(no subject)
Since I'm in the habit of occasionally contributing to the Supernatural fandom in written form, I decided to lump them all together in on post. These were scattered far and wide, and a few suck, but you have to start somewhere.
General disclaimer! I don't own any of this. Just stompin' on yer legos, Mr Kirpke.
Places you've been.
So it turns out that winning the Apocalypse, much like baseball, isn’t really all that hard so long as you have the best players on your team.
Although he looked back on the memory somewhat fondly now, Sam vividly remembered sitting in some dank little motel room, Dean and Cas with him, frantically trying to come up with some sort of plan that didn’t involve them dying in a painful and horrible manner. None of their plans had involved Gabriel sauntering in, candy apple in one hand and a smirk on his face.
“What’s up fuckers?” was all he got out before three rounds from three different guns entered his chest, shattering the candy apple on the way through.
“Real nice,” Gabriel had muttered at them. “I bring you presents and you fuckin’ shoot me. That’s Winchester hospitality through and through.” Distracted by Gabriel, no one in the room noticed his companions, a tall lean man with Native American features and another man as tall as Sam and twice as wide.
“You know Raphael and Michael, right?”
After Castiel had managed to pull himself together long enough to verify that the three Archangels were indeed themselves, Dean rounded on the shortest of them, who was busily picking buckshot out of his stomach in between slurps of a milkshake.
“How the fuck are you here? And where did your entourage come from? Last I checked, you weren’t exactly the favorite son in Heaven.”
Sam still laughed when he pictured the put-out expressions on Michael and Raphael’s faces, directly contrasting the shit-eating grin spreading across Gabriel’s.
“Daddy loves me!” he sung. Raphael had grudgingly ground out that Gabriel had been revived around the same time Castiel got his grace back. He had then promptly found his brothers and persuaded them to help. In his own special way.
“You bitched them into submission?”
“I bitched them into submission.”
So a turbo-charged Team Free Will had kicked ass, and the party to celebrate the victory was entering its third day. People had been coming in from all over, as well as some supernatural guests. It seemed that Old World gods liked to party just as much as anyone, if with some interesting ideas on what made a good party.
Moving quietly through Bobby’s house, Sam absently took stock of the various and sundry items scattered about. Three llamas glared at him from over by the tv, which in turn was piled high with beer cans, underwear, Cas’ trench coat and a traffic cone wearing Bobby’s trucker cap. Graffiti sprayed the walls while streamers and balloons hovered woozily in the air, odd-colored smoke snaking around them from pipes and cigars. Unconscious bodies were draped in and around barrels that once held alcohol, some with decidedly non-human appendages and none totally clothed. On closer inspection, one body pile proved include Bobby himself, asleep or passed out under a collection of showgirls in full costume.
While ducking several arrows pinning playing cards to the wall, Sam chanced a looking into the kitchen. There, a man with stag’s horns on his head was cursing profusely in Gaelic, his horns caught on the shelving in the fridge. Brightly colored faeries jeered at him from where they were lounging around in a bowl of cake mix.
Out in the yard, Sam mused briefly on the weird turn of his life when he didn’t even bat an eyelash at the elephant over by a pile of half squashed cars or Michael giving Ben a pony ride while Lisa smiled from her seat on the stairs.
He followed a ragged path down to the back end of the property towards an ancient tree he and Dean had climbed and fallen from many times over the years. The tree stood as old and as solid as always, but this time there were a pair of bare feet just visible swinging from one of the lower branches.
“Hey Gabriel,” Sam said when he was close enough to see who it was. The Messenger didn’t seem quite so holy when he was perched in a tree in shirt-sleeves and old jeans, bare-foot with fingers dripping with ripe peach juice.
Said sticky fingers waggle at him in greeting.
“Heya Sammy. How’s it going?” Gabriel replied. “I hope Cas didn’t wake ya to ask why he had Dean’s pants on. I wanna be there for that.”
Shaking his head, Sam lent against the tree and decided the best reply to that was to pick a completely different topic. “Thank you, by the way.”
“For bringing a collection of individuals around that have been waiting millennia for a good party? Don’t thank me until you’ve seen what Coyote and a few of the fox spirits did. Should be on the news soon actually.” Gabriel dropped the cleaned pit, licking at his fingers while Sam felt small stirrings of fear over what the drunken deities had been up to.
“No, I meant with turning up to help us. You didn’t hhmmmfffff!” Whatever Sam had been about to say was firmly muffled by the introduction of a large peach to his mouth. Gabriel pulled his hand away, an odd look on his face that clearly had nothing to do with Sam’s indignant spluttering.
“Shut up Sam. You humans have a good thing going here. Booze, women, chocolate, and more beauty than Heaven could hope to contain.”
There’s no obvious way Sam can reply to that, so he chews his peach for a while, watching the branches of the tree bounce and sway when Gabriel moves. He tried to think of things on Earth that would rival the celestial beauty that Heaven is said to be, how this place where he’s seen such terror and horrible actions could move three of Heaven’s most powerful warriors to protect it.
“Tell me how this is beautiful.” Sam didn’t look at his companion, but at the slightly mangled peach pit in his hand. “Tell me why you love this place.”
Gabriel peered at him from under caramel-colored bangs. “Will you listen, Sammy?”
When Sam nodded, he found himself suddenly straddling the branch Gabriel was sitting on, leaning back against the trunk warmed by the sun. Momentarily disorientated, Sam wobbled and made a few very un-manly squeaks that he maintained were reflex. Regaining his balance, he carefully looked anywhere but the amused smirk pointed in his direction.
After a moment, something shifted in Gabriel. Nothing outwardly changed, but somewhere in the space of a few moments he shed everything Sam knew about him, lost in memories spanning lifetimes. All Sam could do was settle in, and listen.
After I left Heaven, I wandered for a long, long time. It didn’t matter where, so long as it didn’t remind me of the war I left behind, of Lucifer screaming with hellfire in his grace and Michael’s tears as he flung him into the pit. I found the desert regions were fascinating; still do, come to think of it. The people and gods there are so different from anything, anywhere else. They thud and shake with something deep and strong, proud and solid in contrast to deserts that stretch for miles, shapes that are never the same twice and that burn and glow with the sun. Temples were filled with incense and firelight, followers of all shapes and sizes bending towards statues of alabaster and gold. Huge halls of white stone and bright paints held magnificent feasts and grand celebrations, a dragon’s hoard of jewels and gold glinting like the stars above. I met Hathor in her temple one night, a graceful figure born from the grey smoke of offerings and silver moonlight.
I rode the monsoons over India, wings spread wide and woven into the purpling rumble of clouds. Deep red earth parched and cracked under the fiery sun turned brilliant, lush green under the pouring rains. Markets were packed with people, animals and spices, vibrant and ALIVE in a way that we who never age can’t be. Noise, movement and rich smells swirled together with so many colors and textures it was almost overwhelming, pressing against every part of my awareness. I spent days just moving amongst the people in the bazaars; my nights in large rooms on rich rugs and soft pillows, watching beautiful women dancing slowly to the music of their ancestors, bells jingling in time.
Another time, another place, a bower of ice held me in an endless black sea. Exploding across a silent sky, the Northern Lights snapped and danced, appearing as though the incense smoke from Egypt and the colors of India had come together in hypnotic fusion, chasing each other across a sky as black and as cold as the water it was reflected in. The icebergs floating in the sea became something of an orchestra; groaning, creaking and singing along with the celestial lightshow.
Even here and now, sometimes I just sit in a park somewhere and watch the children. Their laughter draws spirits in from miles around, everyone clambering to hear the sound that puts to shame even the highest heavenly choir. There are couples who walk around totally absorbed in each other, happy just to be there. Even if it’s cloudy and miserable, even if the worlds' ending, you’ll still find someone who’s outside, singing from the very deepest parts of their soul with joy.
Angels are constant things, Sam. We weren’t made to change like a desert under the sun and moon, to whirl with the music of a street parade, to dance in the rain for no other reason than because we can. We’ve never felt the need to build places from mountain and tree to find peace, to find faith. Humanity may only be young, so young, but it’s grown more than all of God’s angels have in our entire existence. Everything here on this planet changes and grows with each passing second. Never doubt that’s not the most beautiful thing in all creation.
Sam blinked slowly, not even remembering when he’d closed his eyes. His whole body felt warm and relaxed in the sun, warmer were Gabriel was leaning against him.
Humming softly, Gabriel didn’t seem to realize he’d stopped talking, or whatever it was he’d been doing to share his memories with Sam. Gently, Sam fit his hand into the curve of Gabriel’s hip, bringing his attention back from where ever it had wandered to.
“Well then, I suppose it’s not all that bad.” Sam felt Gabriel’s laughter shake through his body before it burst out of his mouth, bouncing around the property and mixing with the sunlight.
“You’re weird Sam,” he said. “C’mon. I think breakfast should be arriving soon. How’d you feel about Thai?” With that, Gabriel was down out of the tree and heading across the property, smiling at Sam when he caught up a few moments later.
The pair made it back just in time to see a very disheveled Cas stumble out of the house, wearing nothing but his tie and a pair of Dean’s pants.
Loosen you up (it's what the pie told me)
Dean screams, the sound silent and scratchy in an ill-used throat. Alistair stands over him, razor dipping and swooping over Deans’ body like some macabre bird.
“No … please …”
Shapeless black hatred covers the floor; lower-level demons that have gathered to see the famed eldest Winchester reduced to a pile of blood slicked bones and nightmares. They watch, sniggering, as Alistair offers Dean his bargain.
“Come on Dean, you have such promise! You’ll enjoy it even. Just step off the rack and pick up a knife. It’s that easy.” Alistair expects the bloody glob of spit that flies at him, dodging with a half-thought as Dean rasps out, “Go fuck yourself.”
Dean jerks hard against the restraints when clawed hands enter his belly, screams torn from his mouth, unheard by anyone who cares …
Then, with a flash that blinds him, he’s free, floating somewhere that feels like warm water, soft feathers and eternity. Something that might be the sky hovers low and heavy, every shade of blue imaginable moving gently together, notes of grey and white, white light flashing here and there. He’s safe and warm, falling asleep to words that come from the sky itself: Avinu sheba-shamayyim, yitkadash shemaycha …
Sam came back into the room just as Cas pulled his hand back from Dean’s forehead. He’d woken up to Dean violently thrashing in his bed, mouth stretched open in a silent scream. Sam’s own attempts at waking his brother had been unsuccessful, so in desperation he’d yelled for Castiel. Soft fluttering heralded the angel’s arrival and within moments he was at Dean’s side, one hand over Dean’s heart and the other on his head. Sam had excused himself with a mutter of needing a drink before leaving, standing out near the vending machine with a Coke in his hand until he was reasonably sure the nightmare had passed.
He avoided the heavy blue gaze as long as he could, letting his legs go from beneath him to sit on his bed. Glancing up, Castiel was looking directly at him, some sort of unreadable expression on his face.
“Why were you so frightened, Sam?” The question is so very loaded, but the angel says it as if he were commenting on the weather. “I wasn’t,” is the reply that snaps back without Sam's consent. Cas just does his head-tilt and continues to stare, as if Sam will talk to him so long as he sits there long enough. The problem is, Sam thinks, is that it might just work.
He drops his gaze, not liking the half-curious, half-worried look in Cas’ eyes. “It’s nothing, really,” he grumbles, moving to slip back under cold sheets. “Thanks for helping Dean.”
The hand on his shoulder is warm, unexpected. Sam doesn’t want to turn, doesn’t want to see that expectant and open face staring at him, eyes hiding secrets and glowing faintly with something that could be understanding. But he does anyway, pulling his lower lip between his teeth in a forgotten habit. “Please Sam, I’m not just here to help with the demons,” Cas says. “I can listen too, if you need it.”
Sam sits back up, running his hands over his face. “Dean, he won’t wake up will he?” It’s a shy question, hazel eyes peeping out from under long bangs. Cas shakes his head slightly. “I though it best to give him some un-interrupted rest.” Sam nods and stares at his hands for a moment, thinking.
“I can’t help him when the nightmares come,” he whispers. “I tried to get him to talk about it, after a hunt one time. All I got was the barest hint, like he’s still tryin’ to fucking protect me or something.” Cas doesn’t try to stop Sam when he gets to his feet to pace.
“It’s bullshit! All my life he’s been hovering over my shoulder lookin’ out for me. Tryin’ to stop whatever was out there from getting me. And now, I just want to give him that support, and he won’t let me! Y’know, when he first turned up in my apartment looking for my help, I just wanted to punch the smart ass son-of-a-bitch in the mouth and be done with it all. Now there’s nothing of that left in him, and I dunno what to do.”
Castiel watches as the youngest Winchester paces back and forth, words spilling out like water from a broken dam. He sits and listens as Sam punctuates his sentences with sweeps and jabs of his hands. “And does Dean really think he’s that stupid? It’s like he makes it his mission to drink himself back to the Pit.” Long legs carry Sam rapidly across the breadth of the room, so he passes Cas every few moments, working himself up as he lets out months of repressed words.
While Sam rants about “How could he have the fuckin’ balls to chew me out about Ruby? What was I supposed to do after a Hellhound used him for a scratching post?” he doesn’t see Dean roll onto his side, curling his body toward the angel on the edge of his bed, hand flopping absently to sit tucked against Cas’ thigh. He doesn’t hear the soft sigh from his brother’s lips, how the lines around his mouth and eyes relax, just a little.
Finally, Sam spits out his loathing and hurt of the way Dean looked at him during that hunt Colorado, when they faced down War. Like Sam was some evil creature sent to follow his brother to remind Dean of his time in Hell. Sure, Dean had looked at him like that before, but this time it was like he meant it. Then, the utter heartbreak when they went their separate ways, when Dean said he wouldn’t, shouldn’t, have anything to do with him.
Exhausted, he slumps back on the bed, hands shaking just that little bit. “It’s like a huge chunk of him got ripped outta him down-below,” he says. “And there’s cracks all over what’s left. How can I hold him together, Cas? He won’t talk, and between all the hunting we do and the nightmares, Dean’s wearing himself out. At this rate, he’ll drop dead before Michael can even use him as a meat-puppet.”
Castiel frowns a little at Sam, absently moving his fingers over the hand Dean has tucked against him.
“The nightmares are simply images that are burned onto Dean’s soul,” he finally murmurs. “With proper rest I assume that they would fade somewhat. Given the lives you lead, setting yourselves down for the required period is impossible. Have you noticed anything that helps sooth the dreams?”
Sam snorts.
“Other then you or a few bottles of Jack? Nothing. They sorta settled when we were just doing normal hunts, but then with that thing with Jo and Ellen …” Sam trails off, briefly flashing on the short, strong woman who was the closest thing to a mother the Winchester’s had, and to her daughter.
Cas finishes the end off his sentence, softly. “The nightmares returned.”
Sam nods, looking up at the angel. “Full force. Got kicked out of a few places because he was screaming so loud and I couldn’t get him to wake up quick enough. Is there something you could do?”
His eyes bear the beginnings of hope; hope that Cas can’t bring himself to squash.
“There’s nothing more I can do tonight. I will think on it, and see if I can find a way to help more.”
Sam gives him a weary smile, leaning back as the angel gets to his borrowed feet, the rustling of his coat covering the small sigh Dean gives in protest. “Thanks, Cas.”
Castiel nods, waiting until Sam has tucked his large frame under the covers once again before laying two gentle fingers on his forehead.
The brothers sleep in their hotel beds, watched over by a silent angel, before wings beat softly in the dark and they’re alone once more.
*
Later that week saw Castiel, mighty angel of the Lord, bent nearly in double to peer through the glass front on the counter of a local patisserie. After making his selection and paying the smiling brunette behind the counter, he sat at one of the small tables, looking out on the humans going by.
Tapping his fingers idly against the tabletop, Castiel thought about the soul he had Raised. Dean, between hunts, had been teaching him how to better blend in with the mortals on Earth. How to use money had been one lesson, along with, “Dude! It freaks people the fuck out when you don’t blink! Not breathing you can hide, not blinking you can’t.” And, most importantly, “This is pie, Cas. Sweet, sweet pie. Almost all your problems can be solved over a good slice of pie, and what can’t either needs porn, booze or a shotgun.”
Castiel frowned, staring absently at his coat draped over the back of another chair. Had he still been directly connected with Heaven, blocking the nightmares would be little trouble. As it was, he was reaching the point where even sensing his brothers and sisters was becoming a chore. So, he was reduced to thinking of more human methods to help. Booze was apparently plentiful, according to Sam, and Castiel hadn’t missed the increasingly frequent smell of alcohol wafting from the shorter, stockier hunter. A shotgun didn’t seem to be a viable answer either, with pie more of a stop-gap solution then an actual remedy. That left porn …
“Here y’are darling!” a bright airy voice chirruped from somewhere above and to the right of Castiel. The plate holding one large slice of apricot pie and an equally large dollop of cream clattered into a blue-eyed field of vision. Blinking in surprise, Castiel glanced up at the waitress from the counter, her ponytail bobbing along behind her.
“Thank you,” he replied automatically. “It looks delicious.”
The waitress beams at him, pulling cutlery and a napkin out of her apron pocket while telling him, “You look like a man with something heavy hangin’ over him. Thought you might appreciate some extra sweetness for ya troubles.”
The slice of pie is a little bigger then it probably should be. Castiel hums a little when he stabs at the gooey fruit, still half contemplating his Dean problem.
“Excuse me,” he calls to the waitress as she moves away. “I do have a small problem. Do you think you could help?”
The waitress nods and plops down into the spare chair, chin in hand and looking like she had nowhere else to be with nothing more important to do. “What’s troublin’ you?”
Castiel furrowed his brow for a second. What was he doing, asking this stranger for help?
“I have a … friend,” he began uncertainly. “I’m trying to think of a way to help him relax.”
The waitresses’ ponytail kept moving long after she’d nodded her head. “Has a rough job does he? Well, a girlfriend of mine had this hard-workin’ husband. Never made time for her or the kids. Anyhow, long story short, she learnt how to give these really kick-ass massages. I mean really, the one time she gave me one, you nearly had to scrape me off the damn bed I was so relaxed.”
Castiel would swear on his grace that the woman hadn’t taken a breath through that entire ramble. He swallowed his mouthful of pie, asking, “So did it help? This massage?”
He was beginning to think that ponytail had a life of its own.
“Sure did! He cut back his work hours, and now they have another kid on the way! Y’think something like that’d help your friend? There’s a place a bit further down the street that you can book in for a massage, or learn to do it yourself, if you’re interested.”
“It may help,” he said slowly. “Certainly, you’ve given me something to think about. Thank you for your help.”
The waitress flashed him another big grin as she got to her feet.
“Not a problem! Enjoy the rest of your pie, and good luck with your fella!” With that, she bounced back toward the counter. Castiel was too busy with his pie and thoughts that he didn’t see the woman grab an enormous slice of triple chocolate cake, dragging her fingers through the icing as she went out the back door, disappearing into thin air before the door was fully closed.
*
After coming up with nothing better himself, Castiel decided to look into this ‘massage’ that the waitress had suggested. Veiling himself from human sight, he went into the parlor down the road first, observing what went on. Eyes narrowed, Castiel took in the small room with its cabinets and single, odd-looking bed. On the bed, with her face pressed into a hole, was a slight woman with a towel over her hips. Standing beside her was another woman, broader than the first, and with shorter hair. The standing woman was moving strong hands over the other woman’s back in slow circles, pressing harder here and there in a gentle rhythm.
Over the next few hours, Castiel popped in and out of massage parlors all over the world. Some were more … informative than others. He was reasonably certain that when the waitress had told him a massage might help Dean, she hadn’t meant for it to be delivered by a topless transsexual in a sleazy back-alley room.
What he was certain about was the use of oil. All the places he had visited used some sort of oil over the receiver, allowing hands to glide easily over the body. This is why he was now standing somewhere in the Mediterranean; both his jackets draped over his arm and still feeling uncomfortably warm in his body, Gabriel smirking at him over a brightly-colored drink.
“So you need some more holy oil huh?” Slurp, slurp. “Surely you and your hunters are running out of pissed off angels to trap.”
Castiel felt his cheeks warm a little, and he knew it wasn’t to do with the heat of the sun.
“I wish to help Dean relax,” he explained, not looking up into his brothers’ laughing eyes. “I thought a massage would help.”
Gabriel snorted into his drink, exchanging it for some sort of pastry.
“And you thought that maybe you and some super-charged oil could do a better job then a cheap hooker with tits you could balance a pint on? I like that.”
Castiel glared at Gabriel. “I thought he might trust me enough to do it. Will you help or not?”
Gabriel smirked. “No need to get your panties in a knot, little brother. Personally, I think it’s fucking cute. Next thing ya know we’ll be having Dean around for Christmas dinner, eating all our pie. Here you go.” A small vial appears on a near-by table. “Now, you be careful! Massages can lead to all sorts of things.”
Castiel tilts his head, looking at his brother in a little confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Wanna practice then? It might help you understand!” Suddenly there are two very beautiful, mostly naked women on either side of the arch-angel, smiling suggestively at Castiel.
Gabriel’s laughter at the brilliant red flush on his younger brothers’ face rolls around the small island he’s sitting on. The dark flash of Castiel’s wings is accompanied by a quiet rustle lost in the sunshine as he takes off, vial in hand.
*
Castiel had thought he would need to be patient for his chance to help Dean, but when he messaged the Winchesters on his phone, the slightly snarly and rushed answer told him otherwise.
Popping into the motel-of-the-week, the angel took in Sam kneeling on the edge of the bed, sewing a long gash up on his brother’s back. Blood-soaked clothing sat in a forlorn pile on the table, and something that looked like Dean’s prized leather jacket draped over a chair, small tears here and there and a larger one to match the one on Dean.
“Fuckin’ witches, dude.” Dean’s growl was muffled by the pillow his face is shoved into. “Who the fuck implants their soul into pointy things? Especially some dog-ugly spear.” Sam seems to be taking his brother’s mutters all in stride, focusing instead on pushing and pulling the needle and strong thread through skin.
“I would have thought you’d be more concerned about your jacket rather then ... Dean! Hold still!” Sam spread his hand out between Dean’s shoulder blades, trying to push him back down from where he’d swung around to eyeball his jacket.
“That filthy, skanky, motherfucking …” Castiel and Sam winced as Dean began to use every single swear word he knew, and some he may have made up, to describe the witch. Sam wrapped his hand around the back of Dean’s head and shoved, planting his brother’s face firmly into the pillow, growling, “Stay.”
Cas padded over to the jacket as Dean transfers his abuse to Sam, but holding still enough for the last few stitches to go in. Laying down his own jackets and picking up Deans’, Cas examined the cuts, passing his finger over each one. He wasn’t aware of the two men watching him, wide-eyed and curious as each tear knit back together. The final tear, the large one that matches the cut on Dean, needs a few passes before it’s gone. Cas glanced up once he’s done, his vision mostly filled by a bare-chested Dean with a thousand-watt smile. “Dude, you’re awesome!”
Just like when he was talking to Gabriel, Cas felt a blush sneaking over his cheeks. “It’s alright. Are you and Sam ok?”
Sam groaned when he levered himself off the bed, eyeing Dean, who is in the process of carefully examining his jacket for any remaining damage. “Nothing that’s out of the ordinary. A shower and food will … Dean! Don’t pull those stitches!”
Dean scowled at his brother’s bitch-face, holding his back where he’d tried to stretch. “Piss off, Samantha.” Sam muttered something unkind and limped off into the bathroom, grabbing clean clothes from his bag on the way past.
The angel watched his charge arrange himself face-first on the bed, muscles twitching in protest when the wound pulled. An unknown feeling fluttered in Castiel’s belly, jumping about and making him feel something that could be called shy when he offered, “I could help a little with that if you like.”
Dean raised his head just enough for one green eye to focus on Cas. “Sure, if you wanna.”
Castiel removed the phial of oil from his overcoat pocket (he’s not thinking about what Gabriel said; really) and set it on the bedside table, sitting awkwardly on the side of the bed. He began to smooth his hands over Dean’s back, working gently at the knots of tension he could feel in the hunter’s shoulders.
“Dude, are you giving me a massage?” Dean sounded a little incredulous, pulling his head around to an uncomfortable angle to eye his angel.
Cas averted his eyes. “I could stop if you’re uncomfortable …” He hoped, selfishly, that he could continue. Dean’s skin is warm and solid and fluid under his hands, where his own skin is still awkward and unnaturally hot from his grace.
“Nah.” Dean turned his head back around and settled more comfortably. “Feel’s good. Keep going, and see if you can get that knot outta my lower back.”
One hand shifted down to rest in the small of Dean’s back when Cas reached over to grab the oil bottle. He pulled the little stopper out, tipping the bottle to drizzle a line over his fingers and Dean’s back.
“That’s a bit cold,” Dean huffs into the pillow. He can’t see it, but Cas is fairly sure that Dean’s lower lip just pooched out in a pout.
Castiel set the bottle back down, moving his free hand down to join the other on Dean’s back. They look bigger here, spread and moving over the tanned skin, briefly obscuring patches of freckles and leaving behind slick-smooth trails that glimmer in the dim motel lighting.
Dean sighed into the pillow, gradually unwinding under Cas’ strong hands. He could feel the faint tingling from the blessed oil spreading deeper into his tired muscles, easing away years of built up ache. Every now and then, Dean would feel one hand leave, then a shivery line of oil would trace its way in lazy patterns (he had a sneaking suspicion they might have been sigils) over his skin. Then came a rustle of fabric, a click of the bottle meeting the desk; and the hands were back again.
The bathroom door clicked open, Sam walking out in rush of steam. Dean clearly couldn’t be bothered to look up, so he missed the ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ expression that briefly flashed onto Sam’s face. Quickly schooling his expression into something neutral, rather than ‘I just walked in on my brother melting under the hands of a male angel,’ Sam announced, “I’m gunna go find some food. Want anything in particular?”
Castiel shook his head absently; working his hands further up Dean’s back, dodging the cut for the moment. Dean answered with a grunt and, “Bring back beer. And pie.”
“I’ll leave it to you to guess which one I spit in,” Sam told his brother, pocketing the keys to both the Impala and the motel room.
“Bitch. Don’t crash my car.”
“Jerk. I’ll be back later.”
The door shut with a click, the Impala’s roar cut through the still of the hotel room when Sam started her. Cas’ fingers never stopped their lazy glide over Dean while they both listen to the fading rumble of the black car, a curious counterpoint to the solid thumping heartbeats that hovered just on the edge of hearing.
Dean felt drowsy and content, stretched out on the worn mattress with Cas’ weight comfortably dipping one side. The cut on his back still stung, but the roving pressure of the angel’s hands gave him something else to concentrate on. It was good to feel the pressures of his life bleed away, even when he knew he would have to get up at some point.
Cas seemed to be having trouble reaching the shoulder furthest from him, small huffing noises of frustration he probably wasn’t even aware of leaving his mouth at regular intervals.
“Dude, just move if you can’t reach wherever your aimin’ for,” Dean grumbles half-heartedly into the pillow.
Castiel pauses. It’s not that he can’t reach, it’s just that it’s a little difficult to apply even pressure on parts that he had to reach to touch. Thinking on the best place to move to, Cas’ hands pause for a moment when his eyes fall on Dean’s hips. It certainly would be easier to reach everything from there, but the question is, would Dean allow it?
“Dean,” he asked hesitantly. “Do you trust me?”
Green eyes rolled a little at the question. Only the shy tone of Cas’ voice prevented Dean from snapping back some sort of smart-ass answer along the lines of, “you’re fuckin’ asking me that now?” Instead, he turns his head enough to look at Cas. The angel beside him still has one hand on Dean’s back, the other curled nervously in the black fabric of his pants. Cas looked back at him, eyes holding their usual intensity, but with something Dean couldn’t quite place floating just underneath.
Without breaking eye contact, Dean nodded, then turned his head back to rest on the pillow. Whatever Cas was about to do, he would never hurt Dean.
Cas himself was a little stunned at the display of trust. Breathing deeply, he toed off his shoes (no shoes on the bed Cas! One of the first damn house-rules) and stood enough to put one knee on the bed, hand down for balance while he swung his other knee over Dean’s back. He shuffled awkwardly for a moment, not expecting the mattress to give as much as it did under his weight.
He felt Dean’s body tense under him, muscles shifting in the dim light.
“Dean?” Cas’ voice was soft. “Is this ok?”
Dean’s breath left him in a rush, mind cataloguing every sensation he felt. Cas’ hands spread on his back, absently kneading, with the heavy, human weight of the angel settling over his hips, the comforting squeeze of his knees at the outside jut of Dean’s hipbones.
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean felt like he was giving consent to something bigger than having an angel use his ass as a handy perch for massages. “It’s fine.”
Cas smiled, just a little, before he started moving his hands again (his tie’s dragging through the oil, a quick pull and it’s on the floor) working better now that he could use some of his weight to push into Dean’s back.
A small crease appeared between Cas’ eyebrows when he looked over the gash he’d so far avoided. The area around it is still an angry red, stitches tugging un-naturally at skin.
“I will try to fix this.” Cas wasn’t really sure if he said it because he’s truly concerned for Dean or if he’s offended by the way the stitches pulled the scattered freckles from their usual patterns, warping their delicate lay.
Dean hummed, the bed shifting under the pair when Cas lent forward to palm the oil again. This time, the oil wasn’t dribbled directly onto him, but into Cas’ cupped hand. Dean heard him rub his palms together a little, then, “Tell me if this hurts.”
Then Cas’ hands were directly on Dean’s injury, but the sting Dean expected never came. Instead, warmth blossomed out, easing gently into the split in his skin. A low moan fell out of Dean, sensation rumbling through him like the worlds slowest orgasm. Pleasure sparked and popped under his skin, cresting up to meet the push of firm hands and flowing into ever corner of his being.
“That feels really good,” Dean murmured. “Different from a moment ago.”
Castiel pushed his thumbs firmly into a knot.
“I’m pushing a little of my grace into my hands,” he quietly responded. “The oil is acting as a conductor.”
Castiel didn’t mention that the oil had lit up under his grace, pulsing gently with colors that had no name. The light shifted and moved of its own accord, glowing brighter in spots where Cas had paid more attention.
Using some of his angelic sight, Castiel watched in fascination as the un-nameable colors played through-out Dean’s body, kissing and flirting with the hunters’ own bright core. Wherever his hands were, more light pulsed in ribbons of pure creation (feels like love, light, devotion, trust) that wove in and out of each other and over the harsh slash of dim pain on Dean’s back.
Dean felt good. Really, really good. He was partially aware of the fact that he was slowly rocking his hips into the bed, half-hard and wanting. He certainly wasn’t aware of how Cas’ breath kept catching, or how the angel’s hands stuttered in their movements.
Castiel could feel light shocks sparking through his body from where Dean rocked against him. He wasn’t sure what to do, but his body reacted by pushing down just a little. Dean’s next rock pushed his ass firmly against Cas’ crotch, the contact pulling a gravelly moan from the angel and a light thrust of his own hips.
Dean rose out of his pleasure haze long enough to notice Cas’ reaction. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. Men had never really floated Dean’s boat, although he never said no if someone interested him. But this was Cas, the angel that had come from being just another dick with wings, to someone whom Dean wasn’t exactly sure where he fit in his life (maybe friend, maybe brother, maybe lover?). Cas, his blue-eyed guardian angel, slowly becoming a part of Dean, someone he couldn’t live without.
Dean twisted his upper body up and around, hand coming up to snake around the back of his angel’s neck. Cas’ eyes were wide, half nervous and half wanting. They’re the last thing Dean sees when he closes his eyes, pulling just a little to bring Cas’ dry lips to his.
It was a light kiss, just enough pressure to push Dean’s plump pout flat. When they part, Cas follows Dean’s mouth, hesitantly placing an oiled hand under the hunter’s jaw. This time, Dean used the very point of his tongue to flick against Cas’ mouth; learning the grooves and mounds that made his lips part in welcome.
Castiel let his body take over, instinct woven into Jimmy’s frame. He mimicked Dean’s movements, sliding his tongue out and around the other. His hand moved absently against Dean’s jaw and down to where long neck muscles strained from the angle of the kiss.
The pair pulled apart again, breathing heavy. Dean smiled low and sultry, patting Castiel’s thigh.
“Lift up for a second, Cas. Lemme roll over.”
Cas shifted his weight to one side, allowing the man beneath him to roll onto his back. Settling back, Dean pulled Cas down and brought their erections together. He smiled when a roll of his hips put a blissed-out and slightly shocked look onto the angel’s face.
“Alright there, Cas?” Dean asked, reaching up to cup Castiel’s jaw; stubble unfamiliar and prickly against his palm.
Castiel nodded against Dean’s hand, his own splayed on Dean’s chest.
“I … I didn’t know something could feel like this,” he stuttered. His tingling limbs, the room getting warmer and the increasing desire to get rid of his clothes were secondary sensations in Castiel’s mind. All that really mattered lay sprawled against the bed, green eyes hazy and fluttering. Castiel already loved the sound of Dean’s breath hitching from arousal; loved the feeling of Dean’s erection hard and pushing against his own, fire-hot even through their clothing.
Dean pulled Cas down for another kiss, their mouth’s slippery and hot against each other.
“It can get better,” Dean rumbled against Cas’ lips. “Can I show you?”
“Yes, please, Dean.” Castiel had a vague idea of how these things worked, but having an idea and feeling calloused hands slip under his shirt and rub at his flesh were two very different things. Low moans and rumbles dressed the air around the bed, hunter and angel losing what clothes they had on under gentle, inquisitive hands.
Time seemed to forget the little motel room and its occupants. Dean reversed their positions, laying Cas flat and pliant. His hands roamed naked flesh, learning curves and dips; places where Castiel jerked and hissed with sensation. Likewise he taught the angel the places on his own body that made him hum and sing, sparking jerky electricity through him from a place low in his belly.
Castiel learnt that Dean tasted like autumn storms under his right ear, but his ribcage and hips reminded Cas of slightly warm beer and an old jukebox song. Broad hands tightened and shook when Castiel lipped and pinched at nipples, but got possessive and confident in response to greedy kisses.
Finally, curled on their sides, Dean poured the last of the blessed oil over his and Cas’ laced fingers. Together, he eased them down to their erections, wrapping both their hands around and starting a strong rhythm.
Dean watched the angel fall apart beside him, wrecked sounds shuddering out into the air from kiss-swollen lips. He felt his orgasm gathering, curling his toes and drawing everything down into a white-hot point under his belly-button.
“Come for me, Cas … let go,” Dean growled.
Castiel whined when he came, hand tightening and body shaking with pleasure. His eyes locked onto Dean’s while his come painted loopy white strips over their joined hand. Dean buried his head into Cas’ shoulder, twisting and pulling, needing that little bit more.
“Dean …” Castiel panted softly into his ear, shaky hand finding the raised print on Dean’s shoulder (mine, yours) and squeezing. It’s enough to tip Dean over, back bowing and a bitten-off cry following his come joining Cas’ on their hands.
Dean’s fairly sure he slips into sleep after that, dreams free of Hell and screaming. He woke sometime later to Cas’ hand slowly pushing through his hair, clean of come and sweat but still smelling faintly of the oil.
“Yitkadash shemaycha …Tavo malkutaycha …” He recognized whatever it is that the angel is murmuring into his ear.
“What’s that you’re saying?” he asked, listening to Cas’ heartbeat against his ear.
“It’s the Lord’s Prayer in Hebrew,” Cas replied. “Every time Sam calls me when you have a nightmare, I say it over you. It seems to help.”
Dean sat up enough to look at Castiel. The angel looks more at ease than he ever has, lying naked in a bed tangled with a human.
“Sammy calls you when I have a nightmare?” Dean asked slowly, as it feeling the words out.
Cas nodded and returned his hand to stroking Dean’s head.
“He worries greatly for you, Dean. Sam is trying as hard as he can to support you, to be family. You need that.”
Dean huffed like a petulant child.
“He may not be able to understand what happened in Hell,” Castiel continued quietly. “But I saw you there, and I see you now. Will you please let us help you? Even if it’s just to be there by your side, no questions asked.”
Dean looked away, then let his shoulders slump, leading him back to curl against Castiel. His hand sought out the angel’s and squeezed. Cas knows that’s the best answer he can expect at the moment; allowing himself to settle down in the bed to listen to his hunter fall asleep.
*
Sam found himself on a bright island somewhere, blue sky and a bluer ocean stretching out into the distance.
“Heya, Sammy!” an obnoxiously loud voice piped from over under an umbrella.
Gabriel sat looking very pleased with himself and not at all worried about Sam stalking directly over into his personal space.
“Gabriel! What the fuck am I doing here? Where are Dean and Cas?” Sam growled.
The arch-angel flicked his fingers, depositing Sam in a comfy chair with a monstrous slice of chocolate cake on the table in front of him.
“Relax! Our brothers are still at that flea-bag motel, still fine, still thick as they come. If you must know, Dean’s in the process of showing Castiel an entirely different type of massage.”
Sam blinked, blurting out, “How do you know about the massage thing?”
Gabriel snorted around a finger coated in chocolate icing.
“Because I am the awesome wielder of the heavenly clue-by-four, obviously.”
Sam kinda wants to punch Gabriel, but he’s seen Dean punch an angel before. He likes to think he can learn by example.
“You told Cas how he could help Dean?” Sam asked in disbelief. “Since when have you cared so much?”
Gabriel pulled a bitch face.
“It’s not like he knew it was me giving him advice. And I care because I can. Besides, if it gets your brother sleeping through the night, and by association you sleeping through the night, I can’t really see why you’re complaining. Now quit ya bitching and have some cake. Oh, and by the way, Sammy?”
Sam looked up from his cake, swallowing nervously at the look on Gabriel’s face.
The arch-angel grinned, a bottle of oil swinging from his fingers.
“You’re lookin’ a bit stressed. Wanna massage?”
Slow spiral
It’s an interesting sensation, this buzzing. Not unpleasant, but not fantastic either. Just … interesting.
His thoughts aren’t behaving, floating about in a muddled, fluffy bunch. Kind of like the clouds he and Ilaniel used to sit on, back before she tore out her Grace to become human. So very, very human.
When the liquid in the bottle sloshes around and catches the light from that streetlamp, it almost looks the same color as her hair. Red is a nice color, he muses, swishing the alcohol hard enough for it to climb the sides of the bottle and create a whirlpool.
Back, back it goes and there’s no more whirlpool. No more scotch either. Where’s that other bottle?
The grass under his head is cool, well kept and green under a squat tree whose name he can’t quite remember. That’s awfully rude of him, not remembering its name.
What he does remember though, is where that other bottle is. Jimmy’s tan trench-coat had enveloped it, smuggling it away under dark folds. The irritation that surges in him sends the buzz away for a moment, but even when it fades something else replaces it. Something he can’t name, being new to these emotion thingys and all.
After all, angels aren’t supposed to feel anything.
Angels aren’t supposed to pass out after shifting two humans through time. Not when it’s recent. Well, recent to a being that’s been around for a while anyway. They aren’t supposed to stoop to using blades and guns on demons, a hand and a flash of will should be more than enough.
Angels aren’t supposed to lay flat on their back under trees either, waxing poetic about the way the stars, patterns broken by the leaves between he and they; seem to reflect his wings that lay extended to either side, both of them ragged and limp. Wings that drop feathers to tickle his nose and present barely visible targets for cats and small children to chase.
Angels aren’t supposed to curse out their father, their creator, their God.
Why won’t the damn lid come off? Stupid thing.
Oh hey! The tree seems to be talking. Momentarily distracted in the quest to remove the bottle top, he listens and stares blurrily around. Nope, not the tree. Although, Dean’s eyes share the same green as the trees’ leaves.
“Cas?”
Stupid name. Stupid human name.
“Dean. Can you open this for me?”
The hunter just stares at him, then the bottle being held up. Maybe he doesn’t see it. It does look a bit blurry after all. But Dean doesn’t take it, even when he wiggles it a little.
“Cas, are you drunk again?”
This vessel has nice hands, he notices when he puts the bottle down.
“I think so. Didn’t drink the whole store this time though. I left the vodka behind. It tastes unpleasant and it even sounds unpleasant. Vod-KA. Voooodkaaa …”
Dean crouched down, reaching out and pulling his head down from where it had begun to roll back.
“Cas, focus. We need you on the hunt tomorrow.”
Dean’s voice sounds thick. Worry, he thinks it’s called.
“Nope. Not going. I don’t want to try anymore Dean.”
Time was when he’d be concerned about the emotions on Dean’s face. Shock, worry, anger; and buried underneath is raw fear. But now he’s more interested in his unopened bottle.
“But we need our usual dose of geeky-angel backup.” That’s hope there. “I … we need you there with us, Castiel.”
Dean hasn’t used that name in a long time. That feeling stirs again in his belly, and this time he can name it.
Shame. Disgust. All at himself. Maybe now that the lid has finally come off, he can wash them away with the alcohol.
He flops back onto the grass, staring at the sky.
“There’s your problem Dean. My name’s Cas.”
He pretends not to see the tears in Dean’s eyes.
General disclaimer! I don't own any of this. Just stompin' on yer legos, Mr Kirpke.
Places you've been.
So it turns out that winning the Apocalypse, much like baseball, isn’t really all that hard so long as you have the best players on your team.
Although he looked back on the memory somewhat fondly now, Sam vividly remembered sitting in some dank little motel room, Dean and Cas with him, frantically trying to come up with some sort of plan that didn’t involve them dying in a painful and horrible manner. None of their plans had involved Gabriel sauntering in, candy apple in one hand and a smirk on his face.
“What’s up fuckers?” was all he got out before three rounds from three different guns entered his chest, shattering the candy apple on the way through.
“Real nice,” Gabriel had muttered at them. “I bring you presents and you fuckin’ shoot me. That’s Winchester hospitality through and through.” Distracted by Gabriel, no one in the room noticed his companions, a tall lean man with Native American features and another man as tall as Sam and twice as wide.
“You know Raphael and Michael, right?”
After Castiel had managed to pull himself together long enough to verify that the three Archangels were indeed themselves, Dean rounded on the shortest of them, who was busily picking buckshot out of his stomach in between slurps of a milkshake.
“How the fuck are you here? And where did your entourage come from? Last I checked, you weren’t exactly the favorite son in Heaven.”
Sam still laughed when he pictured the put-out expressions on Michael and Raphael’s faces, directly contrasting the shit-eating grin spreading across Gabriel’s.
“Daddy loves me!” he sung. Raphael had grudgingly ground out that Gabriel had been revived around the same time Castiel got his grace back. He had then promptly found his brothers and persuaded them to help. In his own special way.
“You bitched them into submission?”
“I bitched them into submission.”
So a turbo-charged Team Free Will had kicked ass, and the party to celebrate the victory was entering its third day. People had been coming in from all over, as well as some supernatural guests. It seemed that Old World gods liked to party just as much as anyone, if with some interesting ideas on what made a good party.
Moving quietly through Bobby’s house, Sam absently took stock of the various and sundry items scattered about. Three llamas glared at him from over by the tv, which in turn was piled high with beer cans, underwear, Cas’ trench coat and a traffic cone wearing Bobby’s trucker cap. Graffiti sprayed the walls while streamers and balloons hovered woozily in the air, odd-colored smoke snaking around them from pipes and cigars. Unconscious bodies were draped in and around barrels that once held alcohol, some with decidedly non-human appendages and none totally clothed. On closer inspection, one body pile proved include Bobby himself, asleep or passed out under a collection of showgirls in full costume.
While ducking several arrows pinning playing cards to the wall, Sam chanced a looking into the kitchen. There, a man with stag’s horns on his head was cursing profusely in Gaelic, his horns caught on the shelving in the fridge. Brightly colored faeries jeered at him from where they were lounging around in a bowl of cake mix.
Out in the yard, Sam mused briefly on the weird turn of his life when he didn’t even bat an eyelash at the elephant over by a pile of half squashed cars or Michael giving Ben a pony ride while Lisa smiled from her seat on the stairs.
He followed a ragged path down to the back end of the property towards an ancient tree he and Dean had climbed and fallen from many times over the years. The tree stood as old and as solid as always, but this time there were a pair of bare feet just visible swinging from one of the lower branches.
“Hey Gabriel,” Sam said when he was close enough to see who it was. The Messenger didn’t seem quite so holy when he was perched in a tree in shirt-sleeves and old jeans, bare-foot with fingers dripping with ripe peach juice.
Said sticky fingers waggle at him in greeting.
“Heya Sammy. How’s it going?” Gabriel replied. “I hope Cas didn’t wake ya to ask why he had Dean’s pants on. I wanna be there for that.”
Shaking his head, Sam lent against the tree and decided the best reply to that was to pick a completely different topic. “Thank you, by the way.”
“For bringing a collection of individuals around that have been waiting millennia for a good party? Don’t thank me until you’ve seen what Coyote and a few of the fox spirits did. Should be on the news soon actually.” Gabriel dropped the cleaned pit, licking at his fingers while Sam felt small stirrings of fear over what the drunken deities had been up to.
“No, I meant with turning up to help us. You didn’t hhmmmfffff!” Whatever Sam had been about to say was firmly muffled by the introduction of a large peach to his mouth. Gabriel pulled his hand away, an odd look on his face that clearly had nothing to do with Sam’s indignant spluttering.
“Shut up Sam. You humans have a good thing going here. Booze, women, chocolate, and more beauty than Heaven could hope to contain.”
There’s no obvious way Sam can reply to that, so he chews his peach for a while, watching the branches of the tree bounce and sway when Gabriel moves. He tried to think of things on Earth that would rival the celestial beauty that Heaven is said to be, how this place where he’s seen such terror and horrible actions could move three of Heaven’s most powerful warriors to protect it.
“Tell me how this is beautiful.” Sam didn’t look at his companion, but at the slightly mangled peach pit in his hand. “Tell me why you love this place.”
Gabriel peered at him from under caramel-colored bangs. “Will you listen, Sammy?”
When Sam nodded, he found himself suddenly straddling the branch Gabriel was sitting on, leaning back against the trunk warmed by the sun. Momentarily disorientated, Sam wobbled and made a few very un-manly squeaks that he maintained were reflex. Regaining his balance, he carefully looked anywhere but the amused smirk pointed in his direction.
After a moment, something shifted in Gabriel. Nothing outwardly changed, but somewhere in the space of a few moments he shed everything Sam knew about him, lost in memories spanning lifetimes. All Sam could do was settle in, and listen.
After I left Heaven, I wandered for a long, long time. It didn’t matter where, so long as it didn’t remind me of the war I left behind, of Lucifer screaming with hellfire in his grace and Michael’s tears as he flung him into the pit. I found the desert regions were fascinating; still do, come to think of it. The people and gods there are so different from anything, anywhere else. They thud and shake with something deep and strong, proud and solid in contrast to deserts that stretch for miles, shapes that are never the same twice and that burn and glow with the sun. Temples were filled with incense and firelight, followers of all shapes and sizes bending towards statues of alabaster and gold. Huge halls of white stone and bright paints held magnificent feasts and grand celebrations, a dragon’s hoard of jewels and gold glinting like the stars above. I met Hathor in her temple one night, a graceful figure born from the grey smoke of offerings and silver moonlight.
I rode the monsoons over India, wings spread wide and woven into the purpling rumble of clouds. Deep red earth parched and cracked under the fiery sun turned brilliant, lush green under the pouring rains. Markets were packed with people, animals and spices, vibrant and ALIVE in a way that we who never age can’t be. Noise, movement and rich smells swirled together with so many colors and textures it was almost overwhelming, pressing against every part of my awareness. I spent days just moving amongst the people in the bazaars; my nights in large rooms on rich rugs and soft pillows, watching beautiful women dancing slowly to the music of their ancestors, bells jingling in time.
Another time, another place, a bower of ice held me in an endless black sea. Exploding across a silent sky, the Northern Lights snapped and danced, appearing as though the incense smoke from Egypt and the colors of India had come together in hypnotic fusion, chasing each other across a sky as black and as cold as the water it was reflected in. The icebergs floating in the sea became something of an orchestra; groaning, creaking and singing along with the celestial lightshow.
Even here and now, sometimes I just sit in a park somewhere and watch the children. Their laughter draws spirits in from miles around, everyone clambering to hear the sound that puts to shame even the highest heavenly choir. There are couples who walk around totally absorbed in each other, happy just to be there. Even if it’s cloudy and miserable, even if the worlds' ending, you’ll still find someone who’s outside, singing from the very deepest parts of their soul with joy.
Angels are constant things, Sam. We weren’t made to change like a desert under the sun and moon, to whirl with the music of a street parade, to dance in the rain for no other reason than because we can. We’ve never felt the need to build places from mountain and tree to find peace, to find faith. Humanity may only be young, so young, but it’s grown more than all of God’s angels have in our entire existence. Everything here on this planet changes and grows with each passing second. Never doubt that’s not the most beautiful thing in all creation.
Sam blinked slowly, not even remembering when he’d closed his eyes. His whole body felt warm and relaxed in the sun, warmer were Gabriel was leaning against him.
Humming softly, Gabriel didn’t seem to realize he’d stopped talking, or whatever it was he’d been doing to share his memories with Sam. Gently, Sam fit his hand into the curve of Gabriel’s hip, bringing his attention back from where ever it had wandered to.
“Well then, I suppose it’s not all that bad.” Sam felt Gabriel’s laughter shake through his body before it burst out of his mouth, bouncing around the property and mixing with the sunlight.
“You’re weird Sam,” he said. “C’mon. I think breakfast should be arriving soon. How’d you feel about Thai?” With that, Gabriel was down out of the tree and heading across the property, smiling at Sam when he caught up a few moments later.
The pair made it back just in time to see a very disheveled Cas stumble out of the house, wearing nothing but his tie and a pair of Dean’s pants.
Loosen you up (it's what the pie told me)
Dean screams, the sound silent and scratchy in an ill-used throat. Alistair stands over him, razor dipping and swooping over Deans’ body like some macabre bird.
“No … please …”
Shapeless black hatred covers the floor; lower-level demons that have gathered to see the famed eldest Winchester reduced to a pile of blood slicked bones and nightmares. They watch, sniggering, as Alistair offers Dean his bargain.
“Come on Dean, you have such promise! You’ll enjoy it even. Just step off the rack and pick up a knife. It’s that easy.” Alistair expects the bloody glob of spit that flies at him, dodging with a half-thought as Dean rasps out, “Go fuck yourself.”
Dean jerks hard against the restraints when clawed hands enter his belly, screams torn from his mouth, unheard by anyone who cares …
Then, with a flash that blinds him, he’s free, floating somewhere that feels like warm water, soft feathers and eternity. Something that might be the sky hovers low and heavy, every shade of blue imaginable moving gently together, notes of grey and white, white light flashing here and there. He’s safe and warm, falling asleep to words that come from the sky itself: Avinu sheba-shamayyim, yitkadash shemaycha …
Sam came back into the room just as Cas pulled his hand back from Dean’s forehead. He’d woken up to Dean violently thrashing in his bed, mouth stretched open in a silent scream. Sam’s own attempts at waking his brother had been unsuccessful, so in desperation he’d yelled for Castiel. Soft fluttering heralded the angel’s arrival and within moments he was at Dean’s side, one hand over Dean’s heart and the other on his head. Sam had excused himself with a mutter of needing a drink before leaving, standing out near the vending machine with a Coke in his hand until he was reasonably sure the nightmare had passed.
He avoided the heavy blue gaze as long as he could, letting his legs go from beneath him to sit on his bed. Glancing up, Castiel was looking directly at him, some sort of unreadable expression on his face.
“Why were you so frightened, Sam?” The question is so very loaded, but the angel says it as if he were commenting on the weather. “I wasn’t,” is the reply that snaps back without Sam's consent. Cas just does his head-tilt and continues to stare, as if Sam will talk to him so long as he sits there long enough. The problem is, Sam thinks, is that it might just work.
He drops his gaze, not liking the half-curious, half-worried look in Cas’ eyes. “It’s nothing, really,” he grumbles, moving to slip back under cold sheets. “Thanks for helping Dean.”
The hand on his shoulder is warm, unexpected. Sam doesn’t want to turn, doesn’t want to see that expectant and open face staring at him, eyes hiding secrets and glowing faintly with something that could be understanding. But he does anyway, pulling his lower lip between his teeth in a forgotten habit. “Please Sam, I’m not just here to help with the demons,” Cas says. “I can listen too, if you need it.”
Sam sits back up, running his hands over his face. “Dean, he won’t wake up will he?” It’s a shy question, hazel eyes peeping out from under long bangs. Cas shakes his head slightly. “I though it best to give him some un-interrupted rest.” Sam nods and stares at his hands for a moment, thinking.
“I can’t help him when the nightmares come,” he whispers. “I tried to get him to talk about it, after a hunt one time. All I got was the barest hint, like he’s still tryin’ to fucking protect me or something.” Cas doesn’t try to stop Sam when he gets to his feet to pace.
“It’s bullshit! All my life he’s been hovering over my shoulder lookin’ out for me. Tryin’ to stop whatever was out there from getting me. And now, I just want to give him that support, and he won’t let me! Y’know, when he first turned up in my apartment looking for my help, I just wanted to punch the smart ass son-of-a-bitch in the mouth and be done with it all. Now there’s nothing of that left in him, and I dunno what to do.”
Castiel watches as the youngest Winchester paces back and forth, words spilling out like water from a broken dam. He sits and listens as Sam punctuates his sentences with sweeps and jabs of his hands. “And does Dean really think he’s that stupid? It’s like he makes it his mission to drink himself back to the Pit.” Long legs carry Sam rapidly across the breadth of the room, so he passes Cas every few moments, working himself up as he lets out months of repressed words.
While Sam rants about “How could he have the fuckin’ balls to chew me out about Ruby? What was I supposed to do after a Hellhound used him for a scratching post?” he doesn’t see Dean roll onto his side, curling his body toward the angel on the edge of his bed, hand flopping absently to sit tucked against Cas’ thigh. He doesn’t hear the soft sigh from his brother’s lips, how the lines around his mouth and eyes relax, just a little.
Finally, Sam spits out his loathing and hurt of the way Dean looked at him during that hunt Colorado, when they faced down War. Like Sam was some evil creature sent to follow his brother to remind Dean of his time in Hell. Sure, Dean had looked at him like that before, but this time it was like he meant it. Then, the utter heartbreak when they went their separate ways, when Dean said he wouldn’t, shouldn’t, have anything to do with him.
Exhausted, he slumps back on the bed, hands shaking just that little bit. “It’s like a huge chunk of him got ripped outta him down-below,” he says. “And there’s cracks all over what’s left. How can I hold him together, Cas? He won’t talk, and between all the hunting we do and the nightmares, Dean’s wearing himself out. At this rate, he’ll drop dead before Michael can even use him as a meat-puppet.”
Castiel frowns a little at Sam, absently moving his fingers over the hand Dean has tucked against him.
“The nightmares are simply images that are burned onto Dean’s soul,” he finally murmurs. “With proper rest I assume that they would fade somewhat. Given the lives you lead, setting yourselves down for the required period is impossible. Have you noticed anything that helps sooth the dreams?”
Sam snorts.
“Other then you or a few bottles of Jack? Nothing. They sorta settled when we were just doing normal hunts, but then with that thing with Jo and Ellen …” Sam trails off, briefly flashing on the short, strong woman who was the closest thing to a mother the Winchester’s had, and to her daughter.
Cas finishes the end off his sentence, softly. “The nightmares returned.”
Sam nods, looking up at the angel. “Full force. Got kicked out of a few places because he was screaming so loud and I couldn’t get him to wake up quick enough. Is there something you could do?”
His eyes bear the beginnings of hope; hope that Cas can’t bring himself to squash.
“There’s nothing more I can do tonight. I will think on it, and see if I can find a way to help more.”
Sam gives him a weary smile, leaning back as the angel gets to his borrowed feet, the rustling of his coat covering the small sigh Dean gives in protest. “Thanks, Cas.”
Castiel nods, waiting until Sam has tucked his large frame under the covers once again before laying two gentle fingers on his forehead.
The brothers sleep in their hotel beds, watched over by a silent angel, before wings beat softly in the dark and they’re alone once more.
*
Later that week saw Castiel, mighty angel of the Lord, bent nearly in double to peer through the glass front on the counter of a local patisserie. After making his selection and paying the smiling brunette behind the counter, he sat at one of the small tables, looking out on the humans going by.
Tapping his fingers idly against the tabletop, Castiel thought about the soul he had Raised. Dean, between hunts, had been teaching him how to better blend in with the mortals on Earth. How to use money had been one lesson, along with, “Dude! It freaks people the fuck out when you don’t blink! Not breathing you can hide, not blinking you can’t.” And, most importantly, “This is pie, Cas. Sweet, sweet pie. Almost all your problems can be solved over a good slice of pie, and what can’t either needs porn, booze or a shotgun.”
Castiel frowned, staring absently at his coat draped over the back of another chair. Had he still been directly connected with Heaven, blocking the nightmares would be little trouble. As it was, he was reaching the point where even sensing his brothers and sisters was becoming a chore. So, he was reduced to thinking of more human methods to help. Booze was apparently plentiful, according to Sam, and Castiel hadn’t missed the increasingly frequent smell of alcohol wafting from the shorter, stockier hunter. A shotgun didn’t seem to be a viable answer either, with pie more of a stop-gap solution then an actual remedy. That left porn …
“Here y’are darling!” a bright airy voice chirruped from somewhere above and to the right of Castiel. The plate holding one large slice of apricot pie and an equally large dollop of cream clattered into a blue-eyed field of vision. Blinking in surprise, Castiel glanced up at the waitress from the counter, her ponytail bobbing along behind her.
“Thank you,” he replied automatically. “It looks delicious.”
The waitress beams at him, pulling cutlery and a napkin out of her apron pocket while telling him, “You look like a man with something heavy hangin’ over him. Thought you might appreciate some extra sweetness for ya troubles.”
The slice of pie is a little bigger then it probably should be. Castiel hums a little when he stabs at the gooey fruit, still half contemplating his Dean problem.
“Excuse me,” he calls to the waitress as she moves away. “I do have a small problem. Do you think you could help?”
The waitress nods and plops down into the spare chair, chin in hand and looking like she had nowhere else to be with nothing more important to do. “What’s troublin’ you?”
Castiel furrowed his brow for a second. What was he doing, asking this stranger for help?
“I have a … friend,” he began uncertainly. “I’m trying to think of a way to help him relax.”
The waitresses’ ponytail kept moving long after she’d nodded her head. “Has a rough job does he? Well, a girlfriend of mine had this hard-workin’ husband. Never made time for her or the kids. Anyhow, long story short, she learnt how to give these really kick-ass massages. I mean really, the one time she gave me one, you nearly had to scrape me off the damn bed I was so relaxed.”
Castiel would swear on his grace that the woman hadn’t taken a breath through that entire ramble. He swallowed his mouthful of pie, asking, “So did it help? This massage?”
He was beginning to think that ponytail had a life of its own.
“Sure did! He cut back his work hours, and now they have another kid on the way! Y’think something like that’d help your friend? There’s a place a bit further down the street that you can book in for a massage, or learn to do it yourself, if you’re interested.”
“It may help,” he said slowly. “Certainly, you’ve given me something to think about. Thank you for your help.”
The waitress flashed him another big grin as she got to her feet.
“Not a problem! Enjoy the rest of your pie, and good luck with your fella!” With that, she bounced back toward the counter. Castiel was too busy with his pie and thoughts that he didn’t see the woman grab an enormous slice of triple chocolate cake, dragging her fingers through the icing as she went out the back door, disappearing into thin air before the door was fully closed.
*
After coming up with nothing better himself, Castiel decided to look into this ‘massage’ that the waitress had suggested. Veiling himself from human sight, he went into the parlor down the road first, observing what went on. Eyes narrowed, Castiel took in the small room with its cabinets and single, odd-looking bed. On the bed, with her face pressed into a hole, was a slight woman with a towel over her hips. Standing beside her was another woman, broader than the first, and with shorter hair. The standing woman was moving strong hands over the other woman’s back in slow circles, pressing harder here and there in a gentle rhythm.
Over the next few hours, Castiel popped in and out of massage parlors all over the world. Some were more … informative than others. He was reasonably certain that when the waitress had told him a massage might help Dean, she hadn’t meant for it to be delivered by a topless transsexual in a sleazy back-alley room.
What he was certain about was the use of oil. All the places he had visited used some sort of oil over the receiver, allowing hands to glide easily over the body. This is why he was now standing somewhere in the Mediterranean; both his jackets draped over his arm and still feeling uncomfortably warm in his body, Gabriel smirking at him over a brightly-colored drink.
“So you need some more holy oil huh?” Slurp, slurp. “Surely you and your hunters are running out of pissed off angels to trap.”
Castiel felt his cheeks warm a little, and he knew it wasn’t to do with the heat of the sun.
“I wish to help Dean relax,” he explained, not looking up into his brothers’ laughing eyes. “I thought a massage would help.”
Gabriel snorted into his drink, exchanging it for some sort of pastry.
“And you thought that maybe you and some super-charged oil could do a better job then a cheap hooker with tits you could balance a pint on? I like that.”
Castiel glared at Gabriel. “I thought he might trust me enough to do it. Will you help or not?”
Gabriel smirked. “No need to get your panties in a knot, little brother. Personally, I think it’s fucking cute. Next thing ya know we’ll be having Dean around for Christmas dinner, eating all our pie. Here you go.” A small vial appears on a near-by table. “Now, you be careful! Massages can lead to all sorts of things.”
Castiel tilts his head, looking at his brother in a little confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Wanna practice then? It might help you understand!” Suddenly there are two very beautiful, mostly naked women on either side of the arch-angel, smiling suggestively at Castiel.
Gabriel’s laughter at the brilliant red flush on his younger brothers’ face rolls around the small island he’s sitting on. The dark flash of Castiel’s wings is accompanied by a quiet rustle lost in the sunshine as he takes off, vial in hand.
*
Castiel had thought he would need to be patient for his chance to help Dean, but when he messaged the Winchesters on his phone, the slightly snarly and rushed answer told him otherwise.
Popping into the motel-of-the-week, the angel took in Sam kneeling on the edge of the bed, sewing a long gash up on his brother’s back. Blood-soaked clothing sat in a forlorn pile on the table, and something that looked like Dean’s prized leather jacket draped over a chair, small tears here and there and a larger one to match the one on Dean.
“Fuckin’ witches, dude.” Dean’s growl was muffled by the pillow his face is shoved into. “Who the fuck implants their soul into pointy things? Especially some dog-ugly spear.” Sam seems to be taking his brother’s mutters all in stride, focusing instead on pushing and pulling the needle and strong thread through skin.
“I would have thought you’d be more concerned about your jacket rather then ... Dean! Hold still!” Sam spread his hand out between Dean’s shoulder blades, trying to push him back down from where he’d swung around to eyeball his jacket.
“That filthy, skanky, motherfucking …” Castiel and Sam winced as Dean began to use every single swear word he knew, and some he may have made up, to describe the witch. Sam wrapped his hand around the back of Dean’s head and shoved, planting his brother’s face firmly into the pillow, growling, “Stay.”
Cas padded over to the jacket as Dean transfers his abuse to Sam, but holding still enough for the last few stitches to go in. Laying down his own jackets and picking up Deans’, Cas examined the cuts, passing his finger over each one. He wasn’t aware of the two men watching him, wide-eyed and curious as each tear knit back together. The final tear, the large one that matches the cut on Dean, needs a few passes before it’s gone. Cas glanced up once he’s done, his vision mostly filled by a bare-chested Dean with a thousand-watt smile. “Dude, you’re awesome!”
Just like when he was talking to Gabriel, Cas felt a blush sneaking over his cheeks. “It’s alright. Are you and Sam ok?”
Sam groaned when he levered himself off the bed, eyeing Dean, who is in the process of carefully examining his jacket for any remaining damage. “Nothing that’s out of the ordinary. A shower and food will … Dean! Don’t pull those stitches!”
Dean scowled at his brother’s bitch-face, holding his back where he’d tried to stretch. “Piss off, Samantha.” Sam muttered something unkind and limped off into the bathroom, grabbing clean clothes from his bag on the way past.
The angel watched his charge arrange himself face-first on the bed, muscles twitching in protest when the wound pulled. An unknown feeling fluttered in Castiel’s belly, jumping about and making him feel something that could be called shy when he offered, “I could help a little with that if you like.”
Dean raised his head just enough for one green eye to focus on Cas. “Sure, if you wanna.”
Castiel removed the phial of oil from his overcoat pocket (he’s not thinking about what Gabriel said; really) and set it on the bedside table, sitting awkwardly on the side of the bed. He began to smooth his hands over Dean’s back, working gently at the knots of tension he could feel in the hunter’s shoulders.
“Dude, are you giving me a massage?” Dean sounded a little incredulous, pulling his head around to an uncomfortable angle to eye his angel.
Cas averted his eyes. “I could stop if you’re uncomfortable …” He hoped, selfishly, that he could continue. Dean’s skin is warm and solid and fluid under his hands, where his own skin is still awkward and unnaturally hot from his grace.
“Nah.” Dean turned his head back around and settled more comfortably. “Feel’s good. Keep going, and see if you can get that knot outta my lower back.”
One hand shifted down to rest in the small of Dean’s back when Cas reached over to grab the oil bottle. He pulled the little stopper out, tipping the bottle to drizzle a line over his fingers and Dean’s back.
“That’s a bit cold,” Dean huffs into the pillow. He can’t see it, but Cas is fairly sure that Dean’s lower lip just pooched out in a pout.
Castiel set the bottle back down, moving his free hand down to join the other on Dean’s back. They look bigger here, spread and moving over the tanned skin, briefly obscuring patches of freckles and leaving behind slick-smooth trails that glimmer in the dim motel lighting.
Dean sighed into the pillow, gradually unwinding under Cas’ strong hands. He could feel the faint tingling from the blessed oil spreading deeper into his tired muscles, easing away years of built up ache. Every now and then, Dean would feel one hand leave, then a shivery line of oil would trace its way in lazy patterns (he had a sneaking suspicion they might have been sigils) over his skin. Then came a rustle of fabric, a click of the bottle meeting the desk; and the hands were back again.
The bathroom door clicked open, Sam walking out in rush of steam. Dean clearly couldn’t be bothered to look up, so he missed the ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ expression that briefly flashed onto Sam’s face. Quickly schooling his expression into something neutral, rather than ‘I just walked in on my brother melting under the hands of a male angel,’ Sam announced, “I’m gunna go find some food. Want anything in particular?”
Castiel shook his head absently; working his hands further up Dean’s back, dodging the cut for the moment. Dean answered with a grunt and, “Bring back beer. And pie.”
“I’ll leave it to you to guess which one I spit in,” Sam told his brother, pocketing the keys to both the Impala and the motel room.
“Bitch. Don’t crash my car.”
“Jerk. I’ll be back later.”
The door shut with a click, the Impala’s roar cut through the still of the hotel room when Sam started her. Cas’ fingers never stopped their lazy glide over Dean while they both listen to the fading rumble of the black car, a curious counterpoint to the solid thumping heartbeats that hovered just on the edge of hearing.
Dean felt drowsy and content, stretched out on the worn mattress with Cas’ weight comfortably dipping one side. The cut on his back still stung, but the roving pressure of the angel’s hands gave him something else to concentrate on. It was good to feel the pressures of his life bleed away, even when he knew he would have to get up at some point.
Cas seemed to be having trouble reaching the shoulder furthest from him, small huffing noises of frustration he probably wasn’t even aware of leaving his mouth at regular intervals.
“Dude, just move if you can’t reach wherever your aimin’ for,” Dean grumbles half-heartedly into the pillow.
Castiel pauses. It’s not that he can’t reach, it’s just that it’s a little difficult to apply even pressure on parts that he had to reach to touch. Thinking on the best place to move to, Cas’ hands pause for a moment when his eyes fall on Dean’s hips. It certainly would be easier to reach everything from there, but the question is, would Dean allow it?
“Dean,” he asked hesitantly. “Do you trust me?”
Green eyes rolled a little at the question. Only the shy tone of Cas’ voice prevented Dean from snapping back some sort of smart-ass answer along the lines of, “you’re fuckin’ asking me that now?” Instead, he turns his head enough to look at Cas. The angel beside him still has one hand on Dean’s back, the other curled nervously in the black fabric of his pants. Cas looked back at him, eyes holding their usual intensity, but with something Dean couldn’t quite place floating just underneath.
Without breaking eye contact, Dean nodded, then turned his head back to rest on the pillow. Whatever Cas was about to do, he would never hurt Dean.
Cas himself was a little stunned at the display of trust. Breathing deeply, he toed off his shoes (no shoes on the bed Cas! One of the first damn house-rules) and stood enough to put one knee on the bed, hand down for balance while he swung his other knee over Dean’s back. He shuffled awkwardly for a moment, not expecting the mattress to give as much as it did under his weight.
He felt Dean’s body tense under him, muscles shifting in the dim light.
“Dean?” Cas’ voice was soft. “Is this ok?”
Dean’s breath left him in a rush, mind cataloguing every sensation he felt. Cas’ hands spread on his back, absently kneading, with the heavy, human weight of the angel settling over his hips, the comforting squeeze of his knees at the outside jut of Dean’s hipbones.
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean felt like he was giving consent to something bigger than having an angel use his ass as a handy perch for massages. “It’s fine.”
Cas smiled, just a little, before he started moving his hands again (his tie’s dragging through the oil, a quick pull and it’s on the floor) working better now that he could use some of his weight to push into Dean’s back.
A small crease appeared between Cas’ eyebrows when he looked over the gash he’d so far avoided. The area around it is still an angry red, stitches tugging un-naturally at skin.
“I will try to fix this.” Cas wasn’t really sure if he said it because he’s truly concerned for Dean or if he’s offended by the way the stitches pulled the scattered freckles from their usual patterns, warping their delicate lay.
Dean hummed, the bed shifting under the pair when Cas lent forward to palm the oil again. This time, the oil wasn’t dribbled directly onto him, but into Cas’ cupped hand. Dean heard him rub his palms together a little, then, “Tell me if this hurts.”
Then Cas’ hands were directly on Dean’s injury, but the sting Dean expected never came. Instead, warmth blossomed out, easing gently into the split in his skin. A low moan fell out of Dean, sensation rumbling through him like the worlds slowest orgasm. Pleasure sparked and popped under his skin, cresting up to meet the push of firm hands and flowing into ever corner of his being.
“That feels really good,” Dean murmured. “Different from a moment ago.”
Castiel pushed his thumbs firmly into a knot.
“I’m pushing a little of my grace into my hands,” he quietly responded. “The oil is acting as a conductor.”
Castiel didn’t mention that the oil had lit up under his grace, pulsing gently with colors that had no name. The light shifted and moved of its own accord, glowing brighter in spots where Cas had paid more attention.
Using some of his angelic sight, Castiel watched in fascination as the un-nameable colors played through-out Dean’s body, kissing and flirting with the hunters’ own bright core. Wherever his hands were, more light pulsed in ribbons of pure creation (feels like love, light, devotion, trust) that wove in and out of each other and over the harsh slash of dim pain on Dean’s back.
Dean felt good. Really, really good. He was partially aware of the fact that he was slowly rocking his hips into the bed, half-hard and wanting. He certainly wasn’t aware of how Cas’ breath kept catching, or how the angel’s hands stuttered in their movements.
Castiel could feel light shocks sparking through his body from where Dean rocked against him. He wasn’t sure what to do, but his body reacted by pushing down just a little. Dean’s next rock pushed his ass firmly against Cas’ crotch, the contact pulling a gravelly moan from the angel and a light thrust of his own hips.
Dean rose out of his pleasure haze long enough to notice Cas’ reaction. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. Men had never really floated Dean’s boat, although he never said no if someone interested him. But this was Cas, the angel that had come from being just another dick with wings, to someone whom Dean wasn’t exactly sure where he fit in his life (maybe friend, maybe brother, maybe lover?). Cas, his blue-eyed guardian angel, slowly becoming a part of Dean, someone he couldn’t live without.
Dean twisted his upper body up and around, hand coming up to snake around the back of his angel’s neck. Cas’ eyes were wide, half nervous and half wanting. They’re the last thing Dean sees when he closes his eyes, pulling just a little to bring Cas’ dry lips to his.
It was a light kiss, just enough pressure to push Dean’s plump pout flat. When they part, Cas follows Dean’s mouth, hesitantly placing an oiled hand under the hunter’s jaw. This time, Dean used the very point of his tongue to flick against Cas’ mouth; learning the grooves and mounds that made his lips part in welcome.
Castiel let his body take over, instinct woven into Jimmy’s frame. He mimicked Dean’s movements, sliding his tongue out and around the other. His hand moved absently against Dean’s jaw and down to where long neck muscles strained from the angle of the kiss.
The pair pulled apart again, breathing heavy. Dean smiled low and sultry, patting Castiel’s thigh.
“Lift up for a second, Cas. Lemme roll over.”
Cas shifted his weight to one side, allowing the man beneath him to roll onto his back. Settling back, Dean pulled Cas down and brought their erections together. He smiled when a roll of his hips put a blissed-out and slightly shocked look onto the angel’s face.
“Alright there, Cas?” Dean asked, reaching up to cup Castiel’s jaw; stubble unfamiliar and prickly against his palm.
Castiel nodded against Dean’s hand, his own splayed on Dean’s chest.
“I … I didn’t know something could feel like this,” he stuttered. His tingling limbs, the room getting warmer and the increasing desire to get rid of his clothes were secondary sensations in Castiel’s mind. All that really mattered lay sprawled against the bed, green eyes hazy and fluttering. Castiel already loved the sound of Dean’s breath hitching from arousal; loved the feeling of Dean’s erection hard and pushing against his own, fire-hot even through their clothing.
Dean pulled Cas down for another kiss, their mouth’s slippery and hot against each other.
“It can get better,” Dean rumbled against Cas’ lips. “Can I show you?”
“Yes, please, Dean.” Castiel had a vague idea of how these things worked, but having an idea and feeling calloused hands slip under his shirt and rub at his flesh were two very different things. Low moans and rumbles dressed the air around the bed, hunter and angel losing what clothes they had on under gentle, inquisitive hands.
Time seemed to forget the little motel room and its occupants. Dean reversed their positions, laying Cas flat and pliant. His hands roamed naked flesh, learning curves and dips; places where Castiel jerked and hissed with sensation. Likewise he taught the angel the places on his own body that made him hum and sing, sparking jerky electricity through him from a place low in his belly.
Castiel learnt that Dean tasted like autumn storms under his right ear, but his ribcage and hips reminded Cas of slightly warm beer and an old jukebox song. Broad hands tightened and shook when Castiel lipped and pinched at nipples, but got possessive and confident in response to greedy kisses.
Finally, curled on their sides, Dean poured the last of the blessed oil over his and Cas’ laced fingers. Together, he eased them down to their erections, wrapping both their hands around and starting a strong rhythm.
Dean watched the angel fall apart beside him, wrecked sounds shuddering out into the air from kiss-swollen lips. He felt his orgasm gathering, curling his toes and drawing everything down into a white-hot point under his belly-button.
“Come for me, Cas … let go,” Dean growled.
Castiel whined when he came, hand tightening and body shaking with pleasure. His eyes locked onto Dean’s while his come painted loopy white strips over their joined hand. Dean buried his head into Cas’ shoulder, twisting and pulling, needing that little bit more.
“Dean …” Castiel panted softly into his ear, shaky hand finding the raised print on Dean’s shoulder (mine, yours) and squeezing. It’s enough to tip Dean over, back bowing and a bitten-off cry following his come joining Cas’ on their hands.
Dean’s fairly sure he slips into sleep after that, dreams free of Hell and screaming. He woke sometime later to Cas’ hand slowly pushing through his hair, clean of come and sweat but still smelling faintly of the oil.
“Yitkadash shemaycha …Tavo malkutaycha …” He recognized whatever it is that the angel is murmuring into his ear.
“What’s that you’re saying?” he asked, listening to Cas’ heartbeat against his ear.
“It’s the Lord’s Prayer in Hebrew,” Cas replied. “Every time Sam calls me when you have a nightmare, I say it over you. It seems to help.”
Dean sat up enough to look at Castiel. The angel looks more at ease than he ever has, lying naked in a bed tangled with a human.
“Sammy calls you when I have a nightmare?” Dean asked slowly, as it feeling the words out.
Cas nodded and returned his hand to stroking Dean’s head.
“He worries greatly for you, Dean. Sam is trying as hard as he can to support you, to be family. You need that.”
Dean huffed like a petulant child.
“He may not be able to understand what happened in Hell,” Castiel continued quietly. “But I saw you there, and I see you now. Will you please let us help you? Even if it’s just to be there by your side, no questions asked.”
Dean looked away, then let his shoulders slump, leading him back to curl against Castiel. His hand sought out the angel’s and squeezed. Cas knows that’s the best answer he can expect at the moment; allowing himself to settle down in the bed to listen to his hunter fall asleep.
*
Sam found himself on a bright island somewhere, blue sky and a bluer ocean stretching out into the distance.
“Heya, Sammy!” an obnoxiously loud voice piped from over under an umbrella.
Gabriel sat looking very pleased with himself and not at all worried about Sam stalking directly over into his personal space.
“Gabriel! What the fuck am I doing here? Where are Dean and Cas?” Sam growled.
The arch-angel flicked his fingers, depositing Sam in a comfy chair with a monstrous slice of chocolate cake on the table in front of him.
“Relax! Our brothers are still at that flea-bag motel, still fine, still thick as they come. If you must know, Dean’s in the process of showing Castiel an entirely different type of massage.”
Sam blinked, blurting out, “How do you know about the massage thing?”
Gabriel snorted around a finger coated in chocolate icing.
“Because I am the awesome wielder of the heavenly clue-by-four, obviously.”
Sam kinda wants to punch Gabriel, but he’s seen Dean punch an angel before. He likes to think he can learn by example.
“You told Cas how he could help Dean?” Sam asked in disbelief. “Since when have you cared so much?”
Gabriel pulled a bitch face.
“It’s not like he knew it was me giving him advice. And I care because I can. Besides, if it gets your brother sleeping through the night, and by association you sleeping through the night, I can’t really see why you’re complaining. Now quit ya bitching and have some cake. Oh, and by the way, Sammy?”
Sam looked up from his cake, swallowing nervously at the look on Gabriel’s face.
The arch-angel grinned, a bottle of oil swinging from his fingers.
“You’re lookin’ a bit stressed. Wanna massage?”
Slow spiral
It’s an interesting sensation, this buzzing. Not unpleasant, but not fantastic either. Just … interesting.
His thoughts aren’t behaving, floating about in a muddled, fluffy bunch. Kind of like the clouds he and Ilaniel used to sit on, back before she tore out her Grace to become human. So very, very human.
When the liquid in the bottle sloshes around and catches the light from that streetlamp, it almost looks the same color as her hair. Red is a nice color, he muses, swishing the alcohol hard enough for it to climb the sides of the bottle and create a whirlpool.
Back, back it goes and there’s no more whirlpool. No more scotch either. Where’s that other bottle?
The grass under his head is cool, well kept and green under a squat tree whose name he can’t quite remember. That’s awfully rude of him, not remembering its name.
What he does remember though, is where that other bottle is. Jimmy’s tan trench-coat had enveloped it, smuggling it away under dark folds. The irritation that surges in him sends the buzz away for a moment, but even when it fades something else replaces it. Something he can’t name, being new to these emotion thingys and all.
After all, angels aren’t supposed to feel anything.
Angels aren’t supposed to pass out after shifting two humans through time. Not when it’s recent. Well, recent to a being that’s been around for a while anyway. They aren’t supposed to stoop to using blades and guns on demons, a hand and a flash of will should be more than enough.
Angels aren’t supposed to lay flat on their back under trees either, waxing poetic about the way the stars, patterns broken by the leaves between he and they; seem to reflect his wings that lay extended to either side, both of them ragged and limp. Wings that drop feathers to tickle his nose and present barely visible targets for cats and small children to chase.
Angels aren’t supposed to curse out their father, their creator, their God.
Why won’t the damn lid come off? Stupid thing.
Oh hey! The tree seems to be talking. Momentarily distracted in the quest to remove the bottle top, he listens and stares blurrily around. Nope, not the tree. Although, Dean’s eyes share the same green as the trees’ leaves.
“Cas?”
Stupid name. Stupid human name.
“Dean. Can you open this for me?”
The hunter just stares at him, then the bottle being held up. Maybe he doesn’t see it. It does look a bit blurry after all. But Dean doesn’t take it, even when he wiggles it a little.
“Cas, are you drunk again?”
This vessel has nice hands, he notices when he puts the bottle down.
“I think so. Didn’t drink the whole store this time though. I left the vodka behind. It tastes unpleasant and it even sounds unpleasant. Vod-KA. Voooodkaaa …”
Dean crouched down, reaching out and pulling his head down from where it had begun to roll back.
“Cas, focus. We need you on the hunt tomorrow.”
Dean’s voice sounds thick. Worry, he thinks it’s called.
“Nope. Not going. I don’t want to try anymore Dean.”
Time was when he’d be concerned about the emotions on Dean’s face. Shock, worry, anger; and buried underneath is raw fear. But now he’s more interested in his unopened bottle.
“But we need our usual dose of geeky-angel backup.” That’s hope there. “I … we need you there with us, Castiel.”
Dean hasn’t used that name in a long time. That feeling stirs again in his belly, and this time he can name it.
Shame. Disgust. All at himself. Maybe now that the lid has finally come off, he can wash them away with the alcohol.
He flops back onto the grass, staring at the sky.
“There’s your problem Dean. My name’s Cas.”
He pretends not to see the tears in Dean’s eyes.