are called 'knobs'. And 'noster' is Latin for 'our', so..." he trailed off weakly.

Dean glanced over at his brother, his expression a mixture of disbelief and horrified amusem*nt. "Are you telling me," he began slowly, "that these people willingly named their town 'Our Knob'? Seriously?"

Sam only shrugged.

They were just past the halfway point to Knob Noster before Dean decided to open his big mouth and ask the stupid question that'd been on his mind for a while. "Hey, I was wondering--"

"Oh God," Sam groaned painfully.

"Shut up and let me finish, will ya?" Dean snapped. He took a second to twist his grip on the steering wheel and let the squeak of the leather against his palms calm him. "I was wondering," he began again, and when there was no interruption this time around, he continued. "When, y'know, Cas pulled you outta the cage..." He looked over at Sam and shifted uncomfortably. "Well... Did, I mean--" He cleared his throat. He could feel Sam making those 'What are you talking about, spit it out already, this is weird' faces at him. "Did he-- y'know..." Another glance and shift before he let out an excessively loud, put-out sigh. "Was there like a--"

Sam let out an obnoxious snort as Dean pantomimed pulling Sam out of Hell and-- "Are you asking if he high-fived me, or something? I don't even think Cas knows what a high-five is."

Dean threw his head back and groaned, sending a glare in his brother's way for good measure. "No, you--"

The disgusted look on Sam's face, though, stopped him before he could speak further. "Oh, ew, dude. Are you asking if he groped me?" Sam shuddered. "That's just weird." Suddenly, though, his bitchface transformed into curiosity and then a second later into 'Epiphany' face. "Wait, when you came back from Hell and said you were 'groped by an angel', did you seriously mean--"

Dean adopted a startled, almost horrified look at his brother's sudden line of thought. It was bad enough that his own mind made uncomfortable treks down that road-- he didn't need Sam's to go there, too. "Oh, Sammy, for the love of God, shut up. And no. It was a friggin' figure of speech, jesus." Dean fixed his eyes back on the road before his brother said any other stupid things. 'Did the mean angel touch you, Dean? It's okay, I understand. Here, point out on this doll where the bad angel--' "Dammit, Sammy, you're making this more awkward and difficult than it has to be."

"No offense, Dean, but you don't seem to need any help from me in that department." At least he sounded a little sympathetic through all that sarcasm.

"I'm tryin' to ask if he happened to leave a, y'know--" more pantomiming, "-- when he got you out of the cage."

After a few seconds, Dean looked over just in time to catch the moment realization shone through the mass of confusion on his brother's face.

"You mean did I get my very own angel brand? Like you did?" Dean just responded with an overdramatic roll of his eyes and an emphatic 'Yes'. The question seemed to surprise Sam, as though he'd never even thought about it before. "Well, I..." His eyebrows drew together. "I don't think so? I don't remember one, seeing or feeling it." He fastened his stare onto his brother, now intense and, above all, curious. "Why?"

Dean didn't say anything.

"You don't have yours anymore, right?" Sam pressed further. "When did it disappear?"

Dean shook his head and ran a hand over his face as he remembered the moment when he realized it was gone. "It was after you took the big leap with Michael and Lucifer," he replied, clearing his throat to keep a lump from forming at that memory. "When he reappeared with all his mojo intact, he healed me. Must've taken the brand along with it." He bit the inside of his cheek and tightened his grip on the steering wheel to refrain from running a hand over the since-then smooth flesh.

It was weird, the desire he'd gotten sometimes to do so, as if just touching it had grounded him in a way nothing else really did, except for maybe sitting behind the wheel of his baby and driving down long roads in no rush, feeling that leather beneath his hands, or the flesh that was once raised in the form of a familiar handprint that filled him with comfort and electricity. He found himself often-- especially lately-- brushing the tips of his fingers over his left shoulder when he was alone, almost still able to feel Castiel's brand on his skin. Nowadays when he reached for it, it was in search of that spark that'd ridden throughout him when Cas had touched where it'd once been, that ripple within him that touched every cell of his body and promised to rock each and every one of them into oblivion if it was just allowed to touch a little more, stay a little longer.

Dammit, he kind of missed it.

There was a long and heavy silence before Sam spoke again. "Now that you mention it, it seems weird, doesn't it? I mean, he... 'raised us both from perdition', so... Why angel handprint for you and none for me?" If Dean didn't know any better, he'd say that his brother was almost... pouting. "Is it 'cause he forgot to drag my soul along for the ride? Or..." Sam turned those reluctant puppydog eyes on him.

"Dude. If you even think about mentioning 'profound bonds' or any of that crap, I am going to hit you. And it is going to hurt." He took a quick hard look at Sam to make sure he knew just how serious he was.

Sam held his ginormous hands up in surrender. "I'm just sayin' is all--"

Dean raised his fist.

"Alright, fine!" To Dean's delight, he shut up and kept himself futilely huddled in the far side of the Impala, defensive posture, bitchface, and all for the next five minutes.

Dean welcomed the silence almost as much as he despised it; for one, he wasn't forced to answer Sammy's ridiculously invasive and personal questions and say stupid things. For another, though... That just left him with his own ridiculously invasive and personal questions and to think many, many stupid things.

"It really is strange, though," Sam suddenly spoke through the deafening silence. And when Dean turned to fix a murderous glare upon his brother, he could practically see the gearing working just beyond his fivehead. "Hear me out," Sam insisted before Dean could growl another threat or raise a fist to strike. "I mean, what was the handprint a result of, anyway? Touching your soul? Pulling you out of Hell? But if you think about it, Castiel pulled me out, too. And we know he's touched another soul, too-- remember when we went to get the phoenix ashes back in Wyoming? He had to touch Bobby's soul to recharge enough to pull us back on time."

Though Dean felt a melancholic ache at the mention of the man who'd been like a father to them, he couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his lips when he thought back to their Wild West adventures. So, maybe Hollywood romanticized and indulged a little when it came to a few of the details (serapes, saloon girls, booze, yada, yada), but f*ck if he still didn't kind of love it. Hell, he was literally in a western stand-off. There were probably actual tumbleweeds in the distance. Now that he could think back on it, it was freakin' amazing.

"Dean." Sam's voice suddenly cut into his reminiscing. "Are you even listening?"

He ignored his brother's impatient bitchface. "Yeah, no, sorry. What?"

Sam rolled his eyes, apparently coming to the conclusion that yelling at Dean would be completely hopeless and a futile effort. "I was saying that maybe you should ask Cas about th--"

"No." A firm declaration, quick and swift, earning him a surprised look. Sam's brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak. "I'm serious, Sam," Dean cut him off. "I'm not doing it. It doesn't even matter anymore, anyways. The mark is gone. It was a stupid question. Let's just leave it at that."

"But, De--"

"Forget it, Sam."

His brother opened his mouth to retort once more but seemed to think better of it with the way Dean was so steadfast about this. Good, Dean thought. He didn't want to care anymore, anyways. Not now while the angel was off doing who-knows-what, probably avoiding Dean as much as possible. There was a whole world out there for him to travel around in the blink of an eye, while Dean was only able to get around if led by his own two feet and the four wheels of his baby.

Dean found himself annoyed with the deafening silence filling the car. That silence was beginning to haunt him lately; he couldn't seem to get the hell away from him. He muttered a curse to himself and was about to start shuffling around for any random tape he could get his hands on to drown out the ringing in his ears when he noticed one slightly protruding from the cassette player. He looked at it curiously for a moment before thinking nothing of it and pushing it in.

A few seconds later, the beginning notes of Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" started playing through the speakers.

Damn if he hadn't actually forgotten the real lyrics beyond that title.

For some reason, a strange feeling curled around in his stomach. Maybe it really didn't matter where the angel's wings could take him or how far. Maybe it didn't matter that Dean was limited by his humanity. Maybe...

Dean scoffed and curled his hands tighter around the steering wheel. Cas, you sneaky sonofabitch.

Chapter 3: Something About the Fire

Chapter Text

Dean, to put it lightly, was exhausted out of his f*cking mind.

He and Sam had spent the past four days non-stop investigating this case with little to no luck, and Dean was so tired of the endless researching and corpsey expeditions that he was contemplating the idea of throwing in the towel and finding himself an actual monster to hunt. Like a Wendigo or a nest of vampires or a werewolf or friggin' something other than a nameless chick who died in a massive train wreck and was mangling nearby townsfolk who ventured too close for sh*ts and giggles. And-- if it really was a spirit and not some wild man-eating bear or mutated raccoon with rabies-- it had to be a nameless woman, because in all of the records they were able to hunt down on the incident (paper and archives being the only thing actually being successfully hunted on this case, however grudgingly) there was only one woman who'd had no identity, whose sanity wasn't vouched for, and was on the train ride to Hell.

God, he felt like he'd already lived through this night and it just had a personal vendetta against him. Let's see how many times we can get you to scoop up a handful of John Doe here for what will turn out to be a moot point and then drive all the way back to the motel only to be alone and hungry and then have to do it all over again. Are your eyes tired yet? Is this drive getting too long for you? Let’s make it longer, shall we? It was a nightmare.

He was in the Impala now, riding back to the motel and hoping that Sam would be there with a bag of greasy take-out and some good news for once in this whole damn case. He doubted it, though, seeing as how last time they checked up on each other, Dean was elbow-deep in gooey piles of dead guy while Sam was chatting up a babe of a history buff from the library in Warrensburg who promised to tell Sam more about the great tragedy over a couple of drinks at a local bar. And though he obviously still had his panties in a wad over Amelia, he obliged. For the case, though, of course.

Dean grumbled to himself. Why did he have to get stuck with all the dirty work?

And along that bitchy train of thought, he let out an indignant huff. "Y'know, Cas," he sighed irately in the empty car. He was ignoring the part of his brain that was informing himself of his lunacy as he continued on with the tradition of talking to himself he'd developed in the past ninety-six hours. "This whole thing would be a hell of a lot easier if you were here. I mean, all's you'd have to do would be to smell the pile of corpse and be like, 'hello, Dean. Observe all this knowledge I know now. He's currently suffering from mutilated-death-itis and he recently recovered from a bladder infection. Oh, by the way, he had ghost essence or whatever fancy term I'd use stuck to him-- y'know, the EMF that you read off his remains? Here's its name, birthday, social security number, credit score, address, and the exact location of where it's buried so you can salt and burn its bones while I stare quizzically at you and everything else, by the way, how have you been, I apologize for the tree deeply lodged up my hind quarters and I'm sorry I'm a dick and like to poof away out of f*cking nowhere and--'"

"I'm not entirely sure that I would use the phrase hind quarters, Dean. Perhaps posterior or rear would be slightly more appropriate, if that is the physical region of the human body you are trying to imitate me... describing."

"Jesus f*cking Christ, mother of--" It took Dean longer than it should have to quit spazzing (he did not flail like a twelve year-old girl. He didn't.) and right the car from its sharp swerve. Thank god it was late and they were practically in the middle of nowhere. "Cas!" he hollered, unable to yet calm the heart attack he thought he could feel coming on. "Don't do that. We really need to get you a freakin' bell or something, Jesus."

"I'm going to ignore the blasphemies spewing from your oral region--" Cas deadpanned, looking over at him with amused blue eyes that still seemed bright even in the darkness of the Impala. Holy crap, did Cas just try to make a joke? "-- and also inform you that I do not have a large wooden plant shoved in any of my orifices, as there is no point to it; I would assume that it would be both highly impossible and incredibly--" he paused. "-- Unpleasant." However, the corner of his mouth quivered as though he were holding back a smile, and he fixed Dean with a look that was both bemused yet playful. Dean ignored the staccato his heart picked up at the strange and unfamiliar-- yet not at all unwelcomed-- expression. He wasn't used to the openness of it, though, and it made him nervous, made him feel like maybe he really was having a heart attack and he was just imagining all of this, because really-- what were the odds that Cas would show up now and look at him like that? Especially considering everything that was said-- and unsaid-- between them weeks ago?

Okay, so, Dean will admit it: he stared.

He stared at that face that held no anger or grief or anguish or defeat in its features. He stared at that face that only contained that coy smile that made his insides tingle and shift in strange ways, and humor from lame jokes, and a togetherness and contentment he never expected to see so soon after two weeks of not seeing each other post-confrontation.

And then he realized he should probably look to see where he was driving. And though he was hesitant to tear his eyes away just in case this was all a mirage or that Cas would remember that they weren't supposed to be getting along right now and go back to suffering, Dean gave himself a couple more seconds before fixing his eyes back on the road and saving them from driving into a tree or something.

Dean cleared his throat in hopes of ridding himself of his sudden nervousness. "Cas," he said, tone bereft of annoyance but teasing in a way. "You know, buddy, you could always just say 'ass' like the rest of us." He gave in and spared the angel a quick glance.

Cas gave a quiet chuckle and faced forward out the windshield, all perfect posture and hands politely folded in his lap. "Alright," he conceded. "You, Dean, are an ass."

It took Dean a minute for his brain to fully register what he'd just heard, because what? The confusion must've been evident because Castiel gave that same low chuckle and turned his head to look out the passenger window, almost as if to hide his smile. "What?" Dean asked, because he clearly, obviously, couldn't fully comprehend what his friend had just said. "What?" He voiced again.

Cas's head tilted down and his shoulders shook slightly with silent laughter before he turned those bright azure eyes back onto Dean. "I said," he spoke slowly, and screw the road; it could wait, because f*ck if the small mischievous smile pulling at the edges of the angel's mouth and the methodical way the words were rolling off his lips weren't making Dean want to shift uncomfortably in his seat. "You are an ass."

Those words should not have been accompanied by that heavy stare or that rough gravel voice or that sudden heat that Dean could feel scorching the very air in the Impala. Cas should not have that look on his face, full of mischief and-- and seduction that just promised a slow burn, and why was he looking at Dean, of all people, like this? Why-- how could he just show up and thrust this upon-- Don't say 'thrust' like that, f*cking christ, of all words to-- Dean didn't know what was going on. He could feel his face heating up with embarrassment and something else as the angel seemed in no hurry to stop staring at Dean like-- like that.

It was different and scary and hot and Dean didn't know how to handle it, didn't know why he was suddenly reacting like this so openly-- and he knew he was being obvious, because he wasn't even trying to restrain his reactions or his thoughts or bottle it all up and try to keep at least a little nonchalance in his expression. Not to mention the fact that he could just feel Cas's focus moving over his body, burning into his eyes, caressing his lips and the mottled color of his cheeks, dragging achingly slow along the line of his jaw and down his neck to the vee of flesh exposed by his loosened tie and undone button. Maybe even a bit lower to brush over what Dean was trying to shift around to keep from becoming evident, even in the darkness. Do angels have night vision? Dean really couldn't recall, but if ever there was a time to hope they didn't...

Why the f*ck was he already half hard from just being looked at? An even better question was why the hell was Cas even looking, period?

What the f*ck is going on?

Thankfully, though Dean wasn't exactly sure how they'd managed to come this far without crashing into anything off the side of the road, the Econo Lodge was right there and Dean safely pulled into the parking lot and turned off the ignition. He stared at the motel door in front of the car, now unable to bring himself to meet cerulean eyes bearing a look he'd never seen so intensely in them before.

"How did you find me?" he asked instead, through a throat drier than the Sahara and for some reason he couldn't stop himself from thinking about the things he could be doing right now to take care of that prob--

"I've been watching over you."

Okay, now Dean had to look over at him at that. That heat was still there, dear god, was it still there, and Dean couldn't help the way his co*ck twitched at the promise he could just make out in them. "What?" He tried for indignation and hoped it'd help him chill the f*ck out. "For how long?"

Cas tilted his head and squinted his eyes, and Dean got that feeling once again that Cas was probably looking straight through him. "Intermittently. Occasionally I go off and help people, of course. However, most of the time I'm checking in on you and Sam, especially around the times where you're heading to a new town, as I do not want to lose you, for obvious reasons."

But boy, was Dean having a hard time listening to those words, regardless of how they were phrased. "So, you mean to tell me," and he wasn't sure if it was anger or relief seeping into his words now, "that you've been here practically this whole time?"

"Yes."

Within mere seconds, Dean was out of the Impala, slamming the door shut, and stalking towards the motel room. He didn't know what to think. This whole night had just gotten so strange-- Cas appearing, the smiles, the heat, and now the fact that Cas hadn't really left-- hadn't really gone away to rid himself of Dean until Dean 'called on him again'. He wasn't sure if he wanted to punch the angel in the face for not showing himself sooner or sag to the ground with joy that he still had his friend.

He had the door unlocked and just barely pushed open before he felt the crowded heat at his back, signaling that Cas was still there and hadn't been deterred just yet. Dean flirted with the idea of slamming the door in his face but figured that would only serve to screw him over, and he didn't think he could take the look Cas would give him after th-- You seriously have got to learn different f*cking wo-- God dammit.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut in hopes to battle away the stupid thoughts that weren't doing anything to help the issue he was experiencing at the moment, and he shoved his way into the motel room, mumbling curses under his breath.

"Dean," Cas said, and Dean swore he could feel that hot breath on the back of his neck, making every hair stand on end at the thought of him being in such close proximity. So much for any discussion on personal space; Cas never listened to a word of it, anyway. But when he turned to his friend with a glare bearing no real force behind it, Cas was a few feet away and Dean was wholly puzzled by the sight.

Cas's head co*cked to the side, a small innocent smile playing on his lips. "Dean, you seem unnerved. Is there something the matter?"

Dean felt like he was doing a poor impression of a fish, opening and closing his mouth, unable to make a sound. He settled for a grimace and a sarcastic huff before stomping over to the mini-fridge and pulling out a beer.

"What's wrong?"

Dean seized up at how close those words sounded and the return of that f*cking heat. God, Cas was probably warmer than normal people were. His skin would probably have felt like a furnace if it was pressed against him, burning its way into his core, scorching his very blood as it pumped through his veins, riding each and every single nerve in his body and then some until he'd combust from the pure strength of the flames incinerating the very insides of his being.

"Nothing." His voice was rough, grating, and even he could hear the lie behind the word. "What's up with you, Cas? You seem--"

His ears caught the low chuckle coming from his friend, and his skin f*cking burned where Cas's breath fell in huffs on the back of his neck once again. He swung around with the intent to shove Castiel away, to get him the f*ck out of his space because something was strange-- not necessarily wrong but still ridiculously unsettling, and Dean couldn't take it. He couldn't take the feel of the snake coiling around inside of him, writhing around in the glorious blaze that he didn't f*cking understand. He needed Cas not to be so f*cking close because he couldn't think straight, couldn't think beyond the heavy throb of his co*ck against his zipper and that deep voice resonating in his very pulse and the haze of want that'd built up from the moment he saw that dark-haired blue-eyed creature of the f*cking Lord reappear in the passenger seat of the Impala for the first time in what felt like forever. He didn't get where the hell this was all coming from, because whatever it was that they had between them, whatever it was that'd been there since Cas first appeared in that barn and looked at Dean with complete understanding of just who Dean was and what'd he'd done and hadn't even thought to look down upon him with disgust-- it was never so open, it was never so exposed, just sitting there for all to see (or more importantly, for them both to see). The heavy gazes and staring contests never had so much fire in them, and something always happened before one of them could say or do something stupid (or mostly before Dean could because his apparent naiveté didn't expect Cas to be capable of such... f*ck.) And Dean had never been so achingly hard in his life, especially without even being touched, and he needed Cas to get away before Dean did something monumentally stupid-- like grab him by his ridiculous trenchcoat and rut up against him until they both came in their pants like horny teenagers, and f*ck, Dean needed to stop thinking about sh*t like this. What the hell was wrong with him?

Cas was right there, only mere inches between them, noses almost touching, and Dean couldn't bring himself to shove at his friend. Cas was wearing that mischievous smirk again, this one slower to appear, more dirty, more promising. Dean swallowed hard and wondered where the hell he learned to look like that, where the hell he learned to make that face or make his eyes hold so much-- Dean didn't even know how to describe what he was seeing. It was alien to him; sure, he'd seen his fair share of sultry looks from bartenders, waitresses, many women, really-- but none of them were so genuine, if that made sense. None of them were so intense, so f*cking dark and bright and deep and touching on every single part of him without looking away from his eyes.

There must have been some druggy fumes comin' off that corpse from earlier, because Dean Winchester was not supposed to think sh*t like this, and he certainly didn't think them about virgin nerd angels of the Lord. He also liked to think that he happened to make more sense than this most of the time and didn't sound like he was so weak-kneed and swooning. Because he wasn't. He just didn't know what the hell was going on.

"Dean." Cas was the only one who could ever make Dean's name sound like a prayer.

He was so hard it f*cking hurt.

Dean must've made some kind of unintelligible sound, because Cas's pupils were suddenly bleeding into the blue of his eyes and swallowing them almost completely, save for a thin rim of azure. He bit into his perfectly pink lower lip and leaned even more so into Dean's space still without making any physical contact, and Dean wanted to cry out at the sight. He didn't even care anymore that this wasn't normal, he didn't care that he and Cas didn't do this. He didn't care that Cas never looked at him with his desire so f*cking open and wanting, though Dean had a feeling that he was the one whose look was bordering on needy and desperate.

"Cas, what--" and f*ck if Dean stopped caring about how shaken his voice was, how he might as well have keened the angel's name for how it sounded.

"Shhh," was all he got in response through pursed lips, that pretty, pink lower one now plump and wet and colored a beautiful shade of rose. God damn, but Dean could freaking write poetry about that f*cking mouth right about now if he wasn't so occupied with just how close it was getting to his own. "What's wrong?"

Oh, now Cas was just f*cking with him.

It didn't get closer. Those lips didn't touch his own, and Dean would refuse to admit he ever groaned from how close yet so far Cas was from him at that moment. Cas smiled so easily at that, endearing and sweet, and Dean felt baffled by all the directions he was getting yanked in by this bastard. "If anyone's the ass here, it's you," he growled through clenched teeth, trying to build his frustration less on 'Dear God, I'm so f*cking hard, please just f*cking touch me already, jesus' and more on 'You're obviously messing with me, what the hell is this all for, stop it already, you big f*cking co*ck-tease'.

And though Dean wasn't expecting it, Cas's smile got even bigger-- not exactly a full grin, but the biggest, most earnest smile Dean had ever seen on his face, and Dean's heart twisted and leaped and dived all at once at the sight. "Dean," Cas said again, this time his tone full of wonder, big ebony-azure eyes staring right through him at everything he had inside. With just how close they were, Dean wanted to breathe in the way Cas said his name, wanted to keep that sound with him always, the way he put so much into one single word. Castiel let out a small guffaw, and the sound startled Dean, but not in an unpleasant way. "Dean," he said again, stretching out the word and letting it ghost over Dean's lips. "You do think the most interesting things."

And Dean would have felt those words hit him like a bucket of ice cold water had Cas not moved in that split second. Dean felt the air of the room suddenly gust over his entire left arm, and before he could look over to see that Cas had just ripped the sleeve from one of his actual good button-downs, the angel met his eyes with heavy intent and fastened his palm with a smack onto where the angel's handprint was once imprinted upon his now-bare shoulder.

Dean having memorized every line, bump, and curve of that old scar knew it was aligned perfectly, and his world suddenly went up in flames.

Maybe not literal flames or flames like Hell, but damn if the heat wasn't just as intense. It was infinitely more erotic, though, more enjoyable, and Dean couldn't even think about anything else other than every cell in his body erupting and the faint sound of a pair of long, desperate moans. His body felt like it was flooded with light, with heat, that itch of pleasure, that heavyspark, like striking flint and steel, that shockwave you get right before you come just lighting everything ablaze. He burned and burned and burned and he didn't f*cking care, because it was the most intense, most pleasurable thing Dean had felt in his entire life. He felt like he was shattering apart into millions of pieces yet finally becoming whole, all at the same time. He felt like he wanted to scream with the intensity of it but he was drowning in the light and couldn't comprehend whether he was making any sound at all. His nerves felt like fireworks going off and when the pressure on the center of all of everything flexed and that grip tightened impossibly more, fingertips digging into flesh, he felt his insides coil up and suddenly release his entire being in a rush he couldn't help but get even more swept up in and never want to come back down from.

Just under that hand that held him and his entire world together, Dean could see the brand marring his skin, bright and proud, like a fresh painting. It was a shocking red, a familiar one, and Dean felt such contentment over the sight that another unfathomable aftershock of pleasure blasted through his nerves.

Only then could he hear the absolutely wrecked sounds falling from his mouth and the f*cking debauched whimpers invading his ear and sending an another wave of chills throughout his body. And, as if a light-switch had been flicked on, he could suddenly make out what that voice was saying against his skin, over and over: "Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean..."

Cas really was the only one who could ever make his name sound like a prayer.

Dean's eyes opened and he shot up from the motel bed in a brief flurry of limbs, only to regret it a moment later at the ache that rocketed through each and every one of his muscles. It wasn't exactly an unpleasant pain, but damn if he had to lie back down to keep from groaning at its persistence. The clock by the bedside read six-thirty AM, and he just barely took note of the fraction of sunlight he could see beginning to light up the sky. With a quick glance around the room, he took inventory of his surroundings on this obnoxiously achey morning: with no sign of Sam or Cas, he knew that he was alone for the time being; Sam's bed was made and only slightly rumpled and the keys were gone, which meant that either Sam returned last night and is out getting breakfast, or he didn't return at all and he'll probably be back in a few hours (that sly dog). Dean's bed, however, looked like a friggin' tornado-earthquake hybrid monstrosity hit it, and he was reluctant to even move because he knew it was going to end up in a battle with tangled sheets that he was definitely going to lose, at least for a little while. That didn't keep him from making the low hum in his throat as that strange pang moved throughout all his sore muscles again.

He decided to pretend there was no the sliver of disappointment at having woken up with no Cas to watch over him like the creeper he was.

He stared up at the ceiling for a minute or two before he was suddenly floored and, moment by moment, everything came crashing down on him.

Last night.

He and Cas.

He and Cas?

Ignoring the dull throb in his entire body, he avoided reevaluating the state of the bed and instead looked over at his left arm. The sleeve was still there, the skin of his shoulder still covered. His brow knit together in confusion. What-- He didn't understand. He sat up once more, undid his tie and the buttons of his shirt, and pulled it away only to reveal freckled yet otherwise unmarked flesh.

But--

And the memory of Cas's face rose within his mind; that mischievous smile, those eyes heavy and open, that voice purposely brushing his name over his lips--

What the f*ck happened?

And then Dean realized that the inside of his boxer briefs were sticky and grating and really uncomfortable. He cringed at the feeling, would have been moderately humiliated had he been able to drudge up the effort, and-- after a most trying battle with the sheets and comforter twisted around him-- stalked his way into the bathroom to take a long hot shower.

And while he was soaping up, it hit him once again.

That fervid cerulean gaze locking onto his before his entire world was rocked with just a touch to a brand that wasn't there anymore... His body was wracked with tremors from the mere thought of it.

Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean...

He let out an involuntary moan as the memory echoed in his head. f*ck.

Part of him felt as though he should have been freaking out, but Dean just couldn't manage to maintain the energy for it. He felt almost as though he were detached, having an out-of-body experience, going through the motions but not fully there, not quite yet.

Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean...

That wanton litany continued to reverberate in his mind, and before he could realize what was happening, his legs couldn't hold him up anymore and he was falling to his knees under the too-hot spray of the showerhead, leaving his suddenly all-too sensitive skin roiling in the memory of that f*cking heat. The desire was too strong, too persistent, and Dean couldn't keep from wrapping a hand around himself with a hiss and pumping with everything he could muster under the haze of full-blown ecstasy in his mind. It was as painful as it was f*cking glorious, and his entire body felt as though it was crying out from it without even letting a sound escape.

And when he came, he could just barely notice the sound of something shattering.

Dean stepped out of the shower after he finished cleaning himself off, and as he was toweling off, only then did he see the remains of what was once the bathroom mirror.

Dean was very f*cking confused, to put it lightly.

By the time he was halfway dressed and his body's love-hate relationship with itself was dulling down, Sam had returned with coffee and some doughnuts. Dean happily took the box from his brother.

"Glad to see you're... not dead," Sam said in way of greeting, the smile on his face awkward and slightly uncomfortable.

Dean's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What's that supposed to mean?" He asked through a mouthful of powdered doughnut.

Sam grimaced at the sight. "Dude, chew your food, seriously," he complained through Bitchface Number Forty-three-- that one was always reserved for when he talked with his mouth full. Number Seventy-two was also used, but only under extreme circ*mstances. Sam handed over a cup of coffee and snatched the box away from him. "What I mean by that," he said, ignoring Dean's petulance at the action, "is that I'm surprised you got back safe. It looked like you passed out right as you were about to get out of the car. And..." He shifted from foot to foot. "You were making strange noises all night. Usually it's not so bad, but this time..." He blew out a huff of air and cringed at the thought. "It was kind of--"

And this was where Dean was about to tell him to shut up and that he got the idea, but he was too stunned by what his brother had just told him. "Wait," he interrupted, holding a hand up as his eyes darted around the room in search of words. Was he about to have a panic attack? No, that couldn't be right...

"Are you saying that I fell asleep in the car? Then how the hell did I get in here?" Now that he thought about it, if he had come in here of his own accord, he at least would have taken off his pants...

"That's exactly what I'm saying. You don't remember me dragging you in here?" Sam sat upon the motel bed across from Dean and looked upon him with concern. Dean cleared his throat, twisting around the T-shirt he held in his hands, and shook his head. "Seriously? I had to practically carry you from how out of it you were."

"Shut up, Sam," Dean snapped with annoyance, and he just barely caught a glimpse of the smirk Sam tried to hide at his indignation. He made a face at his brother and decided he'd rather get dressed in private before Sammy could regale him with stories about all the weird sounds Dean must've made last night. Something was bothering him, though. Something... that should have been there. His eyes surveyed the state of his bed. The aftermath of... what? "But..." He thought aloud, the word just barely a whisper.

Dean, Dean, Dean, oh, Dean...

He could feel his face flush as that deep voice raked its way through his mind and nerves. He tried his best to shake it off and make it to the bathroom (not flee) before--

"Holy crap, Dean."

And before Dean could turn to his brother with a gruff 'What now, Sammy', Sam had grabbed hold of his arm to stop him in his tracks. Dean let out a surprised shout at the razor sharp pain that stung through him, and he smacked his brother's hand away. "What?" He ground out, cradling his arm to him as the pain only began to slightly subside. For a second there, hurt flashed through Sam's shock at Dean's reaction towards him. "Sorry," he grumbled, and he knew Sam would understand. It just freaking hurt. "But seriously, what?"

"It's all right," Sam assured him, but he wasn't really looking at Dean anymore. His face had now adopted a look of disbelief and perplexity, and Dean wanted to know what the hell was going on, just like he had for the past day. (Or, y'know, his entire life.)

"What?" he asked again, more than a little impatient. He was asking that question a lot lately, wasn't he?

Sam shook himself out of his reverie and nervously glanced up to meet his brother's eyes. "W-well," he stammered, "um..." He gestured to Dean. "It, uh.... It seems like it's not gone after all, huh?"

Dean was wholly befuddled by the words, and he was about to say as much until another piece fell together in his mind.

Hesitantly, as if afraid of what he might see, he looked over at his left shoulder.

And there, sitting upon his flesh, was the barest outline of red fingertips-- not the full-out brand that used to sit there, but a mark that was just as real to Dean, that felt just as real to him.

Dean's eyes widened, with fear, with that similar disbelief his brother carried, with confusion, with astonishment...

With a very strange, very confusing, very nonsensical hope...

And for the millionth time, his brain supplied the question, What the hell was going on?

He rushed into the bathroom, only to remember that the mirror had broken earlier. How? He couldn't recall.

All he could remember was heat and light and that voice whispering his name throughout it all, as if it was a prayer.

And then all of the pieces seemed to fall together, as if he was just now remembering a night after heavy drinking and blacking out. The haze lifted from his mind completely, and Dean realized what we'd seen, what he'd felt, what had happened.

Was it... It was all just a dream? He asked himself.

The voice in the back of his mind answered back. Wasn't it?

Chapter 4: Misguided Ghosts

Chapter Text

Sam was fuming.

"Smooth, Dean! Real freakin' smooth! You know, sometimes I forget that you have this suicidal tendency to just throw yourself in the middle of danger, but then you have to go and do something so unbelievably stupid to remind me! What was I even thinking?!" Sam was shouting various peeved insults as he flung his hands around animatedly, his obnoxious mane of hair flapping dramatically with each movement.

Okay, so, maybe Dean kind of deserved all of the berating. But he didn't have to tell Sam that.

After a few more days of incessant complaining and researching, they'd finally caught the bitch of a spirit.

Well... more like they lured it out into the open, had it get mere seconds away from killing Dean like it did all its other victims, and then they kind of... watched it get killed.

But that was just... Semantics.

And Dean totally had a plan the whole time. Obviously.

Okay, so, here's what happened.

After that whole Was it a Dream, Wasn't it debacle, Dean would admit that he was out of it for a little while, and that didn't exactly make his job-- or Sammy's-- any easier. His mind trailed off from time to time, he still talked-- more like cursed-- to himself, and he got even less sleep than he did on a regular night. Honestly, he felt pretty stupid; he had one dream that was maybe a bit inappropriate about a friend he was perhaps just barely missing, and suddenly his whole world was flipped on its side again. Sam would stare at him occasionally with all of these questions the guy was just dyin' to ask, and Dean just wasn't gonna have any of that crap.

He could barely be in the same room as Sam before his friggin' brother would comment on how "You can't just pine your life away, Dean" and "If you really need some answers, why don't you just ask him?" Dean would then get fed up just like every other time, flip his brother off like clockwork, growl something out about going to get some food or liquor or to go shoot something, and then stomp away not at all childishly while Sam would mutter after him. He would then proceed to hide away in the Impala, drive until there was no sign of houses or businesses (which wasn't too far) and sit there and thump his head against the steering wheel because Sasquatch had a point-- not about the pining bit because Dean didn't pine, but about... y'know... About asking him. Because Dean wanted answers, and he damn well had plenty of questions.

And while he sat there, he'd continue to talk to nothing. A tiny part of himself, though, in the back of his mind thought of these nonsensical words as prayers and frivolously hoped that maybe Cas could hear them, that Cas would know that he still thought about him, that he still cared despite his half-assed efforts not to.

This routine carried on until a few days later, when Sam and Dean decided to check out Dead Man's Curve again, in hopes of finding anything they could about the stupid ghost. Frankly, Dean was gettin' pretty tired of this crap and more than once contemplated just burnin' all the bones in the nearby cemeteries so that Sam would stop suggesting "Maybe if we just ask Cas for some help, Dean. We've literally come up with jack squat; no graves, no leads, rumors that only lead to dead-ends. We've been working this case with no sign of progress and people keep dying-- maybe he can help."

But Dean was still steadfast every time-- "We got this, Sam. Alright?"-- and always rejected every suggestion, and Sam would just roll his eyes and throw his hands up, exacerbated, and begin researching anew.

"Why now?" Sam had inquired one night, sitting at the small desk and staring off into the distance with his brow knit in deep concentration. For a second there before he spoke again, Dean had thought he was going to bring up the topic of the handpr-- of him again. Sam had already tried to approach the topic many times already, each time more and more as if he was approaching a frightened deer.

Or a rabid bear, or something.

Dear God, please not this again. Can't we just friggin' leave it alo--

"I mean, these murders only picked up recently, and this train wreck happened over a hundred years ago. There's no record of anything like this happening here before, so why now?"

Dean had been so relieved to talk about the case from a non-"Let's Get Some Angelic Assistance" angle and gladly jumped head-first into the discussion. He thought over some of the previous circ*mstances they've been through that were at all similar to this case. "I don't know, maybe... Maybe her grave's been disturbed?"

"But there's no record of her ever being buried in a cemetery here or in Warrensburg. Or anywhere for that matter. And we have no idea if she was cremated or not. So what would there be to disturb?"

"We've dealt with some pretty sick people before, Sammy," Dean had retorted, leaning back against the bedframe and crossing his ankles in front of him. "Her body could be turning to dust under someone's perfectly manicured garden for all we know."

Sam had huffed and closed the laptop with a bit too much force. "Well, great, but where does that leave us?"

This time, they parked the Impala a little ways away, duffle bags full of supplies slung over their shoulders and shovels and shotguns in hand, and trekked up to the railroad tracks only to be met with a strange sight.

There was a ghastly woman, middle-aged and grotesque, and she was mangled and bloody in such a way you had to wonder how she was still upright. Her skin was torn away in areas to reveal white, in some places broken and protruding, bones and her limbs were impossibly crooked. The spirit's dress was definitely old-school having been over a hundred years in age, but it was unrecognizably tattered and destroyed from the wreck she'd died in. Her hair was matted, and her eyes held a crazed look as she turned her focus on them instead of the sobbing, frightened man she held down against the side of the tracks.

Said man must've been in his thirties-- dark brown hair, medium build, an average-looking and seemingly unremarkable guy-- and when he'd noticed where the disfigured woman's attention had shifted, he screamed bloody murder for them to help him, please help him, he hadn't done anything wrong! Dean had lifted his shotgun and fired a salt round at her before the guy even finished his initial pleas.

"What the--" Mr. Average sputtered, unable to believe what he'd just seen, eyes darting around to catch sight of the ghost again.

There was a faint sound of a pair train whistles in the background.

"Sammy, we need to get him out of here, now," Dean yelled over his shoulder. The two of them ran up to the man who was now in the middle of having a panic-attack ("What's going on? Who are you guys? Who was she? She kept asking me why I took them away, I-- I don't understand, what's going on?!") and pulled him away from the tracks.

"What about her?" Sam asked hurriedly. "I mean, we haven't found her bones anywhere in the cemeteries, no graves for an 'unidentified woman'. Maybe her bones are out here? How are we supposed to burn them, though, if she has ghost trains at her dis--"

"Sam!" Dean barked, cutting his brother off. He shot another salt round into the snarling form of an extremely pissed off spirit. She evaporated with an indignant shriek. "Just get him out of here! I got this! Come back once you got him by the road!"

Sam made a face at him, livid. "Dude, I'm not leaving you here alone with that thing."

"Sammy, we don't have time for this. It's one friggin' ghost. I can take care of myself, man, okay?" You're Kidding Me, Right was basically the message of the look Sam was now giving him. "You're wasting time, Sam!"

"But Dean--"

"Go!"

"I'm coming back," Sam declared. Dean just gave him a 'Yeah, yeah, I know.' Sam finally conceded and pulled the man away and back towards the road as fast as he could.

Dean popped in a couple more shells and held his shotgun at the ready. He began to walk at a steady pace, looking around in the darkness for any sign of disturbances in the land. "For once," he grumbled to himself as he turned in a slow circle, "can't we just deal with something that's actually corporeal? I mean, really, it's nice for a minute or two there 'cause of the nostalgia and all, but--"

And because it was just Dean's luck tonight, he found himself flung backwards and landing hard on his back against the edge of the train tracks. In a pain-induced haze, he reached for his duffel to grab salt or iron or something to get the freak away from him, only to realize that it had fallen to the ground a few feet away.

God dammit.

He bit back a curse and scrambled forward on his hands and knees, and just as his hand was about to close around his bag's strap, he heard a demented screech behind him. sh*t. The cool temperature dropped even further, and he knew the spirit must have been seething with rage at that point. The locomotives' whistles grew aggressively louder with their approach from either direction as his fingers frantically fumbled for the zipper of the bag. Finally, he was able to open the damned thing, but before he could reach in and grasp for anything, he felt the piercing chill of the spirit's hands yanking him back with inhuman strength.

Now, this would be where Dean would tell you that he did an impressive roll or counter-maneuver against the hag, maybe had actually managed to grasp a piece of iron from his duffel or land in not-so-much-of-a-heap near a conveniently dropped shovel. But, as stated before, this was just not Dean's night. No, none of this happened. In fact, Dean wasn't exactly sure what had taken place after he'd landed oh-so-gently and his head had fallen quite lightly against the railroad as if it was a friggin' pillow.

That was all sarcasm.

As a matter of fact, Dean was actually bleeding profusely from his skull at that moment, so he couldn't see much of anything anymore through the thick layer of blood dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. Dean's senses were all failing him then, except for a faint recognition of someone bellowing of his name (That must've been Sam rushing back from making sure Mr. Average was safe and sound. Took him friggin' long enough) and the ice cold grip strangling the life out of him.

"Everything you took! You'll die for it! Ruined all of it! You're to blame, and I'll make sure of it, and they're gone! I have nothing, and you took it all! All of it! All of them! Everything!" The spirit was screaming a jumble of words that Dean couldn't completely make sense of; he had a feeling that either she wasn't making sense, or his brain just wasn't registering the words in the correct order anymore.

And as his vision dimmed even more and he became desperately starved for oxygen, the universe took pity on him...

Either that or he had a severe concussion and was hallucinating. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he thought he might have been imagining things.

Anyways...

The spirit released him as it was suddenly wrenched backwards and let out a blood-curdling shriek (because if it was that loud when Dean could barely hear anything else above all the ringing...). Within seconds Dean could feel the heat from the flames that began to devour the woman until there was nothing left. With the departure of her wails and the screams from the fast approaching apparitions, the silence was... electric. Uncomfortable.

Immediately, Dean knew something was different and that the person slowly approaching him was not his brother.

Against his own wishes, a slow hum called "expectation" built up through the tension in his body as he heard the methodical thump of footfalls heading in his direction. He didn't lift a finger, though, to wipe the blood from his eyes; he was light-headed and woozy, and all of the stiffness in his muscles and the quickening of his pulse definitely were not helping.

He was just about to snap like a guitar string when that presence finally knelt at his side. One moment he could feel the cheap material of a well-worn trench coat brushing against the back of his limp hand, and the next he felt the touch of warm fingers against his forehead cause a ripple effect within him.

Dean would never admit that-- for a second there, when he'd forgotten that his dream hadn't been real-- he'd gratefully inhaled the crisp, clean mountain air, lightning, and the distinct undefinable scent that was just purely Cas. He'd never admit that when he felt that hand drift towards him and those two fingertips press gently against his skin, his first instinct told him to tilt his head up and press his lips to that delicate wrist he knew would be so conveniently close. Because it was always the same hand; it was always that hand that touched him, that healed him, that gripped him. The irrational desire to taste the thin skin over the angel's stuttering pulse, to brush his lips against that man's palm, to flick his tongue against the pads of his fingers and nip at them gently until he heard a hiss or a growl or a moan in response. Until he heard Cas say his name like he did when--

Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean...

... f*ck.

But he didn't; He didn't move, he didn't taste, he didn't melt, he didn't touch or grab or bite or-- He didn't hear that sensual keen that started a fire low in his groin and fried every single cell throughout his entire being.

He didn't, because it wasn't real.

Because the dream wasn't real, and Dean didn't do those kind of things. Dean didn't even know what was happening to him, why this was getting so hard for him to shove into the back of his mind and ignore for the next millennia or so.

The dizziness clouding Dean's mind was gone so quickly it practically gave him mental-whiplash.

His sight was clear, his head wasn't pounding, and his body didn't ache. But the silence was deafening.

He didn't want to focus on the eyes staring down at him, didn't want to look there and see a distance or a bitterness-- hatred or sorrow-- darkening the rich ocean blue. He didn't want to remember that they weren't supposed to be getting along or that their last words weren't the friendliest. He didn't want to look up at that face and see the absence of that heat that had haunted his mind for nights on end.

If he turned to Cas right then, Dean knew it wouldn't be like the other night in the Impala; there wouldn't be stares heavy with fire and playfulness, with mischief and... and something else.

He didn't want to look up and see the undeniable proof that it wasn't real.

Because that was the kicker, wasn't it? Out of everything that had been happening lately, that was the one thing that had been getting to him above all, the one thing he just couldn't shake off. It wasn't real. The things he'd felt, the things he'd seen... None of it had actually happened; Cas had never exposed himself like that to Dean, and in return never made Dean unwittingly expose himself, as well. Because Cas couldn't possibly feel that way in reality. Cas couldn't possibly carry that brand of heat within him, least of all for Dean.

And, dammit, that got to him in ways it shouldn't have.

He blamed that stupid handprint-- No. He blamed his stupid brother for even suggesting that Dean ask Cas about it, what it meant. Or maybe he blamed Cas for touching it again... Or maybe for putting it there in the first freakin' place and not truly explaining the damn thing or why he had it and no one else did.

Or maybe he blamed himself because for some stupid reason, it actually mattered to him.

"Dean."

Dean had no choice but to respond to the subtle but firm command hidden in his name. With no other option, he leveled his eyes upon his friend and was immediately taken aback by what he saw.

Cas's stare was darkened, his eyes hard and pinpointed to perfection to stab directly into Dean in a way that just made him feel like a bug under a microscope. However, it wasn't with that hatred Dean feared, or that despair; it was with something else entirely. Now that Dean was distracted by the fact that Cas wasn't sneering or blanching with disgust at having been in such close proximity to him-- the fact that Cas hadn't even moved away yet, still knelt by Dean's side--, his brain began to absorb and analyze every tiny detail it could just in case this was his only chance to do it.

For one thing, Cas was rattled. There was a fissure in that darkness of his eyes that was wild, and if Dean didn't know better, he would have said it was distress. There was a tic in his jaw, and even now Dean was able to see the muscle tighten. His hair was sticking up even more than usual, quite reminiscent to the night when he and Cas had that confrontation...

The angel's bottom lip was back to that rose color, contrary to its natural pink, as if he'd spent a good five minutes or so biting it almost raw.

His tie was more askew than usual, backwards and hanging ridiculously loose around his neck. The knot holding it together was... well, pretty pitiful.

Adding it all together...

At a glance, he'd say that Cas looked like he'd gotten interrupted while in the middle of some pretty heavy wall make-outs... Or couch make-outs... Floor make-outs... Chair, desk, grass, car, bed--

The point is, the guy looked like he had been busy.

And disregarding what was a completely irrational and ridiculous flare of jealousy that was utterly absurd because what?-- The sight made something roll low in his gut.

He clamped down on that thought because it was already getting him nowhere good.

Why do you look like that? What are you doing here? Why? What's going on? Did I miss something? Hey, look, you saved my life. How 'bout that? Thanks, buddy.

Don't go.

But of course, none of that came out.

"Well," and suddenly he realized his throat was drier than he expected, "fancy meeting you here, Cas."

The look of pure disgruntled vexation on his friend's face would have been comical had it been directed at anyone else at the moment.

"Dean Winchester," that angel growled out, grabbing fistfuls of Dean's jacket and practically hoisting him up from the ground. Dean found himself going cross-eyed from how close they suddenly were, and his brain couldn't help but offer up a mental image of the last time they were like this.

It wasn't real.

"What crawled up your posterior and died?" Dean teased, and he knew it was the wrong thing to do, wholly inappropriate for the current circ*mstances. He needed to get rid of those thoughts, though; he needed to learn how to ground himself in reality before he did something even more stupid. He got to see Cas, got to know that he was okay...

And that would have to be good enough until he could actually process all of the crap going on in his head right now. Admittedly, he'd wanted to see Cas, obviously, but... Not like this; he wasn't prepared, he wasn't expecting it.

Or maybe he was, but he didn't actually believe it.

So, he'd reacted in the only way he knew how; with snark. And he knew Cas would take it-- he knew Cas would ultimately get what the underlying meaning of this type of response was and, though he might not have liked it, he would understand what Dean was doing and would return once again when Dean was more prepared.

It didn't matter that Dean never actually seemed to become prepared after it all, but... Well...

It was the thought that counted, and it was one Dean appreciated, whether he said so or not.

Apparently, though, Cas wasn't going to take this as stoically as Dean had presumed.

The angel shook him vehemently. "Dean Winchester," he repeated, pretty much snarling through gritted teeth and roughly jostling Dean once more for good measure. For a second there, Dean's heart almost stopped as he saw a devastatingly familiar fire burning in those cerulean eyes. "You really are an insufferable ass."

And before Dean could die from cardiac arrest as the back of his mind that he was trying desperately to ignore was connecting dots that didn't-- or weren't supposed to-- exist, he was shoved forcibly back onto the grass and that crackle of electricity in the wind was gone.

Cas had left again.

Dean sat there on the hard earth, and before his brother reached him so they could, y'know, not talk about what the hell had just happened, Dean took in that last moment of solitude and looked up at the sky helplessly. Finally, the words came.

It wasn't a "Thank you" or even an obviously false "I totally had it, what the hell did you think you were doing?" Honestly, Dean could give less than two sh*ts about almost dying (Again.) right then. What he did care about, though...

"How did you find me, Cas?"

So, Sam was testy, slamming doors and barely saying a peep to Dean about anything until they walked into the motel room neither of them could take it anymore.

"What's got your panties in a bunch, Samantha?" Dean finally asked, tossing his duffel at the foot of his bed.

He just had a knack for wanting to say all of the wrong things tonight, didn't he?

Sam let out a sharp huff, turning to him brusquely. "I can't believe you, Dean!" Sam finally snapped at him. And that was how they ended up where they were right now, Sam all talking hands and accusatory fingers jabbing in Dean's direction, and Dean just standing there and trying to make light-hearted quips in response. Sam was just on too much of a roll to give him any ground, though.

"I should have known better than to leave you to handle that thing by yourself even for a minute! Especially with how out of it you've been lately!"

"Hey, I'm not a friggin' child, Sammy, okay? I--"

"Yeah well, newsflash, Dean, neither am I. I thought we established that a long time ago! And I thought you'd gotten over the whole 'throwing yourself recklessly into the eye of the storm without evaluating the situation first' thing, but apparently I was wrong."

"I'd gotten over that?" Dean asked innocently.

If looks could kill, Bitchface Number Four would have been the one capable of it.

"Relax, jesus. I'm alright, aren't I?" he waved it off and collapsed backwards onto his bed, arms folded behind his head. He opened his mouth to speak again, but this time--

"Let me guess, you're gonna say, 'Relax, Sammy! I told you I could handle it, and I did,' right?"

Dean bit his tongue. Bastard. That was what he was going to say.

His silence must have been enough, because Sam just nodded because he obviously saw that coming. "Yeah, so that big gaping wound you had in your forehead was all part of your plan, is that it?"

Dean ignored that. "Well, it's not like you usually listen to me anyways," he griped teasingly, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"This isn't funny, Dean!" Sam shouted "You could have died! Again!" And it was sad that they'd come to the point where they had to keeping tacking on 'again' to a statement like that. "You're damn lucky Cas came when he did!"

Dean recoiled at the words; it was the first mention of Cas Sam had made all night, Dean and had no idea how much of it Sam had seen. Probably all of it, his mind offered unhelpfully. He could vaguely recall hearing his brother call out to him before the hag spontaneously combusted.

Obviously, it was Cas who had saved Dean's life. Not only had he just randomly appeared to come to the rescue and smite the crap out of an evil murdering spirit like Dean was some friggin' Damsel in Distress or something, he'd also apparently located her bones within a split second of showing up and toasted them like he did the rest of her. After the angel had vanished and Sam had spent the first five minutes purposely not looking at Dean, they'd located an unearthed spot smoldering about two hundred feet from where they'd originally arrived. It was hidden in a large patch of tall wild grass that Dean didn't even remember paying any attention to.

If it wasn't for Cas, they would have either spent hours upon hours looking for it, or just never found it in the first place.

Sam didn't wait for him to say anything. "Did you at least thank him before you pissed him off again?"

Dean unthinkingly grimaced, knowing that no matter what he said, Sam would be able to see through his lies now. "I..." he started, but nothing helpful would come out. "He disappeared before I got the chance." The words were limp and false, and they both knew it.

"Unbelievable." Sam ran a hand through his hair and shook his head with disappointment. "You know what..." He trailed off into silence for a second before he turned quick on his heels and snatched up the keys to the impala. "I'll be back later."

"Wha-- Hey!" Dean sat up quickly. "What are you doing?! Where are you going?!"

Sam swung open the door with much more force than he needed to. "Out. I think you need some time to reflect on your own stupidity and realize that maybe for once you could actually try to talk to someone civilly for a change. I'll be back later, maybe."

Sam's words were punctuated by the harsh slam of the motel door, and suddenly Dean was left alone once again with the silence ringing in his ears.

Chapter 5: Back Against the Wall

Chapter Text

Castiel was unfathomably disconcerted by what was happening to him.

It wasn't that he didn't understand what was happening, per se, because he did. However, that comprehension was more on a purely technical level, and it was the physical, mental, and emotional levels that Castiel was having difficulty with. He was entirely unprepared for these happenstances, and they were beginning to become more and more...

Uncomfortable.

His thoughts were increasingly unbecoming with each passing one (some starting off deceptively innocuous, to Castiel's chagrin), his pulse was picking up at an alarming rate when he couldn't even restrain a few of them before they wandered off too far, and he was fairly certain that if this continued he was going to start sweating from it.

Castiel never broke out into a sweat, except for when he'd first fallen in order to assist the Winchesters in bringing down Lucifer a few years ago. When his grace had been drained and left him utterly human-like...

Castiel didn't want to sweat.

The threat of bodily perspiration aside, he found himself quite shaken by recent events.

He was more often than not watching over the Winchester brothers-- Dean in particular, he hesitantly confessed-- when he wasn't answering various prayers from around the earth. The problem was that Castiel, Angel of the Lord and-- dare he still even use the term-- 'friend' of the brothers as he was, usually would not be so reluctant to admit that he spent much of his time watching over Dean; despite the times when Dean had claimed it was "creepy", Castiel did it more so out of his desire for companionship (silent or not) and the part of him that wanted to stay and protect Dean and his brother at all costs.

After all, he was their guardian.

However, this desire of Castiel's as of late had grown into something else that he couldn't quite explain. Ever since Dean and he had their unfortunate dispute, Castiel had become unsure of their friendship and what he was and wasn't allowed to do anymore. He didn't know what it meant-- the fighting, the desperation. The feelings were all too familiar to before, when he had lost Dean's trust and respect in his search for souls and the power to protect Dean, his brother, and the world they had strived so hard to protect.

On a logical basis, Castiel understood that he was most likely feeling a sense of guilt and despondency. What he couldn't fully grasp yet was the fact that when it came to emotions, logic played no part.

Castiel was full of many feelings, the majority of them warring with one another, and he had no clue as to how he was supposed to manage them all, to sort them out, and actually deal with them.

Castiel felt hopeless under the weight of them all, and he had no one to ask for help.

So, he did the one thing he could comprehend out of it all; he stayed by Dean's side.

Of course, he became aware early on weeks ago, that was going to be a bit difficult because Dean probably wouldn't be able to stand the sight of him.

So, he didn't let Dean see him at all.

Castiel didn't realize, though, how much this situation was affecting Dean, as well. A few times a day, whether Castiel was keeping the unknowing hunter company or he was far away assisting a defenseless woman or a scared little boy or an old couple, Dean's voice stayed with him. Whether the hunter was grumbling to both himself and Castiel about how asinine the Winchester's current hunt was, or how Castiel was just as much of an ‘idiot’ as the mission, or the fact that Dean's been rough on Sam lately and he doesn't know why this is all getting to him so badly... How-- though Castiel had to remind himself that the thoughts weren't requests to him so much as Dean absently wanting things in general-- he could really use some help, or some pie, or some hand sanitizer, or a massage because his back was killing him.

Castiel was slightly alarmed by the last one, but then he realized it was a figure of speech. That then lead to bizarre connotations he'd previously discovered about 'back rubs' and 'massages' in his brief bouts of research on the current human society; he'd once come across magazines entitled "Cosmopolitan"-- and at first he thought they were going to be quite promising to his studies what with the original definition of the word... until he discovered that they were mostly directed at the female population and described in extensive amount of details a plethora of intensely sexual activities. What he discovered in these particular magazines was that massages could be used as a segue into the beginning stages of initiating what would ultimately turn into sexual intercourse. Having both that and the thought of Dean wanting to participate in a seemingly-innocuous-but-underlyingly-devious activity made the endless expanses of Castiel's mind seem to narrow down considerably to the space these two thoughts occupied.

But Castiel was getting ahead of himself.

The point of this was that, whether he meant to or not, Dean was talking-- praying to him, all of the time. And Castiel had no idea what to do about it.

So, there he sat, in a chair in the corner of the Winchester brothers' motel room. Sam was about as frustrated with Dean as Castiel himself was after tonight's events, and he had just stormed out and left the elder brother to his own devices.

Castiel had no idea why he was still there, truth be told. Dean was practically intolerable, and his provocations earlier had summoned thoughts that he would rather refrain from pondering on for too long.

I apologize for the tree deeply lodged up my hind quarters and I'm sorry I'm a dick--

You know, buddy, you could always just say 'ass' like the rest of us.

What crawled up your posterior and died?

Castiel grit his teeth as the memories reemerged and entwined with reality, his hands curling into shaking fists in his lap. It was ridiculous how such a thing could happen to him, that he could become so flustered by the mere thought of something that didn't... actually happen. Connecting real circ*mstances, real words, to ones that were just a figment of his imagination.

He had no idea how it was possible; one moment he'd been sitting atop Mount Kilimanjaro staring out at the vast skies and sensing the expanse of the world even as his eyes drifted closed, and the next he was heaving for breath like he actually required oxygen. His pulse had been thudding so heavily he could feel the awkward pressure of it in his jugular veins (and in the anatomy of his body that he was suddenly not so comfortable thinking about-- it was ridiculous and embarrassing, really) and in the hollow of his throat.

The sensation had been so much more... intense than anything else he'd felt before. It jolted through him, gave an almost similar warmth and dip in the pit of his stomach like when he'd initially lift to the skies in flight-- it was excitement, and heat. And it wasn't the dull reaction to watching two people participate in carnal activities; this ferociousness was merely from drifting off and imagining pressing the palm of his hand to the skin of his friend... to the skin he'd once marked.

And with that single thought, a rush of possession ran through him like no other.

Because Castiel had gotten a taste of desire-- even if it hadn't been real and Dean could never really think such things of him... of them.

But Castiel wanted.

He found this need of his utterly frightening, because this wasn't supposed to happen. He'd taken the mark from Dean for a reason-- regardless of how circ*mstances turned out afterwards; Castiel was adamant about this and refused to let trailing thoughts or selfish longing get the best of him.

So, he tried his best to rein in his... his... lust, and focus as hard as he possibly could on his duties-- to the world, and to the Winchesters.

Dean wasn't exactly making this easy for him, though.

Castiel had been having a particularly difficult time earlier in the evening attempting to get his mind onto safer, much less iniquitous thoughts; he could remember every second of those wandering meditations (they couldn't be dreams, because Castiel didn't sleep. He couldn't, yes? He wasn't sure just yet if that thought was more comforting or not), and they brought along a slow burn so powerful it challenged the very essence of his grace. He felt on edge, like something was grating against his nerves in an attempt to get his attention elsewhere. With the incessant heat that kept pooling in his groin, he could only imagine what it was.

How embarrassing. Honestly, it was infuriating. Here he was, an Angel of the Lord, and he was being driven mad by the simple-yet-overly-complicated mechanisms of the human body. He couldn't even bring himself to experiment with this skin that had become his so long ago, couldn't even try to satiate its hunger for the time being.

It was humiliating.

And as Castiel had once again been sitting upon that mountaintop, chewing anxiously on his bottom lip, hands running frantically through his hair and loosening his tie because he just couldn't seem to breathe, Dean had spoken to him again.

For once...

Castiel could even hear him sigh, and listening to that rush of air in his mind took even more of his own breath away. "You bastard," he cursed noncommittally. He didn't mean it, though, obviously; he loved it when Dean reached out to him like this, consciously or not. It brought him comfort in a way nothing else but Dean could anymore.

Dean's prayers weren't the voices of his brothers, nor the other melodious sounds of the Host...

They were better, because it meant Dean was praying-- praying to him.

He could've timed it much better, though, if Castiel was going to be honest.

... can't we just deal with something that's actually corporeal? I mean, really, it's nice for a minute or two there 'cause of the nostalgia and all, but--

And just when Castiel was beginning to relax enough from the familiar sound of the hunter's voice, Dean was ripped from him by frozen hands that reeked of death.

Castiel waited for a moment, mind open and sharp, anticipating some sign of the hunter's victory to present itself within moments. But...

Something was wrong. The brothers were not dispatching this evil spirit as swiftly as they usually did.

Dean was in pain.

Normally, Castiel would not have panicked-- but today, as humans often said, was not a good day for him.

It should have concerned Castiel that he could sense Dean's location, that he could feel exactly where he was instead of just relying on what Dean had been grumbling earlier that night about Dead Man's Curve. Castiel knew for a fact that the Enochian sigils he'd inscribed into both Winchester brothers' ribs still held strong, but he did not even think twice about taking to the air and zeroing in on the eldest Winchester.

Upon his arrival he could just catch the end of Sam shouting for his brother. The younger hunter had broken into a dead run until their eyes met, and he suddenly came to an abrupt halt.

Whistles shrieked in the background. "The trains," Sam gasped out.

Castiel's brow furrowed, head tilted to the side as he turned to watch the incoming locomotives from miles away. "Harmless," he replied at once, turning his sight back to their surroundings. "Merely fabrications from the--"

He caught sight of the blood. Dean.

It was just a matter of finding the spirit's bones and incinerating them before it could do anymore damage. They were easy enough to locate for the most part, and within seconds he watched them turn to ashes along with the creature that had been straddling Dean.

The hunter was limp upon the ground, though thankfully alive and still breathing. Castiel let out a sigh of relief he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. There was much blood, however, seeping from the deep gash in his forehead. With the way Castiel had already been unnerved before this incident, he found he had to struggle to keep from rushing over to Dean's side and feeling him-- needing a physical-- a human-- reassurance instead of just his superior angelic senses.

It baffled Castiel, and it made something deep inside of him quake with both fear and exhilaration.

He could suddenly feel Sam's eyes on him, could sense his curiosity.

He could feel his face shift to an expressionless mask, but it was too late; Sam must have seen it all, must have noticed the way he shook and looked upon Dean with trepidation.

Castiel did his best to ignore the weight of the man's gaze as he took steady, purposeful steps towards the injured brother. With each one he could see Dean's body begin to tense up, and part of him knew Dean could feel him, sense him, just as much as Castiel could him.

When Castiel finally arrived at Dean's side after what seemed like miles and miles of uncut grass later, he gratefully went down on his knees and reached out to touch-- to heal him.

Castiel would refuse to ever acknowledge just how closely he watched Dean in those moments; it was the first time (in reality) he'd been able to be this close to the hunter since their conflict weeks prior, and Castiel was practically shaking with mitigation at the prospect of finally being able to reach out to his friend and have him know Castiel was there.

These weeks had been so lonely, watching Dean but unable to respond when Dean whispered to him, or cursed his name, or even muttered complaints about how he now had to deal with Sam and his disturbing gastrointestinal problems by himself and had no one else to suffer with.

Castiel knew Dean, though; he knew he couldn't just show up and take back everything either of them had said-- and Castiel didn't want to take it back or pretend like it didn’t happen, anyhow. He wanted to tell Dean these things; he wanted Dean to know what he was thinking and what he had been trying to do. He wanted to talk to Dean, to yell at him and shake him and have him understand him and just have him tell Castiel that it was okay, that he could be forgiven.

Castiel needed that. He just didn't know how to get there from here.

And Dean was not exactly helping with the process as he parted his lips the second Castiel's fingers pressed into his forehead. Dean proceeded to exhale warmly against Castiel's wrist, sending a shiver along his spine and making every inch of his skin tingle. The intimacy of these sensations was so alien to him-- he had had close encounters with others before, yes, and he had even kissed them, as well. Demons and women paid to satisfy men's needs could never even begin to measure up to Dean and the way he made Castiel feel, though-- he could never imagine anyone being able to do so, truth be told.

All Dean had to do was look at him and Castiel would find himself struggling with every single ounce of humanity, every emotion, every desire he'd developed since coming to earth.

It was a curse that Castiel would be happy to live with if only he and the hunter could get past this... particular rift in their friendship.

Suddenly, green eyes opened, and Castiel was brought back to the present. For a few agonizing seconds, those eyes darted around everywhere but never once fell on him.

He watched that mouth take one more deep breath and close, watched that adam's apple bob, but there was a weightlessness in his chest that was making the moment even more unbearable.

"Dean," he finally said, unable to keep silent any longer. Within an instant, those emerald eyes turned to him, and everything was both right and wrong in the world at once.

Dean looked upon him with shock and surprise at first, but as the hunter took in the rest of his appearance, that expression morphed into... something else. For a second there, it had been dark but intense, clouded by something that was... Was...

Castiel couldn't put a finger on the word. It was both unrecognizable yet familiar to him all the same, as if he'd seen it or felt it before, but just... couldn't...

And then Dean proceeded to ruin whatever line of thought that was by being abrasively disrespectful, considering the circ*mstances. And Castiel would fully admit that he might have given in and shaken Dean a little harder than he should have, but-- in the angel's eyes-- that was a much more appropriate option that hitting him for being an ass.

For saying things so wholly ridiculous and then saying more things that made Castiel remember the ludicrous thoughts his mind had dreamt up.

For infuriating Castiel in a way only Dean Winchester was capable of doing.

For making Castiel want to give in to his body's instincts of shoving the hunter down and showing him just whom he was talking to with such disrespect and making him beg for--

Castiel had to get away before he lost control and did exactly that.

And that was how Castiel ended up here, gnashing his teeth in the dark of the Winchesters' motel room while Dean had been lying in the same position on his bed for the past two hours. Honestly, Castiel had tried returning to his mountaintop and meditating a bit, but, with the way he'd been so affected by every word that came out of that obnoxious man's mouth, it was no wonder it didn't work.

So, he returned. It was obvious Sam wasn't going to come back for a while, if at all for the rest of the night, and honestly, Castiel couldn't blame him.

The angel himself still had the faint desire to rush up to the hunter lounging about and throttle him for his rude thanklessness.

And he was still contemplating doing so when, after another half hour the other man finally shifted and proved his own restlessness.

Dean heaved a great sigh, which sounded even louder in the heavy silence of the motel room, and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

He then did something that Castiel had not been expecting in the slightest.

"Cas."

It wasn't said with the same attitude as Dean had used with him earlier. No, this was... It was practically a whisper, askance of him.

It was a prayer.

"Cas, are you there?"

The softness of Dean's voice in the darkness sent familiar shivers all throughout Castiel's body, and suddenly all thoughts of reprimanding the hunter for his snark earlier had dissipated.

Still, he did not show himself.

Dean let out a breath again, this time moving to sit up in the bed and inadvertently facing directly towards Castiel. It was strange how those green eyes could pierce through him, through the darkness, without actually being able to see him.

"Cas," he spoke again, and Castiel wished he would stop saying his name like that, wished he would stop tempting him. "C'mon, buddy, I know you're there. I know you can hear me."

Castiel shouldn't be here. This was a mistake. He rose from his seat, determined not to return until his heart’s palpitations slowed to a much more normal rhythm and his skin didn't feel so warm and stretched too thinly.

But Dean Winchester never gave up so easily. "Please, Cas."

And with even the slightest emphasis on the 'please', Castiel could feel his will crumbling. He stood a few feet away from the end of Dean's bed, cursed the man for being so difficult, and did something he knew he was most likely going to regret doing later.

He showed himself to Dean.

The look on Dean's face as Castiel appeared before him, the way his face lit up with relief and-- and awe, the way it was such an open, unguarded expression...

The fact that Dean was looking-- smiling-- at him like that...

It was an expression that buried itself deep in his chest, right alongside their reunion in Purgatory, one that was going to stay with him forever.

Stunned as he was, Castiel could barely choke out his customary greeting of "Hello, Dean."

"Cas," the hunter replied, and the angel tried to ignore the way Dean breathed out his name. "There you are." The corner of his mouthed quirked up and his brow arched teasingly. "How long have you been here?"

Castiel forced himself not to shift on his feet. Dean knew he was there the whole time. The thought made him feel strange, vulnerable even, but he didn't understand why. "What is it you need, Dean?" He retorted, evading his friend's question; he had absolutely no desire whatsoever to answer them.

"Ah, I get it," Dean said instead, using his own evasion tactics. "You're still pissed at me, huh? Can't say I blame you, what with the crap that tends to come out of my mouth." Something confused Castiel about the words, though; there was little remorse or self-deprecation in them. Castiel's head tilted to the side as he regarded Dean and the new expression on his face-- one that he felt oddly annoyed by, specifically when it was paired with the nonchalance further portrayed by his arms folded behind his head. It seemed so... not mocking, per se, but casual.

"What is so humorous about this?" He asked, unthinkingly taking a step in Dean's direction. "You go and risk your own life without a second thought, almost get yourself killed, and then when I eliminate the danger because someone has to, you further treat me with such impertinence? Of course I'm going to be upset." Castiel bit back his words for a moment to take a breath and keep his voice from rising. Today just wasn't his day. "I'm sorry, Dean, but I don't understand why you're smirking like that. Please stop it. I find it highly irritating."

The hunter stared at him, really stared at him, and with every passing second of silence, Castiel found himself growing more and more unnerved by it. Normally, he would not have been bothered by this at all, but there was just something... different. There was something in Dean's eyes he couldn't quite place, something in that thoroughly obnoxious smile that made him nervous-- not in a Something is Wrong Here way; it was more Something is Strange.

Because Dean did not look at Castiel in this fashion. No matter how much Castiel's mind wished to believe otherwise, it just wasn't possible.

If you're so freaking afraid of even looking, then don't you dare tell me what you think I feel. Maybe you can see emotions or whatever, yeah, but that doesn't mean you know what they're about, especially when you won't look deep enough.

Castiel grit his teeth as he remembered Dean's words and their accuracy.

He was wholly afraid to look, even now. He didn't want to see that glint in Dean's eyes; he didn't want to be tempted to look deeper into it, to see what was behind it. What would he do if there was nothing? What would he do if he received the undeniable proof that Dean didn't feel that way about him, didn't want him like Castiel did Dean? What would he do if he wasn't good enough in Dean's eyes? What if he wasn't right for Dean, meant for Dean?

And what would he do if he was?

He didn't want to find out, and he would admit that it was out of cowardice; he feared failing Dean, he feared losing Dean-- especially due to his own incompetence. Castiel didn't want to tempt the universe to take away one of the only things that truly meant anything to him anymore, the one thing he had complete and utter faith in.

The one thing left that gave him the strength to live.

Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and sprung to his feet. "You're right, Cas," he suddenly said, that aggravating smirk transforming into something almost uncharacteristically soothing. "I admit, I can be a bit of a dick sometimes--"

"Sometimes?" Castiel deadpanned without a second thought. He almost attempted to take it back immediately, but the look on Dean's face stopped him.

Besides, he was right, and there was no point in apologizing for something so true.

The hunter's eyebrows rose with surprise, not at all offended by Castiel's words. In fact, that look of comfort broke into an easy smile, and Dean let out a brief chuckle. "Yeah, well, I guess I deserve that, huh?" He scratched at the back of his head and looked coyly-- coyly? The angel's mind boggled-- down at his feet before meeting Castiel's eyes again. "But you know," Dean began slowly, taking a couple deliberate steps in his direction, "you still showed up, didn't you? Even after all this time?" Dean's forest green eyes were intense with their focus, staring into Castiel with something so purposeful, though he couldn't place it just yet.

Castiel let out a nervous huff. Why was he so nervous? "Yes, well--"

"I mean," Dean cut him off and took a few more steps closer; he was only a few feet away from Castiel now, the queen-sized bed no longer between them. Castiel wasn't exactly sure how to feel about that. "It's been, what, weeks since we last talked? And I gotta say, that conversation didn't exactly end with rainbows and puppies."

Castiel was utterly baffled by every word that was coming out of this man's mouth tonight. "What do small canines and refractions of light have to do with our confrontation, Dean?" he asked indignantly. He was thoroughly tired, and he was sincerely hoping that this day would come to a close soon.

Dean's eyes practically glittered in those seconds, and a grin suddenly broke across this face. A melodious sound rang in Castiel's ears at that moment, and he suddenly realized what he was hearing-- Dean was laughing. Whole-heartedly, deep and rich. It was absolutely vibrant and it made Dean's entire being glow.

For a moment there, Castiel was reminded purely of Heaven.

I did that.

And there came the overwhelming sensation of pride, of possession, washing over him. And he knew it was wrong to feel such things about the man before him, but he couldn't stop himself, couldn't keep himself from being swept up by the utterly beautiful, joyful, most Heavenly sinful sound that was Dean's uninhibited laughter.

Dean wiped at his eyes as the sound began to drift away, smile still perfectly etched on his face. "Cas, buddy, that's not what I meant," he finally replied through the last remnants of his laughter. "I just meant it as a metaphor for 'positive'. The last time we saw each other, it didn't end on the most positive note."

Castiel's jaw clenched with frustration. Of course, he should have known. He needed to learn how to focus more under times of... stress. That was all. He was distracted. He would have realized what Dean had meant by such a turn of phrase if he'd been focusing more on his words instead of his... face.

"Actually, though..." Another step forward, and Castiel was abruptly aware of how little space there was between them anymore. Dean absently ran a thumb along his bottom lip in thought, and Castiel refused to admit that his eyes tracked the movement. "Actually," Dean repeated, and the angel met his eyes once more, ignoring the way he felt a sudden heat creep up his neck. "It ended with a bit of a... well, a shock, for lack of a better term." The corner of his mouth quirked up again. "Y'see, Cas, somethin' strange has been happenin' lately..." One more step forward. "And I can't help but think that it has something to do with you." Step. That mischievous smirk returned. "Any ideas?"

Did they always stand this close? Castiel could feel the warmth radiating off of Dean, and had he not been standing stock-still with his quite incessant trepidation, (he was honestly getting a bit tired of it, really) he begrudgingly admitted that he probably would have almost imperceptibly leaned into it.

But he refrained. Because that would be, in Dean's own words, 'creepy'.

He now truly understood what Dean meant by 'Personal Space'.

"Cas."

Dean had come even closer when he hadn't been paying any attention, and the sight startled him so much he took his own step back and turned to face to motel door instead. Human emotions were a confusing and dangerous thing; he almost missed the days when he was so detached from it all.

"No matter what's goin' on between us," Dean continued, and the angel cursed himself for the umpteenth time for being so hyper-aware of the other man still pressing into the air around him without ever getting close enough to touch. Maybe if he just left-- "You always come just when I need you most, yeah? No matter what. You always come when I call."

And the echo of words once pleaded from his own mouth shook Castiel to his foundation. "Dean, what happened--" His voice cracked through the words, and he couldn't manage to push his voice past the lump in his throat.

"Shh, Cas."

And Castiel really wished he'd stop saying his name like that, stop putting so much affection into that one word because it broke him inside, it pushed through him and wreaked havoc on that one vulnerable spot reserved for just him and wrapped itself snugly around his mind-- his grace. When Dean said his name like that, he felt whole, even if just for a moment.

I don't deserve it.

"Cas, it’s okay."

He could feel Dean's warmth again, even a foot away. He could sense Dean, see his face, those evergreen eyes glinting in the darkness of the room with sincerity and something else. Castiel's hands balled into fists. I shouldn't be here.

Dean, say it again. Please.

And like God was finally answering his prayers, Dean did.

"It's okay, it is."

"But, Dean, I--"

"I don't want to talk about it. Not now. Not--" Dean heaved a sigh, and Castiel could feel it move through the air. "I could give less than two sh*ts about the fight right now, Cas, really. Because there's something else I want to know first, before we dive back in and start shouting, then you poof away because we're both f*cking idiots, and we go back to square one."

Castiel remained silent and listened.

Dean seemed to get the message and spoke once again a moment later. "I want to know what's going on, Cas."

The angel's brow furrowed and he turned his head just barely to look over his shoulder, back still to Dean.

"Something's happenin', man. Weird things. And I know you gotta know somethin', 'cause it all revolves around you."

Castiel couldn't catch his feet before they began to shuffle in place. He took a step towards to motel door. Did Dean know? Did Dean find out about Castiel and his... It felt so inappropriate to call them 'perversions'.

That was probably the point.

Suddenly a hand was clasping onto his shoulder and roughly spinning him around.

Dean was much too close now, and Castiel's body began to hum with anxiety.

"I know I'm not the only one who feels it," Dean asserted. His green eyes were full of the strength of his determination, and Castiel suddenly felt so small under their weight. "You felt it, too, didn't you?" He could sense that the hunter just barely refrained from trying to shake the answer out of him. There was desperation in his eyes that burned with that fervor.

"I don't--" Castiel didn't know what he was supposed to say. He hardly understood any of it himself-- actually, he had a bit of an idea; he just didn't know why.

"Don't lie to me, Cas," Dean interrupted, emphatic. He pressed even further into Castiel's space, too close and gripping his shoulders hard enough to hurt had he been human. The man before him took advantage of the small height difference between them, forcing Castiel to have to look up at him just so.

For a moment there, Castiel forgot that he was an Angel of the Lord, forgot that he was an unfathomably powerful creature that stormed through Hell and survived, that could take apart the man before him with just a thought, and put him back together all the same.

For one moment, he was nothing, nobody, but Cas.

"Cas, please," Dean whispered, too soft for the stern determination of his expression. He wasn't going to let this go, and Castiel slowly felt his panic rise as he realized this, even through the stir of something low in his gut at the way Dean said his name. "Tell me."

Castiel swallowed hard. "I don't know how to answer, Dean. What do you want me to tell you?"

There was a sudden shift in Dean's eyes, like a veil being lifted and suddenly revealing a swath of... of heat. His mouth opened and closed for a moment or two, and Castiel just caught the sight of a sweep of pink sliding between Dean's lips. "Tell me why it felt that way when you touched me."

His voice was deeper now, rough and quiet. The sudden shift in Dean's demeanor stunned Castiel; he didn't know what to think, what to expect. Dean was as unpredictable tonight as he was every other one. He never ceased to catch Castiel by surprise.

To be honest, he didn't know how to answer that question.

He didn't have to.

"Tell me why..." Dean voice dropped again, the whisper just barely audible, and Castiel felt something heavy stirring within him at the rugged sound. "Tell me why I get hard from just thinking about it."

Castiel suddenly couldn't think about anything else except his back suddenly coming in contact with the motel door.

Castiel hadn't even realized his feet had been moving beneath him as Dean had pushed his way even more so into the angel's space. And now...

Dean was...

Oh. Oh.

Castiel's throat locked up, and suddenly he could practically feel his body's war with itself on which direction to send all of its blood flowing.

Dean thought about that night often, thought about when Castiel had touched his mark without any knowledge of the repercussions.

He thought about when Castiel touched him. And he liked it. Dean found the thought of Castiel's hands on him pleasurable. Dean--

Dean wanted this.

And suddenly, Castiel realized that Dean was undoing the plaid button-up he was wearing over a t-shirt, not making any other actions towards moving away from Castiel.

This thought pleased him in a way he knew was wrong, was selfish.

But Dean did not let him focus on that for long, because suddenly the hunter's hands were pressed against the door behind Castiel on either side of his head, essentially blocking him in.

Another thing Castiel was perversely satisfied by.

He dutifully ignored the part of him that was usually screaming about the differences between humans and angels, about duty and friendship, about fear-- about sin.

Just once, Castiel wanted something for himself. Just once he wanted to be offered something, to take it, to bask in the joy, the pleasure, of it.

If Dean would offer this to him, it would a sin to reject it, not accept it.

"Do it again."

Castiel's eyes widened at the words. Could he really? Could he take this from Dean? Could he share this with him? Was he finally allowed to touch, to feel? After all this time, all these confusing, painful emotions writhing inside, things he didn't understand or couldn't even begin to comprehend...

Was Dean actually going to give this to him so willingly?

Dean's left hand fell from the door. "Cas." His face melted into something that could only be described as a mirrored image of the struggle and need battling inside of Castiel himself. "Cas."

That breath of a voice. It was devastating, and it shattered every single one of Castiel's panicked uncertain questions. There was an undeniable fire raging within Dean's eyes, a look of certainty and desire and pure determination that Castiel couldn't remember ever seeing so clearly in them. It was a look of... of conviction, and Castiel could already hear the possessive tone searing its way through his mind and burning straight down into his groin.

"Touch me."

The words ripped through him with such haste, he was blown away by the fierceness of that desire. However overwhelming, though, his hand was not quick with his trek along Dean's skin.

Slowly, he brought his fingers forward to brush along the line of Dean's own, sliding over each knuckle and the tendons, up to his wrist. He dragged his fingertips along the hunter's forearm, curving them in to drag his nails lightly over the flesh just because he was curious about the touch. Dean shuddered instantly, sucking in a breath between his teeth, and the look on his face made a hot streak of gratification run through Castiel-- so much so that he had to do it again.

It was such a sense of pride and pleasure he was filled with when touching Dean, having Dean be the one whom he was able to touch. It was such a new experience, and knowing that he was the reason Dean was making small noises of anticipation in the back of his throat, that he was the one who made the chills run along Dean's flesh, made him shiver because Castiel was finally allowed to touch him-- Castiel was drunk from what his friend was offering him.

Castiel's hand continued up the span of Dean's arm again, fingers slipping over the bump of his elbow and palm sliding against the smooth, hard muscle of his tricep. Dean's eyes darkened as Castiel's hand crept ever closer to where his mark was once laid upon the hunter's body; the evergreen was swallowed to make room for the fervid pupils, his breath began to pick up, and Castiel could even feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat through his skin.

Dean pushed forward even more, rested his right forearm against the door now, and Castiel could just barely feel his trench coat brushing against Dean's chest.

Castiel couldn't do this.

He felt like he was drowning in Dean's intensity. He felt like he was going to panic under the booming sound of both his and Dean's pulses, like he didn't deserve to feel the teasing pleasure, the promise, that Dean would press against him so intimately.

Despite whatever illusion of control he had over the situation-- the power of such promising bliss resting in the palm of his hand-- it didn't help the fact that at that moment, he felt utterly... human.

He couldn't do this.

Dean pressed in more, eyes locking onto Castiel's with a fierceness, as though he could sense Castiel’s dilemma. "Do it," he urged, the sound coarse, demanding, desperate. "Please."

Castiel would do whatever Dean asked him to.

Always.

And before he could think too much about it anymore, he pushed his way underneath the hem of Dean's sleeve, and pressed his palm to the perfectly freckled skin waiting for his touch.

The world went up in a blaze of blinding light.

It was sublime.

It was Heavenly.

Castiel would have felt like he was being swallowed entirely by the unholy flames of sin, of Hell itself, had it not felt so right.

Their skin sizzled immediately on contact, sending sparks swelling through them, and Castiel could feel them surge through his every nerve and envelope his grace, flaring alongside it and producing euphoric ripples throughout his being and Dean's, bouncing them back and forth until Castiel wanted to cry aloud from the intensity.

He realized his eyes had been closed since the second they'd connected, and through pure effort, his forced his eyes open to look upon Dean's face.

It was an unfathomably beautiful sight. There were no lines etched from worry or stress or fear, no remnants of the apocalypse or Lucifer or Leviathans or Purgatory, no memories of Hell or angels or demons or the Righteous Man or the Boy with the Demon Blood or the New God. Dean's natural stern expression was washed clean with pleasure in a way Castiel had never even dreamed of seeing. It was so open, so vulnerable, so enraptured; the angel truly could not believe his eyes.

He felt his hand instinctively tighten upon the mark, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open at the new wave of heat roiling through him. He needed to watch Dean, and he wasn't disappointed by what he saw.

Dean had suddenly thrown back his head, long lines of his neck exposed, mouth falling open to gasp for air. Or was that perhaps--

Dean was breathlessly panting Castiel's name.

The angel choked back a groan at the sight, letting his head loll back to thud against the door, because he didn't think he could take this anymore.

He turned his head to the side and suddenly felt the tip of his nose come in contact with Dean's other arm. Unthinkingly-- because everything was too focused on that one center, that one spot-- he nuzzled into the flesh, shamelessly dragging the stubble of his jaw against its smoothness, opening his mouth and flicking his tongue to taste the faint salt of the hunter's skin.

Dean practically keened, and Castiel felt arrogant as he lit up with pride once again.

That thought was driven from his mind and Dean's body collided heavily with his, shoving him up against the motel door, and Dean's right hand moved to run through Castiel's hair and grab a fistful of it. The sensation was so unfamiliar that when Dean tugged, he involuntarily let out a whimper that would have been mortifying had the hunter not immediately moaned in response and ground against Castiel.

The pressure rocketed through him, dipping low in his groin and sending a wave of bliss from it all the way to the connection of that brand and back and forth in a pattern that Castiel honestly couldn't even focus on at that moment. He pressed back, hips moving instinctively, wanting to pull as many noises as they possibly could from Dean, make him say Castiel's name over and over, make him tell the angel that he's perfect, that this is exactly what they're supposed to be doing.

Castiel wasn't used to so much contact, felt all of his senses becoming overwhelmed by every touch, every press, and every sound.

He wanted more.

"Dean," he finally managed to articulate.

The hunter's eyes opened instantly, locking onto Castiel's, completely lust-blown and fervent with need. His knee suddenly wedged itself between the angel's legs, to his surprise, and Castiel felt Dean's hand grab hold of his thigh.

Intent was heavy in Dean's gaze, and the second Castiel dug his nails even further into the hunter's skin, Dean hoisted up the angel’s leg and bucked hard. Over and over Castiel felt the thickness of Dean's co*ck against him, felt his own strain to meet each and every thrust with zeal as they began to develop a rhythm.

"Cas," Dean moaned, mouth open over Castiel's, but no kiss, no flick of tongue. Castiel didn't mind at the moment, just gratefully breathed in the sound of his name from Dean's own lips-- the name Dean gave him. The hunter's hands moved to push under Castiel's trench coat, fisting in the material of the button-up he wore underneath to tug it free from his trousers. Castiel kept his leg hooked around Dean's waist, and his free hand wrapped around the back of the man's neck, pulling him in even more to share the very air. He felt as though it made them even more so a part of each other, and even the thought was intoxicating.

And moments later, he knew Dean was successful in his endeavor as he finally felt Dean's hands on him. The hunter's hands, slightly calloused by years of hunting and manual labor-- beautiful, perfect--, trailed palms up the length of his back, sending chills all throughout his being.

Dean took advantage of his body's sensitivity from never having experienced physicality such as this.

Castiel could feel the edges of Dean's mouth curling just barely, and for a second there the hunter just gently caressed the chilled bumps along Castiel's skin, eliciting a small noise of pleasure from the angel. That smile suddenly grew, and a second later he grit his teeth—creating a look so self-satisfied, it reminded Castiel of his own perverse pride-- as he dragged his nails down Castiel's back and left streaks of welts.

He cried out unintelligibly from the stinging pleasure, thrusting up against Dean and using whatever leverage he possibly could to get more and more pressure. His grip on Dean's shoulder was now bruising, possibly even drawing blood, but neither of them seemed to care.

Everything was building up to such an intensity, Castiel lost any sort of pace or constraint he'd had, frantically searching for the crescendo he could feel pulsing through the both of them. He tried so hard to get this message across to Dean, to beg him to help Castiel, to bring him to that point of blinding ecstasy that he just knew existed, that could exist between them. He needed so badly for Dean to be there with him, to shatter alongside him in a fit of unfathomable passion.

He needed Dean to burn with him.

Because he knew that Dean needed the same thing, as well.

"Cas," Dean panted once again, and the sound was a glorious symphony of everything else neither of them could express in that moment. "Cas. Cas, Cas, Cas. Please, Cas, Cas." It was the most beautiful sound Castiel had ever heard, Dean falling apart in the most divine way imaginable with the angel's name on his lips. It was like a language all its own.

Castiel tried to respond in kind, tried to form some intelligible sound to get across to Dean that this was happening between them, that they were both feeling this together, that this could mean something to them—that he wanted it to mean something to them.

That Cas needed this to survive, that he needed Dean-- only Dean.

"Say it, Cas," Dean whispered, voice shaking with coiled nerves and exertion, so close, so close to shattering into a million beautiful shards and drifting away on the waves of the purest form of pleasure they could experience together. Dean's arms wrapped tight around Castiel as he began to grind harder and harder against him. "Please, just--" Castiel would have been appalled at the whine that escaped his mouth as Dean dragged his co*ck over the angel's and bucked particularly hard. "Say my name. Don't ever stop. Please, Cas, I need-- oh god, I need--"

Castiel tossed his head back against the motel door, desperate to speak, desperate to give Dean what he wanted, what they both wanted. He pulled Dean in by both the fingers causing eruptions of shivers along the nape of the other man's neck, and the grip on his shoulder at the center of it all-- the start of it all. He brought Dean's mouth back to his, opening and sharing their breath again. He willed himself to breathe in Dean's ability to speak through the blazing wildness of it all, taking Dean into himself again, and wanting him even more in every other way he could have him.

And just as that desperate noise built up in the back of Dean’s throat, hips now frenzied, eyes begging for Castiel, the angel proved to be resilient.

"Dean."

Under Castiel’s right palm, the brand shone a proud and brilliant red, contrasting so beautifully with the freckled skin it rested upon just like before. And once more, the world lit up into an eruption of fire and light and elation and bliss and Dean and Cas and perfection and lo--

Castiel gasped for air, and suddenly he was faced with the familiar sight of the sky, clouds, and land spread out before him from the top of Mount Kilimanjaro.

This really was not Castiel's day.

Chapter 6: The Enemy Within

Chapter Text

The sudden absence of that mind-numbingly perfect pressure, that heat, against his body made Dean want to curse the world for the injustice of it all.

He didn't want to let go of what he saw, what he felt ; it wasn't like normally waking up and slowly feeling your body awaken, slowly trudging your way back up to consciousness and leaving behind a dream world full of obscure symbols or messages or places that held too much meaning in your mind-- whether or not you had wanted to be there in the first place. No, this was something different; this was like having reality ripped from his hands and being tossed a sh*tty replacement where he was alone and so hard he f*cking ached-- instead of crowding a keening angel against the motel door and grinding as many obscene noises out of the bastard as he possibly could.

Dammit, it wasn't fair.

To be completely honest, he was becoming less fearful over the whole "What the hell is going on in my mind, freaking stop it already, this isn't right" part and more pissed off at the fact that no matter how many thoughts he had or how many times these dreams would happen, not only were they not real, they could never be.

And that he had to keep reminding himself this was getting pretty freaking annoying, too.

Deeply irked, he let out a huff and turned to stare through squinted eyes at the clock illuminating the darkness.

Three A.M. Sam obviously hadn't returned since he booked it earlier, and Dean would bet anything that he was still royally pissed off at the stunts he'd pulled a few hours ago.

If he was being honest with himself, Dean couldn't blame him.

He hadn't even considered the risk he'd been taking, hadn't even thought about what exactly he was doing-- he'd been through a hell of a lot of worse scenarios, why wouldn't he be able to handle this one?-- just like he hadn't thought about the insensitive crap he'd thrown at Cas earlier.

He wasn't sure which one he felt more regret over.

On the one hand, he could have almost died-- but seriously, when wasn't that a risk on a job they were taking? It was true, though, that he usually took more precaution when it came to any case, but... Well...

Dean knew he'd been acting strange lately, he knew what it was about, and he knew that Sam did, too.

It was always about Cas, had been for weeks. And no amount of ignorance or pretending or snark was going to change that.

They were going to have to talk.

And they were going to have to do it soon.

Because Dean just couldn't go on like this anymore. He couldn't keep having these dreams or these thoughts, he couldn't keep thinking about Cas and wondering if the guy could hear him if he just said a few words aloud to him every now and then, he couldn't keep being distracted by all of this crap because sooner or later-- if tonight had been any kind of sign to go by-- it was going to kill him.

The problem was, though, that Dean didn't know how to talk; he was so used to Sam initializing the chick-flick moments, or being forced into them through a sudden argument or an invisible line being crossed. Rarely did he ever just bring it up.

Hey, Cas, how's it goin', buddy? Long time, no see! Listen, I'm having a bit of an issue, and maybe you can help me, uh, help us-- you know, you and I-- clear this thing up, yeah? Y'see, we're both still kind of pissed off at each other-- I mean, I said some dumb sh*t, you said some-- oh, don't make that face at me. Y'know, you played a hand in this, too! Oh god, here we go ag-- Nevermind that. The point is, it's all making it really hard for me to focus on, you know, killing things and not getting strung up by my intestines or my head bashed in or something. Not to mention the fact that imagining you making obscenely sexual noises and having dreams about you moaning my name in fits of ecstasy is kind of distracting.

Like, really, really distracting.

Sooo, d'you think there's any way we can, uh, remedy this situation somehow?

Hey, you think maybe if we actually try our hands at doing some, uh, y'know--

I mean, it could probably help--

And Cas would smite the holy hell out of him until he was nothing but a pile of ash on the dingy motel carpet.

Then again...
There was still plenty of shouting they had to go through about things that were probably more important than the fact that Dean was finding himself sprouting boners over an Angel of the Freaking Lord.

He could always be smote for his blasphemous thoughts afterwards.

Dear god, he was so going to Hell for this.

Again.

Dean let out a despondent groan at the incessant thoughts, pulling a pillow over his face so he could vehemently curse himself into oblivion because of his own stupidity.

After what seemed like forever spent muffling plenty of obnoxious and incoherent dying-animal sounds at himself, his arms flopped back down to the mattress with the pillow still held limply in his hands.

For a long while he stared blankly up at the ceiling, thinking back on the brief glimpses he could gather of tonight's dream.

He remembered a feeling of resolution in himself that he could rarely ever recall feeling in regards to something Non-Hunt-Related. It was a determination that was unlike that which he usually carried in the bedroom conquests; it was too different, too important to be so simple.

He could remember the smile on his face and the way Cas was absolutely clueless and how it just made the laughter bubble so willingly within him. He liked that feeling, even if it was too open, too vulnerable. It was so honest, and the pleasantness of it was doubled by the shift of Cas's expression, the way that-- for a moment there-- his face lost the displeased frown and became tender, and his eyes were bare of everything but surprise and... and a spark of something else, something that made warmth swell in his gut.

It made Dean want to push Cas a bit farther, made him want to see more of that spark. It made him want it to strike lightning and sweep them both up in the storm because he knew Cas must have been capable of that underneath it all. He knew that if anyone could bring that out of the angel, it damn well better be him. He wanted to be the only one to make Cas act so irrationally, so freely out of passion; he wanted to be the reason.

It will always be you, Dean. Only you.

The echo of those words had reverberated through his mind-- in the past, in his dream, right then and there.

Dean spat out a curse. His stupid "Just Bring it Up" monologue had been right; he really wasn't the only one who said some dumb sh*t.

Dean tried to ignore it all, tried to go back to sleep. Maybe if he could get away from this all for a little while, everything would be better in the morning.

Don't we all have those thoughts from time to time?

But he already knew it was a futile effort; there was no way he was getting back to sleep tonight, not with the thoughts rolling around in his head, not with this sense of nervousness and impending doom roiling around in his stomach.

Not with the strong urge to call out Cas's name and see if he'd appear.

He wanted to talk to him. Wanted to see him. Wanted to know what the hell was going on.

Because if there was anyone who would know, it would be Cas.

Well... Cas or Bobby, but Bobby was obviously a no-go, so...

Angel it is then.

He heaved out a sigh, suddenly reluctant. To be honest, it took Dean longer than he'd like to admit to set his resolve and even longer still to finally say his friend's name.

"Cas."

It sounded too loud in the darkness, seemed to echo off the walls even if it was just barely a whisper.

He waited in the silence, waited for the distinct sound of rustling trench coat and ruffled feathers in a sudden rush of wind, waited for the room to be filled with the scent of wet clouds and khaki and the clean, masculine scent that clung to the angel.

He lied there, unmoving in the overwhelming stillness of the room. There was nothing at all-- even the very air seemed frozen in place. The seconds ticked by one after another, and with each passing moment he could feel a sense of dread building up within him.

Was he not going to show? Could he not hear him? Was he not there?

I've been watching over you...

And there was the return of that other stupid dream that helped all this crap progress so friggin' far in the first place. God dammit.

"Cas, are you there?" He called out once more, his voice only a fraction louder that it had been before.

Once more he waited, the trepidity making the dead air ringing in his ears all the more uncomfortable.

He let out a huff, forcing himself to sit up against the headboard of the bed, and regard the room in its entirety for any sign. There was something itching at the back of his mind about the moment, telling him that there was something he was missing, but...

It was gone in the next second, and he was left only with a mental onslaught of disquietude hanging in the air. It was wearing down his resolve, making him second-guess himself, his stupidity. Maybe it's a sign, his mind offered unhelpfully. Maybe this means you shouldn't--

"Dammit, Cas," he ground out between clenched teeth, ignoring the voice in his head and pushing forth, because if he didn't try hard enough now, he was going to have to settle for this never happening ever. "Please."

And suddenly, there was the angel, standing near the foot of the motel bed and looking more rumpled and flustered than he had when he'd saved Dean's life earlier that evening. The sight was eerily familiar, that stance, where he stood...

That itch in the back of his mind became more persistent for the slightest moment, as if something had breathed new life into it.

There was something different about it all, though. The look on Cas's face was locked down, and Dean knew there was a mask in place over his features; he recognized the tense set of that jaw, the shielded look in those eyes, and the stiffness of his posture.

Dean suddenly had no idea what he had been thinking, calling the angel down there like he did. He was only relieved by the sight of Cas for a moment until it all came crashing down on him. This wasn't like it was in the dreams; they were still supposed to be fighting, they weren't supposed to be happy to see each other-- only nervous and apprehensive. There were no smiles or innuendos tossed about, no heated stares or whispered words, no roaming hands or frantic collisions.

There was nothing but the uncomfortable silence hanging between the all-too-wide distance between them.

"Hello, Dean," Cas finally said, voice rough like he'd either just woken up or had been screaming himself hoarse.

Cas didn't sleep.

Dean didn't respond right away, just took in the angel's appearance. If it was even possible, he looked more frazzled than he had when he'd healed Dean; his hair was sticking up worse than before, his trench coat was beginning to slide off one shoulder, his tie was completely undone and hanging limply on either side of his neck. The harder Dean looked, the more Cas seemed to buzz under his stare as if he wanted to fidget but couldn't. The longer he remained silent, the more Cas's mask seemed to quake. It was then Dean realized just how fragile that stoic, hardened veil was, and he began to wonder if this whole thing was as bad for Cas as it was for him.

"Cas," he managed after the drawn out silence, and Castiel seemed to tense up impossibly more. The itching in the back of his mind told him he said it wrong, didn't say it the way he was supposed to; it didn't come out warm and relieved, light and soothing-- happy.

No, it sounded tight and nervous, troubled and uncertain. There was no easy-going smile adorned on his face, there was no surprise or a flash of awe and relief in Cas's eyes. There was a flicker of desperation where there had once been want-- once, twice, only in his dreams. Dean's jaw clenched at the thought.

Cas's fingers suddenly flexed in and out of fists, the action drawing Dean's attention. "What is it you need, Dean?" He asked, tone deceptively level. The hunter knew him, though, had learned to see all the signs-- all the tells. It was knowledge acquired by years of observation and hindsight that aided him, and each twitch he caught, he could assign to a different moment he'd recognized it from. He could hear the shakiness just underneath the layer of clinical ice in the angel's tone, and it made him wonder why he was even willing to show up in the first place.

The forced detachment in that voice, the shutters that fell over that face...

It bothered Dean.

It bothered Dean a lot more than he was willing to admit.

He ignored the question, though, wanting to avoid it for a little while longer for the mere fact that he wasn't quite sure yet about what he needed. Wanted, yes. But needed? That one was going to take more time to suss out. "How long have you been here?" he asked in return. It wasn't a playful question-- no smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, no brow arching teasingly. It was a strange sense he had within him that this wasn't going how it was supposed to, and that sensation became more persistent once again as he caught the almost imperceptible tension build instantly within his friend.

That frail shield over Cas's expression buckled down even tighter, doing its best to let nothing slip through, but it was all a tell in and of itself.

When the hell did Dean become so acutely aware of every little thing about the man before him? When was he able to start pointing out every detail and every tick and just know that there was something behind it?

Cas's azure eyes focused on Dean, more intense than before for just a second until they skittered away and surveyed their surroundings. "I came when you called," he replied, gravel tone terse.

No matter what's going on between us... You always come just when I need you most, yeah?

You always come when I call.

For some reason, that sent a peculiar pain rocketing through Dean's chest. What... "What's going on, Cas?" he suddenly asked, the hardness in his own expression slipping away to let the buzz of panic in his mind unwittingly reveal itself. His voice sounded smaller and weak and he f*cking hated it.

The change made Cas's eyes snap back to him, though, and for a moment there he could see in them a pain and confusion that mirrored his own. Why did that happen so much? Why did he see so many of the things he felt reflected in Cas's eyes? Why was there so much of the same-- hidden in the depths or bare for the world to see-- matched in that cerulean stare?

Dean found himself tossing his legs over the side of the bed and standing on his feet in moments, inching closer to his friend as that discomfort scratched at his nerves. "Tell me," he implored, taking another step forward. "Do you know? Do you know what the hell is going on?"

Cas adopted the look similar to a deer in headlights, though his stern expression tried to stay steadfast. The power of it was broken when the angel retreated a step back. "I don't understand, what--"

"Don't give me that sh*t, Cas!" Dean barked, surprising himself with how much louder the words came out than he'd intended. The sound caused the angel to flinch, and he hated himself a little more for the fact that this unfathomable creature would go against God himself for Dean, yet Dean only had to say a few words in a certain tone before he could see the pieces of Castiel's veneer falling from place and shattering as they hit the ground at their feet. "All of it! All of this!" He gestured with a frantic hand around the room and between the two of them. "I can't be the only one feeling this." The words were familiar, but even to his ears, it sounded like a demand instead of the sultry desperation that whistled like deja vu through his mind.

He could see a reflection of his own panic flashing through Cas's eyes once more, acute and attentive, and Dean could have sworn--

Castiel's hands flexed at his sides once more, fingers dancing nervously as if playing a jumble of notes across a piano. They caught themselves in the action, though, and began to strangle the air in tight, shaking fists. "If you are speaking of the highly awkward and painfully insufferable tension between us as of late, then yes." The look on his face was suddenly exasperated, and the huff he let out was even more so. "Indeed you are not the only one who seems to be experiencing this." Dean would have laughed at the Gettin' Real Tired of Your sh*t, Dean Winchester waves he was picking up had the angel's words not ticked him off even more so.

Dean's own hands balled into fists at his sides as he tried to control himself, control his emotions. He knew Cas knew; there was no way the angel couldn't. He could feel it. There's no way those guarded shadows would hover over the angel's features if he didn't. It just wasn't possible. Dean refused to believe he was alone in this, and fear that he might actually be made him want to lash out. It made him want to pull Cas forward by a handful of his stupid shirt or stupid tie and knock him one right in the jaw-- maybe the nose. He knew it'd hurt himself more than it'd hurt his friend, but dammit, sometimes the risk was worth it, just for the satisfaction of doing it.

He restrained himself, though, at least for the moment. Holding that level of control caused his body to shake with the effort, and he could feel his lips curl to snarl out his next words. "You know that's not what I mean, Cas. Dammit, I know you know."

Castiel stood his ground this time as Dean took a menacing step forward. "Dean," he said, tone beginning to border on irate, "I will not know what you speak of-- what you think I know-- if you don't tell me." The look on Cas's face hardened once again before he focused his eyes onto the wall just past Dean's shoulder, and Dean caught the quick clench of his jaw. "Is this the only reason you called for me? To force vague questions and accusations upon me? Because you know I cannot answer them?" Those blue eyes, sharp as a blade, cut back to his once more, and Dean did his best not to flinch at what he saw there. "Are you going to elaborate at all? Or shall I take my leave?"

Dean's hands itched to shove at his friend, push him against a wall and have his knuckles break flesh (or the flesh of his knuckles break, which was more likely). He wanted to shake him, make him say it so Dean didn't have to; he didn't want to have to say it out loud. He was afraid of what it meant and what Cas would say-- would think... How was he even supposed to phrase it? What was he supposed to phrase in the first place? He honestly didn't have any words for it, not really. He didn't know how to change it from pure emotions and feelings and sensations to thoughts to actual words. He didn't know how to form his lips and tongue around each letter, each syllable, not in a way that Cas-- even with all his seemingly infinite knowledge of languages-- would understand.

Dean didn't talk about these kinds of things. He spoke with curses and fists and anger; he had no use for the rest of it.

That had always been Sam's department.

It didn't matter that Dean had already made himself vulnerable to the angel, to his friend. It didn't matter that he'd already told him sh*t he never would have had Cas been anyone else, told him that he was family, told him all sorts of other crap that was about as sappy as Dean ever got.

I'm not leaving here without you.

Cas, buddy, I need you.

Please, Cas. We can fix this.

If you remember, then you know you did the best you could at the time.

I prayed to you, Cas. Every night.

It was almost pathetically funny to Dean, now that he thought back on it, how much he meant each and every one of those statements he'd uttered once upon a time. It was even more so when he finally acknowledged that after all they'd been through, all the mistakes that both of them have made throughout their friendship, it took slicin' through monsters in Purgatory-- like he was on a mission from God, the bastard-- for him to realize that, dammit, he really did need Cas. He meant what he said, even if it sounded cheesy as f*ck, even if Benny had probably been judging the hell out of him while he stood off to the side (Hell, Dean could barely even recall him being there the second all the relief set in).

And now, after all of that, after all of the stupid emotional words and the arguing and the dreams and the red scar on his skin even though it wasn't supposed to be there anymore...

Cas was going to make him put his sudden fear into words? All of his confusion and his nervousness, all the crap that's been building up between them since day one, all of the scary sh*t that would mean too much to actually put enough thought into...

Couldn't Cas just give him this once? Couldn't Cas just spare him this and f*cking-- just--

It was too much for Dean.

The words were too much.

They strangled his vocal cords to keep those whispers hidden inside, and instead forced the fear into the shape of cruel words he couldn't keep his grip on any longer.

"You know what, Cas? f*ck you." It was blunt and harsh and wrong, but nevertheless the words left Dean's mouth in a rush of anger-- of fear. "All this bullsh*t you're spewing, yankin' me around like I'm some f*cking puppet-- I've had enough of that from all the other angels and demons, Cas; I don't need it from you, too-- in fact, we already went through that song and dance, didn't we?" He glared at the angel before him, his stare heavy with everything warring inside him like a battle to the death-- and maybe it was. The air in the room had a weight to it that felt like the beginning of the end. The end of what, Dean didn't want to think about. He didn't want to know that this may be the last time he'd-- he didn't want to think about how his last words to his friend would be so full of animosity and misery.

He couldn't think of any of that now; he couldn't allow himself to. Because if he did... If he did think about it, he knew he'd cling to Cas in desperation before he had a chance to fly away for good. He knew he'd beg to take it back, take back every f*cking cruel thing he ever said to him. He'd beg him to stay or he'd beg Cas to hit him with everything he had-- he'd beg for him to kick the sh*t out of him like that one night in the alley that seemed so long ago. He knew that if he thought about it, he'd do anything he could to make his friend forgive him for treating him so atrociously, for practically demeaning him, for abandoning him-- God, why the f*ck did this have to happen? Why did Dean have to ruin everything he touched?

But he couldn't think about all of that right now.

This isn't how it's supposed to go.

So instead...

"Y'see, Cas," he laughed self-deprecatingly, shaking his head and turning his back to his friend. He lied and told himself it wasn't because he didn't want to see the moment Cas got fed up with Dean's sh*t and high-tailed it out of there. Or that it wasn't because he didn't want to see the look on his angel's face when Dean let out every hurtful piece of filth his body-- his mind, his fears-- were forcing him to expel from within him. No, he lied to himself, it's not any of that at all. "You keep telling me you don't know what's going on. You keep saying that you don't understand, that you haven't got a clue. But you forget..." And he hated himself in that moment, because Cas was right; every f*cking chance he got, he took it-- every opportunity there was to seal Dean's fate as a heartless, thoughtless, disgraceful piece of sh*t in Castiel's eyes... he was going to take it.

Dean turned around, facing that man with the ocean-blue eyes and the dark mussed hair he'd fantasized about running his fingers through lazily and lustfully (he wasn't going to think about lovingly) or gripping onto as he was practically ripped from his body with the full force of ecstasy he knew he'd never get to experience in real life, never get to share with the man before him once Castiel learned how to hate him tonight. "You forget that I know that look you get on your face when you're lying to me."

And when he was met with the angel's crestfallen, borderline-petrified expression that fell open so helplessly, with no reservation at all... He knew he hit the nail on the head.

But he didn't stop, no. Because he needed to push Cas even further; he needed to push past despondent and forlorn and get the angel to seething and enraged. He needed that anger from Cas-- the anger he could always handle. It was the pain, the sorrow carved into his friend's features that he couldn't bear. If he could just make Cas mad, then it would feed his own anger and he wouldn't have to deal with the pain until-- hopefully-- much, much later.

Dean didn't step any closer to the angel; he couldn't trust himself at that moment not to reach out to comfort the man, especially with the way Cas almost seemed to be closing in on himself. Piss him off, he screamed at himself, trying to get his brain to work. Just-- "So, is that all this is, Cas? A f*cking game? Was it not enough before when you treated us like f*cking pawns? Just like the rest of your junkless feathered douchebags of a family did?"

Through the misery in Cas's eyes, there was a flash of something sharp and dangerous.

That's it, Cas. Come on.

"Dean--" A warning buzzed underneath the surface of that single utterance of his name.

For all his determination to end this as soon as possible, to hurt himself just as much as he was hurting Cas (because who the f*ck does this?) he couldn't focus his words; he couldn't find which particular blade to sharpen and drive home.

So, instead, his mind was scooping up an armful of them all, throwing them to the wind, and seeing which one hit their target.

"You were supposed to be different, Cas." His voice didn't break when he spoke, it didn't. He wasn't shaking from whatever frenzy his mind decided it was a good idea to go into. He wasn't getting off track. He wasn't. This was for Cas-- not because Dean just couldn't control himself anymore. "After everything we've been through, you were supposed to be different than the rest of them! And now you go and do this? Why, Cas? Is this how you get your f*cking jollies?"

The air began to crackle, and Dean almost cried out-- whether in relief or anguish, he couldn't tell-- at just how close the breaking point was. He could feel it.

"Just answer me that, Cas. Before you f*cking poof out of here like the coward you've decided you are-- like the liar you've made yourself into."

Cas stepped forward before Dean even finished the sentence, taking Dean by surprise. He had expected it to be too much for the angel, for him to disappear. He didn't expect Castiel to do the opposite, to come closer. But he did, and the look in his eyes wild and the energy around him promised the wrath of Heaven. "Contrary to what you might think, Dean, I'm not f*cking invincible." the words, quiet and menacing, crept deliberately through Cas's lips. Dean swallowed hard and could feel his body coiling up in anticipation of being smote into freaking smithereens.

That, he had kind of expected.

If his friend's tone hadn't been enough to clue him in on just how far Dean had been pushing, then the curse falling unfamiliarly from the angel's lips was definitely a sign. Well, he'd definitely been listening to Dean say it enough, that's for sure. "Why can everyone else make mistakes, but I can't? Why is it okay for everyone else to screw up, but for some indiscernible reason, I'm not allowed to! In case it escaped your notice, Dean, I'm not the only one to have almost ended the world!"

Dean flinched at the exclamation. The words were true and the sound of them was raw and he just wished Cas would stop saying his name like that. He wished he'd stop speaking it so precisely, stop taking a step closer with each harsh syllable spoken. He wished--

Cas wasn't finished, and he wouldn't be, would he? Dean had hoped he'd just fly away and spare them both this. He didn't want to talk about it, he didn't want to have to talk about it. It was all broken, anyways, right? Why fix--

Cas let out a shaky breath through his ferocity, body trembling from obviously holding himself back. Dean almost wished the angel would hit him-- possibly knock him unconscious and just leave him there so he didn't have to keep staring into the barely-contained rage and hurt that was Cas's expression.

But, of course, Dean's luck wasn't that great.

The angel's eyes narrowed, as if insulted by his thoughts, and Dean felt something guilty sink in his stomach. The dark boom of Cas's voice picked up again, steadily growing louder. "I'm not the only one who has ever made a deal with a demon or done something wrong even though at the time I thought it was my only choice! So, Dean, tell me, why am I the only one who's damned to never achieve redemption in your eyes? Why must I suffer because I fail to meet the righteous--" Dean felt a pang through his heart as Cas spat the word with a sneer, for all the damage such righteousness has done to him, wrought upon him. "--standards you hold me at, all the while you look at me as though I am some incompetent fool?!"

Dean tried his best not to recoil at the words, he really did, but they hit him in such a way that all the air was rushed from his lungs and he couldn't pull it back in. Cas was right, obviously, and it was one of the points he'd brought up in the first argument that rang true; Dean did hold Cas to impossible standards while simultaneously calling him a child or a friggin' baby in a trench coat. He knew he did these things, and more and more he was becoming conscious of it. It didn't change why he did it, though-- at least, the "high standards" part. Cas was unbelievably powerful in his eyes; no matter what happened to the angel (insanity, falling, friggin' amnesia, there was a list around here somewhere...), it never changed the fact that Dean still saw him as a steady, constant force he could rely on whenever he needed help. He knew it wasn't fair to his friend, he knew that it must hurt, and to be honest, the name-calling probably didn't help any of it at all.

But...

Thinking of Cas as anything less than that, anything less than his friend with unimaginable strength and grace... Honestly, it scared Dean; Cas could handle the sh*t that went on in Dean's life, and most of the time Cas could handle himself, even while keeping an eye on Sam and Dean's backs, to boot. It was a comforting thought, and it was one less life Dean had to find himself worrying about on a daily basis (excluding the thought of Leviathans and Purgatory's other filth ripping Cas's angelic self to shreds, angels hunting him down and making him suffer, him becoming overwhelmed with guilt and grief and being a danger to himself-- Dean's pretty sure there's a second list around here for this, too).

How would Dean put that into words, though? How would he explain that to Cas without making the angel feel even more like sh*t than he already does-- than Dean already made him feel like?

But wasn't that the point? His mind offered. Isn't the point of all of this to drive him away? To keep yourself safe? To keep him safe?

Honestly, Dean didn't remember the point of all of this anymore; he couldn't recall it for the life of him through the haze of frenzied thoughts and the glassy sheen he could just barely make out in Cas's eyes. Dean had put his money on Cas getting fed up and leaving-- he hadn't spared much thought to the idea of him sticking around and actually waiting for his answers while he tried to rip Dean a new one.

Isn't one of them supposed to storm out in an argument? Isn't that what usually is supposed to happen?

The way Cas's feet were planted on the ground, the angry rise and fall of his shoulders as his angelic composure began to slip away, Dean would bet that Cas would probably be more willing to beat the sh*t out of him first than just leave without anything.

This isn't supposed to be this way, the voice in the back of his mind once again.

Now that Dean thought about it, he realized that the point of this-- of calling Cas down here with no actual plan other than "Hey, I have some questions that I can't actually verbalize"-- wasn't because of said questions. It wasn't because he needed to vent and to yell and to receive the same treatment in kind so he could feel more like sh*t for all of this; it was for the mere fact of seeing Cas in real life. It was because he wanted him to be there, to feel whatever difference there was between them in the dreams and them in reality. It was because Dean was an idiot and wanted to prove to himself that, even when they're supposed to hate each other at the moment, that Cas would still come when Dean called.

Dean swallowed hard, felt his lungs quake with a sudden anxiousness. His heart picked up an avid tap dance as he suddenly came upon a new sense of determination. He'd been right earlier; if he didn't do this now, he wouldn't do it ever.

"You do know about it, don't you?" Dean asked, voice once again absent of any harsh snarl or malice, just a quiet, certain question.

Cas gave an all-too-human eye roll and let out a small groan of frustration. Dean didn't answer his question, but obviously part of Cas knew he wasn't going to. He could see the angel considering giving him the same treatment, and suddenly he could see the possibility of an elaborate dance that battled the speed of his own heart was forthcoming in Cas's mind. "Know about what?" Cas asked, angelic disposition slipping even further.

Almost there.

Dean didn't offer any chance to collect himself, any chance to think about the words or try to steady himself with a deep breath. "The handprint."

Dean almost didn't lift his eyes in time to catch the shock on Cas's face, the falter in the step he took backwards. It was as if Dean himself had slapped him and shoved him away. "No," Cas said immediately, whether to the question itself or the fact that he brought it up, Dean couldn't tell by the sound of it-- stern, shut down, yet almost panicked. It reeked of "I don't want to talk about this."

Why?

"Don't lie to me, Cas," Dean repeated, though this time it was less harsh, less angry. It was coaxing, just above a whisper, and he could see the way the sound-- the words-- were making the angel unravel. He took a step closer. "Cas..."

"No, Dean," Cas snapped.

But why? that voice repeated.

Dean scoffed, ignoring the way his friend now avoided looking at him. Was it because Dean would see all he needed to know in those eyes? Too late. "You don't even know what I'm going to ask about it, so--"

"There is nothing to say on the matter." The angel whirled to face the motel door and took a step in its direction. He's a friggin' angel, he doesn't use doors. His shoulders were set, hunched up and tense, and Dean could suddenly see that what he'd wanted just minutes ago was about to happen.

Cas was going to flee and Dean wouldn't hear from him for another friggin' lifetime-- or worse, at all. Ever.

One more time.

"Why are you lying to me, Cas?" Dean's voice picked up something similar to desperation, and the sound made him want to hit himself for it, for the words that lurked just under his tongue. Haven't we already learned our lesson from this?

And instantly Cas was swinging around to face him once again, a swish of that stupid trench coat and an intensity from wide blue eyes. That familiar twitch in Cas's jaw appeared just for a second, as if he was chewing on his words, trying to break it down into something he could say and something Dean would understand.

He was taken aback suddenly by the self-loathing smile that broke across the angel's face, much too akin to the human Cas he'd met in the Future from Hell. It was something Cas wasn't supposed to learn yet-- learn ever-- but there it was, almost a perfect match compared to the drugged-out, orgy-loving, self-hating hippie from a time where Dean hadn't talked to Sam for five years, Lucifer still walked the earth, and Cas was human yet still hadn't left Dean's side.

With that same pained, self-deprecating smile that Dean could feel all the way to his bones, Cas spoke with a tone that matched it tit-for-tat. "Because when humans want something really, really bad..." Those cerulean eyes finally met his, carrying the weight of something Dean couldn't bring himself to understand at the moment. "... I might not be human, Dean, but I'd like to think that same thing would apply. Don't you?"

And like the rush of air leaving his lungs for the umpteenth time tonight, Dean realized what Cas had just said, realized where he'd heard those words before, realized the meaning that lie underneath...

Cas lied for Dean, because of Dean. Not just in this instance, or this situation, but in the one with Crowley and Purgatory and the souls and the friggin' Titanic. It may have been the wrong thing to do those times, but--

I'm not the only one who has ever made a deal with a demon or done something wrong even though at the time I thought it was my only choice!

Dean, I did this for you, because of you. What--

When humans want something... really, really bad...

We lie.

Dean said those words.

Dean taught Cas--

Cas wanted--

Dean was pretty sure he would have been hyperventilating if he actually had the ability to breathe anymore. Was this a panic attack? He was pretty sure this was a panic attack. "Cas." It came out rough and confused, and the smile disappeared from his friend's face just as quickly as it had appeared. "But-- why--"

"Because I was afraid, Dean!" Cas suddenly shouted, startling him with its contrast to his own voice. He could see his friend breaking before him, recognize that same desperation from weeks prior, a need for Dean to just understand so that Cas didn't have to say these things anymore. Dean would never be able to grasp just how easily he, of all things, could bring this man before him to the edge of all these emotions more than he'd seen anything else in the world. "Afraid to want, afraid to need. I can observe humanity as much as possible, but it won't bring me any closer to truly understanding why I desire so much that which I cannot have!" Dean could see the battle Cas was having with himself through his expression; he could see the emotions warring for dominance, could see his inner struggle to shut up from letting anything else slip free or, hell, to even say more because f*ck it everything else was already coming out, anyway.

What do you want, Cas?

What do you need?

Dean couldn't find the voice yet, to speak those questions-- questions he feared the answer to, but felt a spark of exhilaration at the prospect.

It's not time yet, that same voice in the back of his mind offered.

Dean snapped out of his reverie when Cas stepped forward until he was back in Dean's space, his expression fierce but haunted. The air crackled around them, heavy, almost suffocating. "Angels aren't made for this, Dean. We don't come with the necessary knowledge to function under the weight of it all, of humanity."

And when the next words came out deceptively matter-of-fact-like, Dean could feel himself breaking under the pain of it all.

"I am alone, Dean."

"So, what the hell are Sam and I, then? Freaking chopped liver? Why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you freaking ask somebody, dammit? I'm pretty sure I know a thing or two about humanity, even if it is all pretty sucky! And Sam sure as hell can help with all the girly emotional cra--"

"I didn't come to you, Dean," Cas interrupted with a huff, "for help regarding this, because the expression on your face after my inquiries would just amplify these... uncomfortable sensations. I would rather endure it all and stay by your side than risk losing you because of-- because of reasons I do not wish to address."

Dean immediately wanted to press the issue, but fear that it would chase Cas off too soon held the words back.

Reasons? What reasons?

If you didn't want to risk losing me, then what the f*ck is all of this?

I'm pretty sure this is mostly you, you idiot, his mind retorted with annoyance.

He ignored that.

The biggest issue is being avoided here, on both sides... A different voice, the one in the back of his head, supplied.

Well, if Cas didn't want to talk about this, then maybe he'd talk about the other elephant in the room.

"Cas..." Dean began, and the angel had to force himself to meet his eyes once more. He wasn't even sure where to pick up from. "Why did you take the handpri--"

"I don't want to discuss that, Dean," Cas cut him off once more, tone adamant and rushed.

"Well, like they say, Cas, too f*cking bad!" Dean shouted right back. "You wanted to know what the hell I was talking about, well, here you go! I want to know about the damn handprint, and you're the only one I can ask-- the only one who knows! So, either we can dance around this all f*cking night until the damned cows come home, or you can save us both the breath and just f*cking tell me already!"

While Dean stood there, body rigid with anxiety and tension, he waited for Cas to yell back, to interrupt, to tell him it wasn't of import.

But Cas didn't. He didn't say a word, and the longer Dean waited, the longer his friend stayed silent-- if even because of the inevitability of it all. Dean was bound to find out one way or another, that they both had to know. This was Cas giving in, however begrudgingly.

Dean was almost grateful, despite the fear of what he was about to find out.

"Why did you take it away? Why was it gone?"

Cas's shoulders slumped, and his eyes skittered away to focus on anything else but the hunter.

Dean didn't want that.

He took a step forward, situating himself into Cas's own space, forcing the angel to look up at him with a question in his eyes. Dean just barely caught a spark of regret in their depths, as well.

Cas finally conceded, the anger and the delirium slipping from his face. Now, in its place, was only acknowledgement and resignation. "Because I wanted to give you what you wanted, what Sam wanted for you, in the only way I could," he confessed. "I wanted you to have the opportunity to go into your new life without a reminder of what you'd endured. Of... Of angels or demons, Heaven or Hell-- the Pit..." Of me. "... Of that world you were leaving behind. I wanted to make sure you could go into your new one with as few reminders of everything you'd been through as possible."

Dean... Dean almost laughed aloud at the words. Fat lot of f*ckin' luck it did me, but he couldn't say it, not with the way Cas was looking at him just then. The one thing that had scarred his body that actually reminded him of something good had been taken away from him because Cas wanted to spare him the reminder.

The humorless laughter that bubbled up in his mind, self-loathing and full of its own regret, couldn't force its way through his throat for all it tried.

The words, however...

"Who ever said that it was yours to take away?"

Cas seemed baffled by the question, his mouth opening and closing as if to reply, but nothing came out. Dean was thankful for it, and he pressed further. "Who ever said you were allowed to take it? This is my body, isn't it? You may heal my wounds, but I earned those scars, dammit."

His friend tilted his head to the side, regarding him with sincerity and confused blue eyes. "And what if others in that suburbia lifestyle had seen them? What if they saw the scar I'd left behind? Did you earn the mark of my hand marring your flesh?"

Dean considered that for only a moment. Obviously there would have been questions-- there already had been the entire six months he'd lived there. But he didn't want to talk about that time, didn't want to think about it. It didn't last. It wasn't his.

It never was.

But part of him thought that was okay, because he'd always known it. He'd had the opportunity to enjoy it while it lasted, and maybe that was good enough. It just... It had never felt right.

So, Dean ignored that part, and instead bared his teeth at the man before him, using the small height difference to his advantage. "Let me ask you this, Cas," he growled in response, instead. "Did I deserve to be saved?"

It took a moment, but the angel finally got it. Cas's eyes widened unbelievably so, the sudden realization dawning on him and making him see just what Dean had meant by that.

"The mark wasn't just a reminder of all the sh*t I'd been through since Hell, Cas," Dean said, just to make sure that it hit home. "It was a reminder of the fact that I'm not there anymore. Who gives a sh*t if some f*ckin' schmuck thought it was weird if I had a hand burned into my skin. Yeah, so what. Who said it was any of his f*ckin' business?"

"I--"

Dean didn't let him cut in this time, wouldn't allow it. He needed to know this. He needed to realize something. "So, tell me, Cas. Did I deserve to be saved? Because, if I remember correctly, that mark was all the proof I needed to know the answer to that."

Dean wouldn't have blamed the angel if he'd hit him in that moment. Honestly, he deserved it; he knew how disrespectful and inconsiderate he sounded, and his mind couldn't help but point out that he was once again demeaning his friend when all Cas had been trying to do was make his life a little easier.

"My mark," Cas tried to say, but the words cracked through a dry throat. Dean watched as his adam's apple bobbed and tried to push the words forward. "Being alive should be proof enough. You don't need such a brand to validate your existence."

"Who said anything about needing it? Maybe I just wanted it." He wasn't going to pay any attention to the words or how they came out, how they made a heat want to singe his cheeks at how f*cking dumb that sounded and the speed with which Cas had met his eyes again.

"I cannot bring it back, I'm sorry."

And Dean opened his mouth to make a comeback, but---

I cannot bring it back.

But...

His hand unconsciously rose to brush over his left shoulder, and he could just barely make out the bumps from Castiel's fingers there. The skin was surprisingly tender, even under two layers, and he could just barely recall nails digging into the flesh and drawing blood.

"It's a bit too late to say that, isn't it?" Dean asked, voice suddenly thick.

Cas's brow furrowed, head tilting once again and his confusion becoming even more prominent. "I don't understand." What was that sound hidden in those words?

Worry? Concern?

Hope?

Dean couldn't pinpoint it.

The hunter's fingers worked at the buttons of his flannel, and he could feel the nervousness now creeping through Cas. Before the angel could say anything, Dean shrugged it off his shoulders and tossed it across the room, ignoring the faint echo of an action similar buzzing in the back of his mind. It disappeared when his fingers froze at the hem of his left sleeve, suddenly irrationally wary of exposing himself like this.

What if he was just having some serious hallucination about it all, about seeing it and feeling it and Sam mentioning it? What if it wasn't really there and Cas thought he was an idiot or looked at him with pity because this was just really f*cking pathetic? What if...

What if this is a dream, too?

If it was, Dean was not amused in the slightest. Not to mention, it was particularly lacking in certain areas where the others were not, and that was definitely not making the hostility or baring his friggin' soul to Cas any easier. He couldn't recall if any of his Dream Selves had had as much difficulty with all this emotional crap that he was right now.

Without sparing another moment-- just in case he talked himself out of it-- he pulled the fabric of his sleeve up and watched as disbelief overtook Cas's expression. "Because it's back," he uttered, the words probably unnecessary, but still drawing the angel's attention back to his eyes.

"That's--" Dean barely caught the movement of Cas's hands clenching at his sides.

"How is it back, Cas?" he cut his friend off. "How is it possible?"

His tone wasn't harsh, but the angel still seemed to recoil at the words as if it had been. "I don't-- It's not--"

"Cas," Dean urged. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting; he had been expecting acknowledgement of the damned thing's existence. He'd been expecting Cas to already know, not for him to look so friggin' spooked. "What does it mean? How can it be there?"

"It's impossible, Dean. There must be a mistake," Cas said urgently, pulling himself abruptly from his shared space with Dean and heading back towards the motel door. The return of the crackling in the air followed him.

"It looks pretty friggin' real to me!" he yelled, following after him. He was suddenly too close, and he could see that it was making Cas uncomfortable. The sight shocked him. Cas having problems with personal space? Since f*cking when? "Tell me why it's back, Cas."

That dull echo of something familiar rocketed through his mind, something so similar to how they were now, except Dean couldn't see the wide blue eyes looking at him in wonder and surprise and need. He wasn't close enough to press Cas against the door and block him in.

It didn't seem right to ask Cas to touch him...

"Dean," Cas interrupted that train of thought, his voice deep and commanding, buzzing with a warning as he turned to face him again, "I do not appreciate being cornered. If you know what's good for you, you will step back."

The hunter almost conceded under the threat in that azure gaze, but his thick-headedness and determination to get the answers he wanted made him hold his ground. "Too f*cking bad. We've come full circle, man. You've got answers, I know you do. I want 'em, and I'm not movin' a f*ckin' inch until you give 'em to me."

The hairs along Dean's arm and neck began to stand with the electricity building around the angel, dangerous and intimidating. "I can make you move," he growled with no hesitation at all, suddenly more angel than man-- powerful, and radiating with that strength.

Dean swallowed and felt a twinge of fear prickling in a corner of his mind, the corner that remembered that Cas wasn't just Cas; he was Castiel, an Angel of the Lord, who just happened to be wrapped up in a nerd angel tax accountant get-up-- who was bigger and badder and stronger than anyone (let alone Dean) could even hope to contemplate.

Dean's hands slammed against the door on either side of his friend, and he ignored the incessant tug at familiar thoughts that weren't quite memories. Despite it all, he pushed forward, both through this tribulation and the space between them, and gave Cas a look of pure defiance.

"Then make me."

For a second there, as he saw something similar to exhilaration, something predatory, flash through the angel's eyes, Dean thought that those were probably the stupidest words he could have ever uttered in his entire life. And Cas looked more than willing to make him regret them.

Dean couldn't even tell how much time passed by as he stood there, unable to breathe, waiting for the inevitable blow or push or shove or some kind of invisible force to send him rocketing across the room. With every second that passed, he waited, and his body grew more and more tense as Cas just stared with that calculating gleam in his eye.

"Would you prefer if I were to do that, Dean?" Cas asked, a dark amusem*nt curling around the words dangerously.

"What I would prefer is for you to answer my damn questions," he retorted with a bit more snark than he'd intended.

Cas's cerulean eyes hardened once again, and he lunged forward just a few inches, gritting his teeth and almost startling Dean. "And what I would prefer is for you to drop it. It's not important, Dean. I refuse to feed into whatever fixation you have on such topics. Now, step aside before I make you, Dean. I will not ask again."

Dean's palms slammed harder against the wood of the door this time, sending an ache all the way up his forearms to his shoulders. "So, what are you going to do, Cas? Pretend as if none of this exists? Are you just gonna angel-mojo yourself out of another tight situation? Well, newsflash, pal, life isn't that easy. Sometimes, you gotta face sh*t you don't want to! So, is that it? You just don't want to deal with it?"

"How dare you even think to tell me what I feel," Cas growled the angry words.

"Yeah, doesn't feel so nice now, does it?" Dean tried to ignore the bitter satisfaction he'd gotten from those words, from his own words being spoken back to him, whether the angel had realized it or not. He really freakin' tried, but there was only so much of it he couldn't not bask in-- if even just for a moment. "So, what, are you just gonna leave?"

"I don't know!" Cas barked back, and Dean could see how badly his mocking tone was irritating his friend, could see the way it made his pulse race and his chest rise and fall with outrage.

"Are you just giving up, then? Is that how much this means to you? That you don't even want to try to do something about it? I can see it, man." Another heavy slam against the door. "What do you want, Cas?"

Cas didn't back down despite the slight hysteria his tone had adapted. A creature so used to following everything by the book, going by orders and structure... Even when he went against all that, there was always some semblance of control in his life, always some kind of mission or stability to fall back on...

"I can't have what I want, Dean!"

What happens when you ask that creature, that loyal, unerring, unfathomable creature who never needed to decide right from wrong by themselves until you stepped in and turned any and everything upside-down...

"Says who?" the hunter shouted back just as loudly. "Come on, Cas, tell me. What do you want?"

What happens when you ask that creature what they want?

"You know what I want! You have to know by now!"

Dean did know; he could see it clearly at that moment-- hell, maybe he could always see it. Maybe that was somehow the reason behind the mark's return, maybe that was why the dreams existed. Maybe.... Maybe-- "I want to hear you say it."

"No, Dean."

Cas was the only one who could ever make Dean's name sound like a prayer.

One more slam. "Goddammit, Cas! What do you want?"

"I want you! There! Are you satisfied?" Heaving breaths, wide blue eyes, a crack in the rasp of that voice making the furious words sound much more fragile than ever intended. "I want you. Only you. Always you."

Dean looked down at Cas, watched as the angel stared up at him with escalating trepidation the longer they wordlessly stared at one another. Dean swallowed thickly, willed his tongue to work around the words, roll them out for his friend to hear because after everything-- this, the dreams, Purgatory, friggin' insanity, the "New God" crap, the betrayal, that ride alone in the car after Sam jumped in the Cage and the words danced around in Dean's head but he was too much of a puss* and too bitter to just f*ckin' man up and say it... His fists struck the door once more, limp this time and barely causing a thud. He could feel the hardened lines of his face melt into something else he'd never willingly categorize as anything particularly emotional ever...

"Then stay... Please."

Chapter 7: The Story of Us

Chapter Text

"Then stay... Please."

They were the right words. They had to have been.

Dean felt his throat lock up at the last note, felt the fear begin to seep through him and his heart pick up at an almost alarming rate.

He said it. Finally. Finally the words came out, finally Cas got to hear them, finally--

But the angel wasn't saying anything.

He was staring up at Dean with wide eyes, looking almost as scared as Dean felt. There was shock there, and a vulnerability that no one-- man nor angel-- should have ever been capable of, should ever have laid so bare. Dean disregarded the part of him that complained about the occasional damage to his masculinity, and instead he focused on how strong of a desire he had to lean forward and crush the angel between himself and the door; to wrap his arms around the bastard as tight as he could, to breathe in his scent and run his fingers through that wild mess of dark hair, to bury Cas against him so that his friend never had reason to make that face ever again. Cas was stronger than that. Cas shouldn't be able to do that. And above all, Dean was the last person in the world who should have the power to make him feel that way.

Those words had to have been right; there was no way they couldn't have been. Dean could feel it.

Still, he waited, waited in silence, waited for Cas to speak-- to say something to let Dean know his words were heard, that Cas knew that Dean didn't want him to keep disappearin' off to God only knew where. He stared into terrified-- surprised, hopeful, overwhelmed, there was so much there that Dean couldn't decipher-- blue eyes, praying that Cas would understand, that he would f*cking move and acknowledge what he'd said and just--

Dean felt it before he saw it. He could feel the fingers of Cas's hands curling into the front of his shirt, fists suddenly trembling, the hold of them gentle but firm.

And while he was basking in the movement, in the way he could feel Cas's hand begin to tug him forward and the exhilaration and victory-- and fear-- building up in his throat, he almost missed the whisper pouring over him like a bucket of ice water.

"What gives you the right?"

Dean's confusion must have been evident, because Cas's gaze hardened and his grip on Dean's shirt tightened. "What gives you the right?" He asked once more through gritted teeth.

"Cas, what--"

"No," his friend barked out, and suddenly Dean felt the world spin and his back smacked hard against the motel door. "How can you ask that of me? Now of all the times to do it, after every other opportunity there's ever been? Why?" Cas pressed into his space, anger radiating off him like heat off the friggin' sun.

Well, that's new. It'd be an understatement if Dean had said he wasn't expecting this kind of outburst at his words.

"Cas--" he tried.

But the angel wouldn't have it. "Why should I do it, Dean? Because you want answers, is that it? Because you know that I would give anything to hear you ask that of me, and you know that that is the way to get what you want?" There was pure outrage simmering within Cas's eyes that would have made Dean nervous to be in such close proximity to, but...

I would give anything to hear you ask that of me...

Dean swallowed down the anxiety coiling up his throat. "Please..." He couldn't help it; the word came out quiet and weak. It was without the force he needed to deter Cas, to pull him free from his embittered tirade.

Cas wasn't listening to the sincerity in the broken sound, too focused on looking at him through wide, baffled cerulean eyes. "How do you do it?" he asked, voice suddenly light with a vexed kind of wonderment. "How do you go from cursing my name and existence one moment, from cornering me and pushing and pushing until I begin to break, to shifting your face into a look so--" Dean could see the way the words stuck on tip of Cas's tongue, could see the misery in his eyes as he tried to explain what he saw, what Dean was realizing his friend believed was all a lie. "-- to changing so completely before my very eyes into something gentle and askance. Is it because you know? You know that I would never deny you anything? Because you know that I--"

But Cas cut himself off, locking down the bewildered pain flaring in his shock-blue eyes. The fury returned full-force like a tornado, suddenly whipping in and destroying the vulnerability Cas was exposing and sweeping it away.

"Cas, jesus, listen to me--"

"You just want answers, right, Dean? Well, let me save you the breath of this ploy and inform you of my selfish ways, shall I? That way, you won't have to pretend anymore, and you can take your insults and jabs and accusations and force that crap upon someone else who's more willing to be thrown about carelessly like a mere toy."

Panic rose up like bile in Dean's throat, but before he could truly react to the icy weightlessness running through his body, he was roughly jerked forward and shoved back against the motel door with a violent bang-- not hard enough to break the door (or Dean), but enough to sound like it and send a dull ache spreading out through the back of his head. The shock of the impact most likely would have made his knees buckle from the unexpectedness, but Cas was still holding on to his shirt with a trembling iron grip.

There was a moment there before the angel spoke, where the silence suddenly felt too thick, pulled too tight. Dean could see a spark of fear behind the cold azure, as if Cas was just now contemplating the consequences of letting his words fall freely. He wanted to, though-- Dean would've had to have been blind not to see it; entwined with that fear was that exhilaration again, that buzz that he rarely ever saw in those eyes unless he was provoked, pushed and prodded, emotions stirred by controversy. It was similar to that predatory gleam, except this time instead of it being at the potential of a chase or a brawl, it was almost as if he wanted to taunt Dean with whatever he was about to admit-- as if he was looking, if not hoping, to get a rise out of him.

And just as Dean was about to swallow down his uneasiness and grunt a sarcastic, "Gettin' cold feet there?" Cas opened his big stupid mouth.

"That scar that marked your flesh, Dean?" Cas began to whisper, barely audible, but Dean still heard the words loud and clear. Cas had leaned in so close that Dean could feel the air shift between them, and the only thing that kept him from correcting his friend with a snarky "Marks, you mean" was the fact that he'd have to speak to do that; Cas was already way too close for Dean to even consider thinking rationally enough about "personal space"-- especially with that dangerous spark in the angel's eyes. "Do you honestly want to know what it meant?"

Means, Dean mentally corrected him once more. He noticed seconds later that Cas was looking at him expectantly, though, and he realized he was actually waiting for an answer.

Feeling that restlessness building up in his core, he nodded.

The muscle in Cas's jaw clenched for a moment, and for a second there he looked as though he hadn't been expecting that response. It drifted away in a flash, though, and in its place was that same glint of jaded mirth. Dean could've sworn he saw a smile there for a second-- a bit wry, but a smile nonetheless-- as if Cas had almost forgotten how stubborn he could be.

Cas seemed to be giving him a moment, waiting in silence until he was positive that Dean wasn't going to take his affirmation back. He understood why, though it seemed a bit ridiculous to him after they'd come so far to get to this point. Cas's eyes narrowed, gaze heavy enough that Dean felt it against him like the presence of the body only a few inches away. He wanted to make sure; Cas wanted to know that Dean wanted to hear what he had to say, wanted to listen to his next confession-- whether it was the only thing Dean was after or not.

It wasn't.

God, help him, but it wasn't.

So, Dean remained as still and calm as he could possibly manage, trying to keep his heart from crawling up his throat despite its vicious thudding pleas for escape. After another moment, Cas finally seemed to give in and accept that he was actually going to have to go through with this.

He took one last second to breathe, to collect himself and his courage, before his grip tightened once more and held Dean firm against the hard surface at his back. A fire flickered in those hardened eyes, wrapping around that intensity-- that predatory gleam, that fear, that exhilaration-- and igniting it all with a mere statement.

"It means you're mine."

Mine.

There was an untamable tide roiling within Cas, tumultuous as it began to crash harder and harder against the walls the angel had been building up around those thoughts, those emotions. The storm was more than easy to see in his eyes; it made Dean's insides ache as he stared into them, unable to turn away, unable to shake off the fear and the echo of that last word thrumming in his mind. It was just as easy to see the moment when all the barriers crumbled and inevitably pulled Cas away from their safety, from the lies he'd been shrouding himself in whenever it came to Dean.

"I've tried," Cas whispered, voice tattered as the words brushed along Dean's face. "I've tried so hard, but I will never be able to shake it. I can take the mark from your flesh, I can remove it so neither of us has to bear the sight of it anymore... But I'll never be able to take my mark from your soul." The more the words fell from his lips, the clearer his eyes became, desperate to not let go of what might be his last chance to let everything out.

"Dean..." There was a quiver there, one that rocked through Dean with everything held within it.

Cas was the only one who could make Dean's name sound like a prayer.

"Sometimes, I wonder..." the angel continued on, unaware of the effect his words had on Dean. "I wonder if you can feel me the way I feel you. If you can feel my brand on your soul, my touch under your skin-- wrapped around your bones, stitched into your muscles, brushed over your heart..." Dean felt one of Cas's hands release its death grip on his shirt, felt its slow climb upward as the words continued to spill. "I wonder if you look for the old scars and the cracks and holes your body and soul once bore, and if you find me there instead... If you can see everywhere I laid my hands, my grace, when I pieced you back together."

There was a caress against his throat and along the side of his neck, replaced by the gentle press of a palm as the tips of the angel's fingers found passage into the hair at the nape of his neck. When Cas's grip tightened just barely, he could feel that it was a reassurance, that Dean really was there, really was hearing his words... that Cas wasn't still in Heaven while his friends were down on earth, living their lives without him nor any idea of the war waging-- a war Cas couldn't handle on his own, a war he needed help to fight but didn't want to be a nuisance to the one person who meant the most to him.

Dean was there, and he was listening.

"I wonder if you felt the distance as strongly as I did that first year, when I'd taken the mark and we went our separate ways. If you looked up to the skies or brushed your hand over the bare flesh and thought of me, worried about me-- if you ever saw something out of the corner of your eye and just once hoped that it was actually me."

Between Cas's confessions and the fear choking the life out of Dean-- fear that Cas really did want him, had always wanted him, had done nothing about it, had tried to convince himself otherwise, had lied to himself for years... Fear that Cas (a friggin' angel of the Lord and one of his best friends) held Dean in such high regards even when he wasn't supposed to, that Cas would have expectations of Dean, that Dean would fail him just like he's failed every other godforsaken thing he'd ever cared about, that Cas would once again leave--

Somewhere between it all, Cas had moved without Dean even registering it. The fingers of both of Cas's hands were curled into Dean's short hair, thumbs absently brushing over his cheekbones. He'd slowly fallen forward during his quiet yet relentless admissions, and now their foreheads rested against one another's, much closer than they'd ever allowed before.

"Mark or no mark, Dean, you're mine."

Mine.

"I hated it..." Cas continued, and Dean could feel each syllable burying itself under his skin-- could feel every single one worming its way into the knot of fear coiling in his chest. "I hated being away from you, watching you live every day going about listlessly, suffering for yet another sacrifice you'd made to spare this world that's rarely ever shown you kindness. I hated not being able to reassure you, to be there for you but instead leave the consoling up to--" Cas stopped himself and clenched his teeth, pressing in closer as if he could erase another's touch from Dean's body-- a touch that hadn't been there in years, but Cas could still sense as if it had been just yesterday. "Angels aren't supposed to hate, Dean. We aren't supposed to be possessive or selfish-- we aren't supposed to want or need, but I..."

Dean swallowed hard, unable to come up with how to react to the words finally falling free from the angel, to the closeness and the warmth and the emotions clouding Cas's face. His body was still, having barely moved since Cas had forced him backwards with clenched fists, despite those same hands gripping his hair. He wasn't even sure if the angel realized what he was doing, regardless of his focus, earnest and determined, desperate yet purposeful.

"You're mine, Dean," Cas repeated, voice low and unwavering. "You belong with me. No matter what you do or who you're with, I will always be a part of you, and they would never be able to change that." He pressed in closer as if to solidify the statement-- not yet bringing his body to rest against Dean, but close enough that Dean could feel the heat even more so, could feel the disheveled tie brushing along his chest and the rumpled trench coat against denim-clad legs. He nudged his forehead against Dean's, a simple firm press and retreat, and-- amidst something akin to anxiety and expectation soaring in his gut-- something else in Dean ached at the affectionate gesture.

A sigh broke free from Cas's lips as he pulled back, though, and regret began to cloud his azure eyes. That brief moment was all it took for the frailty to seep back into the resolution of his words, and still he continued on with the endless river of confessions. "There was no way we could part while you still bore my mark. There was no way you could depart towards your new family and I towards the waiting war if your skin still held the shape of my grasp, because I..." Dean could taste his shuddering breath and feel his fingers flex in his hair, another minute falter in the angel's resolve. "Because I couldn't bear even the thought of my touch still on you when there was someone else who was able to wake up next to you every morning and just--"

One of Cas's hands slid free and brushed along the side of Dean's face, cupping his cheek. Cas's eyes finally broke away from his to glance down between the small distance, watching as if in a trance as his own thumb ran along Dean's bottom lip.

Dean sucked in a breath at the unexpectedness of it, feeling as though he'd been suffocating until that feather-light touch against his mouth. Had he not been breathing this entire time? That's what it damn well felt light, if the burning in his lungs had anything to say about it. Maybe it was the shock of it all, hearing Cas say these things, things Dean himself could never imagine coming from the angel's mouth even in the weird freaky dreams he'd been having lately. Knowing that Cas thought these things, felt these things-- wanted, needed-- Dean could barely fathom it. Of all the things, the people, this nerd angel of the friggin' Lord could go for, he went and chose--

"Dean."

Dean snapped back to reality, focus on the warm whiskey sound of Cas's voice and the feel of his friend's fingers brushing idly against his scalp. There was a hint of authority in his tone, one that Dean's instincts immediately wanted to bark back at, but there was another underlying sound that held him back-- there was a plea in the way Cas uttered his name, pulling him from his self-loathing thoughts and dragging him back to the heat and the air crackling with the energy that always happened to surround them.

"I am the fool, Dean," the angel whispered into the silence between them. "To try and make myself believe that my actions were solely for your benefit, that my intentions were completely pure..." Sad blue eyes bore into Dean, pushing regret through, open and giving and full of oceans of things needed to be said. Cas's fingers slipped from Dean's lips with a sigh, and his hand descended back to his side. "And yet once again, I have hurt you, offended you, even.

"I have only ever tried to do right by you-- to protect you, to keep you safe, to spare you from suffering and to take away some of the burden the world has placed upon you..." Blue eyes stared down at the floor, a distant remorseful sheen prickling at the corners. "But all I seem to do break everything or-- or get overwhelmed and lose my way. I hurt you, or I fail you, or I end up making things worse for you, and you always end up with taking care of the mess, regardless of the circ*mstances..."

Cas looked up at Dean, eyes still open and askance, full of distress and confusion. All by themselves, without the aid of any words, they were asking questions, pleading to the only man in the angel's life who would have the answer.

"I have given everything for you, Dean, and I still would time and time again. I only wish that it meant something for you, that it could mean something other than destruction and chaos and failure and--"

"Cas--" Dean whispered through the tightness in his throat.

"Dean, tell me how to fix it," Cas continued on undeterred. His hands were back on Dean now, curling back into the fabric of his t-shirt and pressing more than shoving him back against the door. It wasn't with anger of hurt this time, no; it was out of a need for a reason, a need for answers... "Tell me how to make amends, to achieve redemption in your eyes..." One of the angel's hands adopted its previous trek from before, up across cloth, skirting along the side of his neck, curving around his cheek with a gentle caress from his thumb.

"Tell me how to earn your forgiveness, Dean. Please."

There was a moment there as Dean's mouth soundlessly opened and closed, trying to form around the right letters, that it was as though he could see Cas's heart breaking through his very eyes. He felt the angel's fingers flex against the side of his face, saw the downward spiral of that small flicker of hope that always gave way to the true depths of his need. What else could he say to him to make him understand? How could he break them out of this perpetual circle they've been running in for weeks, months, years?

There was nothing new his mind could come up with, nothing that he could at least force past that line that he hadn't crossed since... That line that hasn't been crossed for a long time.

Not that he and Cas ever really paid attention those lines, anyway, but...

The silence between them was visibly getting to Cas, his eyes wide with worry and a growing regret. Dean could practically hear his panicked thoughts. Was too much said? Was not enough? He felt the hand on his cheek flex again. Don't let go. Don't make me let go.

How the hell do they always end up here?

"Cas," Dean finally managed to choke out, the only thing he's been able to utter during Cas's entire rebuttal. "All that horrible sh*t that's happened... All those mistakes... All that pain and all those messes..." The words felt heavy on his tongue, unsure of how to speak them, unsure of the reaction they'd receive...

Dean hated repeating himself.

"All that happened 'cause you left, man. You left."

Cas's palm rested more firmly against his face, fingertips brushing back and forth through the short hair behind his ear. The gesture seemed almost subconscious, nervous and soothing both at once, and the sensation sent a chill along Dean's neck. "I know," Cas whispered back, trying his best to keep his expression from crumpling under the weight of his guilt. "I'm sorry. I just..." A deep breath, and the shuddering exhale ghosting over his skin. "I thought I was protecting you. I was trying-- I was trying to keep you safe, to keep you from losing more. I'd do anything for you, Dean, I-- Please, you need to understand, Dean, you need to know that--"

Dean's hands rose to grip Cas's face before he even realized what his body was doing. The surprise flitting across the angel's mirrored his own, and for a second there his own breath stuck in his throat at the unexpectedness. Regardless of whether this was him trusting his instincts or being betrayed by his body, he persevered. "You want to keep me safe?" He asked the angel, expression stern, tone determined.

Cas practically goggled up at him, blue eyes unbelievably wide, taken aback. "Yes," he uttered almost immediately.

Dean didn't have to search far for the truth in his eyes, having known it for some time, having heard the words from Cas before, despite having mostly been blinded by betrayal those instances. He set his resolve, didn't let the fact that such an unfathomable creature was staring up at him with such openness, with such honesty and trust, shake him from these words.

"You want to protect me? To save me?"

Dean could see the way Cas trembled at that last question, could see the emotions overflowing when they shouldn't even exist within this creature of the Lord in the first place.

You gave me a purpose, Dean. A reason.

I did this for you, Dean. I did this because of you.

I was trying to... to keep them away from you.

I do everything that you ask. I always come when you call. And I am your friend. Still, despite your lack of faith in me and now your threats... I just saved you yet again.

Has anyone but your closest kin ever done more for you?

"Always."

Vulnerable. Open, not defeated but giving, offering everything within him with the utterance of a single word. Dean could feel the angel quaking beneath his palm, yet even so, the vehemence-- the undeniable confidence and strength that resided in two friggin' syllables shook Dean all the way down to his foundations.

"You can't keep the world from falling apart, Cas. It's unavoidable, man; sh*t happens, and sometimes there's nothin' we can do about it except to suck it up, deal with it, and save as many people as we can." Breathe. Don't stop. Dean pressed on, steadfast. "But you want to know what you can do to prevent crap from happening as much as you can? How you can keep on keepin' on?"

The angel didn't offer any response, but the way those eyes were focused on Dean, completely rapt, was sign enough for him.

Maybe sometimes things do bear repeating...

"Stay."

And within the next instant, the distance between them was broken.

Cas was against him, pressing him into the door not with his hands, but with his entire being. The palm cupping his cheek was now buried in his hair, gripping and holding on for dear life as his other hand tried to pull Dean impossibly closer. A sob broke out through Cas's throat and a moment later his mouth was against Dean's, open and wanting and full of desperation and need that no angel should have ever been able to feel. All of Dean's senses were overwhelmed, surrounded by that familiar heat from his dreams, that spark. He let out a gasp as he felt Cas's body align what seemed perfectly with his, as if they were made for each other, taken apart and put back together to fit just right.

God knows how many times either of them has been shattered.

"Dean," Cas whimpered.

Cas was the only one who could ever make Dean's name sound like a prayer.

"Is it really that hard to give in?" Cas breathed into his mouth, voice rough and moist against Dean's tongue. "Harder than it's been to hold back?" Cas pulled away just barely to drag his stubble along Dean's jaw, a small moan escaping at finally being able to be so close. Dean had to try more than he'd like to admit to focus on the angel's words. "It's been here all along-- neither of us can deny." That mouth brushed along his skin once more, warm and distracting and heavenly. "And why should we? Why should we not accept this, Dean? Why should we not let ourselves have this?" Another purposeful press bringing their bodies together, and Dean couldn't help bunching his hands in that disheveled trench coat, tipping his head back and to the side, and giving Cas all the room he wanted to drag his tongue along salty flesh.

"Cas--"

"Don't say no, Dean," Cas murmured into the crook of his neck and shoulder, one hand sliding along Dean's back and the other running through his hair. "Don't say we can't; I don't think I'll be able to survive."

Dean let one of his hands untangle from the trench coat and burrow itself in the mess of Cas's hair, roughly pulling him back for a clash of tongue and teeth. Dean wouldn't say no, couldn't. And like Cas said, why should he? They've been like this from the start, always with that spark, always with that closeness. Dean was Cas's Most and Cas was Dean's... well...

Cas was what Dean Needed.

And he remembered all those nights he spent prayin' to the bastard in Purgatory, knowing he was out there, imagining every scenario about whichever way he'd find him and what he'd do when he did...

He remembered all those nights when he dragged his hand over the bare flesh of his shoulder and wondered where the proof of his savior had gone, what that savior of his was doing, and why he wasn't there right now with Dean staring at him quizzically for far too long or having a beer or asking strange questions or mentioning taboo subjects and getting away with it 'cause he's Cas...

He remembered all those dreams of Cas looking at him with that heat and the two of them being consumed by the fire of inevitability, of throwing everything to the wind and saying f*ck It because no matter what, it's meant to be--

Always has been, always will be.

And for once in his life, Dean was willing to let go of the wheel, to listen to the small voice in the back of his head, the one telling him to give in, to let go-- telling him that now was the moment he'd been waiting for, the moment of truth to see if that spark existed somewhere else between them...

"Cas," he breathed, earning one of the most perfect sounds from the angel's kiss-swollen lips he'd ever heard. He bit back making a sound in kind and instead pulled one of his hands away from Cas to pull up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the faint red outline of a handprint and small crest-shaped bruises.

"Touch me."