Fic: ten thousand words 1/2 (Dean/Castiel, NC-17)
Title: ten thousand words
Author: bree_black
Art: By catsinthecoffee here.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 13,500
Warning & enticements: brief mention of suicide, implied major character death, light bondage, implied Castiel/OFCs, implied Dean/Risa
Beta: Many thanks to gwendolynd and lookturtles.
Notes: So I decided to find out if it was possible to write a happy fic set in the 2014!verse. I think I almost succeeded. For the 2011 deancasbigbang mini-bang, with beautiful art by catsinthecoffee.
Summary: In 2009, a man who claims to speak to God gives the not-quite-an-angel-anymore Castiel his Polaroid camera. “Use it wisely,” he warns. “Cameras are a strange sort of magic. They hold on to the energy of the moments they capture and keep it alive past its time. That’s why we should only take photographs of our happiest moments. There’s no sense prolonging our pain or sadness, but love and joy are worth saving.”
During the next five years, Castiel superstitiously takes nine photographs of his happiest moments. When a second Dean arrives from the past, Castiel knows he’s been sent to witness something catastrophic, something so terrible Zachariah believes it will scare Dean into accepting his destiny. He senses the end is near, but Castiel can’t quite bring himself to take the final photograph. Dean does it for him.
Castiel perched on the edge of the lumpy sofa, oblivious to the cloud of dust that rose up around him as he did so. Beside him, Dean looked mildly horrified and pulled his hands into his lap so as to avoid touching anything. The house was filthy, its ancient bric-a-brac contents covered in a fine layer of dust and cobwebs that Castiel thought was actually quite beautiful in the morning light, like a fine dusting of snow. Evidently Dean disagreed.
“This place is fucking creepy, dude,” Dean said, not even bothering to drop his voice to a whisper. “Any second now Miss Havisham is going to turn the corner, in flames.”
Castiel didn’t understand the reference, but he knew by Dean’s tone it probably wasn’t flattering. “This man speaks to God. I think we can forgive him his poor housekeeping skills,” he said, voice low.
“He claims he speaks to God,” Dean corrected, concerned with the specificity of language only when it suited him. “And if getting in touch with the big guy turns you into a crazy hermit, I’m not so sure we should be looking for him. Seriously, I think we may be the first people to set foot in this dump in decades.”
Castiel was about to explain just how short a length of time that actually was when Mister Elliot returned, carrying a tea tray. Between the tray and the black box hanging from his neck by a cord, he looked on the verge of tipping over, his tiny frame bent nearly ninety degrees at the waist. Castiel hastened to take the tray from him, setting it on the glass coffee table in the centre of the over-furnished room, where it sank into a thick layer of dust.
The old man smiled broadly at Castiel, his false teeth loose around his gums. “So nice to see a young man with proper manners these days,” he said, lowering himself slowly into an overstuffed armchair, the only piece of furniture in the room not covered in dust. Castiel poured weak tea into three dusty teacups. Dean set his down without even taking a sip.
Castiel felt his heart sink. He had hoped, when they arrived, that this man would immediately recognize him as more than human, despite his rapidly diminishing powers. Dean looked at Castiel expectantly, so he spoke. “You speak to God,” Castiel said, ignoring the clench of doubt in his stomach. “We believe He may have a message for us.”
The old man nodded sagely, shifting forward in his seat. “He speaks to me of many things,” he said. “Between you and me, sometimes I think he gets lonely. What are your names?”
“My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord,” Or at least I was, Castiel thought, conscious of the new heaviness in his limbs, of the fact he slept last night and ate some of Dean’s French fries yesterday evening.
“And I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean added. “God has history with me and my brother, Sam.” Castiel saw it then, in the eager tilt of Dean’s shoulders and the light in his eyes as he said Sam’s name. Dean wanted to find God as much as Castiel did, wanted to find a way to bring him and his brother back together again, after three months of absolute separation.
The old man furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, mumbling to himself in a throaty voice. Dean shifted nervously in his seat. Castiel sipped his tea, and then grimaced at the chalky taste. Mister Elliot opened his eyes after just a moment, clucking his tongue decisively. “Nope,” he declared, “Never heard of either of you.”
Deep inside, Castiel felt another piece of his faith shatter. He was under no illusions that this quest wasn’t hurting him; he knew every failed lead, every trail gone cold, dampened his powers further. Castiel wasn’t falling from Grace so much as it was slipping through his fingers, though he tore his hands to shreds trying to hold on.
Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged. Castiel followed the motion automatically, standing, though his limbs felt strangely numb. “Thanks for your time,” Dean said through the rushing in Castiel’s ears. “We’ve gotta get going.” Dean covered his disappointment well, after a lifetime of practice.
“Oh, please stay,” the old man begged, suddenly looking even smaller and more frail in his oversized chair. “You haven’t even finished your tea, and I so seldom have visitors.”
Dean shook his head, holding more firmly to Castiel’s arm as if to steer him out of the tumble-down house. “We have to go,” he said firmly, and Castiel felt profoundly grateful for the authority in his voice, though he hated himself for needing it so badly.
“At least let me take your picture to remember you by,” the man said, and Castiel very nearly pitied him. Before Dean could object, he raised the black box hanging around his neck and aimed it in their direction. It made a loud clicking noise, and then a whirring sound as a thick square of paper was ejected out of the bottom.
“Wait just a second, it’ll be ready in a jiffy,” the man said, pulling the sheet from the camera and waving it in the air between two tightly pinched fingers.
They waited. Dean kept his fist gripped tightly in the fabric of Castiel’s coat, as if he was afraid he might fall over if he let go. After a minute, the man handed Castiel the square of paper, warning him to grip it only by the edges.
It was mesmerizing, watching the image sharpen into focus before his eyes - Dean, staring straight at the camera with obvious irritation in his expression, while Castiel stood beside him, waiting for Dean to lead him out of this awful house. It struck Castiel with visceral force that photography was not designed for angels. Photography was meant for mortals; it allowed the aging to look back on their youth, the forgetful to remember the experiences of their pasts. Ageless, timeless and usually without physical form, Castiel did not belong in a photograph, and yet there he was, standing next to Dean.
“Never seen instant film before, eh?” the old man said, misidentifying the reason for Castiel’s interest. “I guess you kids do everything on computers these days.”
“Right,” Dean agreed, taking the photograph between two fingers and tugging it out of Castiel’s grip. He felt a strange sense of loss as Dean handed it back to the old man, the desire to hold on to this piece of evidence that he had been here, now, and just like this.
The old man noticed Castiel’s eyes lingering on the photograph. Castiel saw him hesitate, and then a change came over his face. His eyes unfocused, gone distant and glazed, and his posture softened.
“You okay, dude?” Dean asked, and that seemed to snap him out of it. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it.
“Yes,” he said, though he didn’t sound at all sure. He reached up to his throat and pulled the camera’s strap from around his neck, holding it out toward Castiel. “Here. You should have this.”
Castiel meant to decline, or to let Dean decline for him, but he was reaching out for the camera before he realized it. “Thank you,” he said.
“Use it wisely. Cameras are a strange sort of magic,” the man said, voice hesitant. “They hold on to the energy of the moments they capture and keep it alive past its time. That’s why we should only take photographs of our happiest moments. There’s no sense prolonging our pain or sadness, but love and joy are worth saving.”
Castiel nodded solemnly, nearly overcome by the urge to bow deeper, but then Dean caught him by the arm again and dragged him out of the house, shuddering. “That whole place was so fucking creepy,” he announced, as they emerged out into the cool, clean air.
“Yes,” Castiel agreed as they started toward the car, but he clutched the camera tightly to his chest.
***
October, 2009
Castiel’s first photograph is of the sunset. In his defense, he doesn’t know it’s such a cliché when he takes it. Sitting on a wooden bench on the side of a Nebraska highway, it startles him with its beauty, like he’s never seen one before even though he’s lived a thousand lifetimes.
“Ow,” Dean says from beside him, like lifting his glass bottle of beer to his lips is causing him great pain. “I wish your angel mojo would choose better times to crap out. Like when I’m sleeping.”
Castiel frowns and bites his lip. He feels bad about that. His angel powers have been inconsistent of late, and now they’re both covered in grave dirt from having to run a salt and burn without any shortcuts. Castiel knows his angelic abilities have been the only major help he’s been able to provide to Dean, and every time they short out he feels like he’s letting Dean down.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He stretches his arm and it hurts, the new aching in his muscles a reminder of his failure. “I know that without my powers I’m basically…dead weight.”
Dean cuts his sip of beer short, looking over at Castiel in surprise. “It’s not like that,” he says. “I was just bitching for the sake of it, Cas.”
“Okay,” Castiel agrees, quietly. He takes a sip of his own beer. The silence between them grows rapidly awkward.
“This is weird for me,” Dean says. “Because I always did this with Sam.” He inhales on Sam’s name and it comes out stilted.
“I understand,” Castiel says. He picks at the paper label on his bottle.
“Weird,” Dean continues, “but not bad.” He clears his throat. “I want you to know you can stick around, even if your powers go completely. I’m not gonna throw you out on your ass or anything.”
Castiel looks over at Dean, but Dean fixes his gaze on the horizon.
“It’s pretty,” Castiel says. Dean nods, so Castiel gets up and rummages through the Impala’s back seat until he finds his camera. When he holds it up to his face his arms still ache, but they feel different now, less like punishment and more like a symptom of an honest day’s work. Castiel finds he rather likes the sensation.
***
November, 2009
Castiel takes the second photograph at a bar somewhere in the midwestern United States. They’re here to celebrate a relatively successful day’s work. Successful because together they killed the five demons taking this town on Hell’s equivalent of a joy ride, but only relatively so because they didn’t provide any new information about Lucifer or his plans. Castiel suspects Dean starts drinking out of celebration, and keeps drinking out of frustration, and Castiel matches him drink for drink, mostly for something to do with his hands. Dean doesn’t play pool tonight, or flirt with the girls in low-cut jeans, or even get up to go to the jukebox. He just sits at the bar and drinks steadily, until Castiel starts shifting on his stool uncomfortably.
“What’s up with you?” Dean asks a few minutes after Castiel notices the pressure building low in his belly. “You got somewhere else to be or something?” He snorts, because he knows full well all they have is each other lately, with Bobby far away, Sam even further, and everyone Castiel knew in heaven further still.
“No,” Castiel says, resisting the urge to cover Dean’s hand with his own, to tell him that it’s okay to feel lonely but that he’s not actually alone. Sometimes Castiel thinks he doesn’t count as real company to Dean, though he’s not sure if it’s because he’s not fully human or because he’s not Sam. Castiel feels the weight of Sam’s absence constantly - in the jokes he doesn’t understand, the songs he can’t sing along to, and the way he has to be shown how to properly hold a shotgun. Technically, Castiel is Dean’s partner now, but in a million little ways he isn’t. He never will be.
Castiel shifts in his seat again. “Dude,” Dean grumbles.
“I believe I need to urinate,” Castiel explains, and Dean laughs so suddenly that beer dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, and he needs to wipe his face with the back of his hand.
“Well shit,” he says, after he swallows. “So do I. Come on, we can do it together.” Dean is grinning, smile wide and bright because he’s had so much to drink.
Castiel stumbles as he gets down from his stool, and Dean reaches out instinctively to steady him, catching his flailing arm by the wrist. It startles Castiel, the feeling of Dean’s skin on his own. Dean very rarely touches other people directly. He grabs Castiel by the sleeve of his coat, drags Sam to safety by the collar, even guides the women he picks up in bars out the door with a hand on the small of the back, fingers safely above their thin cotton t-shirts. What skin-to-skin contact Castiel has witnessed has been between Dean and Sam, moments of post-battle desperation that seem so sacred Castiel wonders if Dean’s touch does as much to heal Sam as the ointments he applies or the stitches he embeds in his brother’s skin. That and violence, of course, but even though Castiel had laid hands on Dean in anger more than he’d like to admit, Dean had never really fought back. This is the first time Dean has really touched him.
Dean doesn’t drop his wrist until he pushes through the swinging door of the restroom, guiding Castiel across the bar and weaving between the tables. Castiel accidentally makes eye contact with the bartender, and he sees the man quickly drop his gaze, vigorously wiping down the counter. Castiel realizes how they must look, drunk and smiling and Dean leading him into the washroom. It makes Castiel’s face feel hot, but not with shame.
The washroom is small, but surprisingly clean, certainly better than a lot of the other places they’ve stopped in the past few months. A tattered paper sign posted above one of the two urinals warns “Smile, your on camera!,” which might have something to do with the room’s condition.
Dean stands in front of the urinal on the left, so Castiel stands in front of the one on the right. They’re close enough that when he unzips his pants his shoulder brushes against Dean’s, and though they’ve fought side by side for months something about the tiny contact feels oddly intimate.
Relieving himself isn’t exactly difficult, but Dean applauds anyway, finished before Castiel presumably because his bladder hasn’t had years to fill.
“I believe most three year-olds are capable of this,” Castiel says. He resists the urge to look over at Dean. “There’s no need for congratulations.”
“Naw, dude, you’re awesome. You didn’t even get any on your shoes.” He looks down at Castiel’s feet, and Castiel knows he should feel the urge to cover himself, but doesn’t. “’Course, if you did, it wouldn’t be a big deal since I stole those boots off a dead guy.”
Castiel turns to gape at Dean, then, and Dean grins back. “Just shitting you. Maybe.”
Castiel tucks himself into his pants - “shake, shake!” Dean reminds him - and zips them up, and then Dean claps him on the back. “Well done. I am glad we could share this important milestone in your life. Hey! Your camera!”
Castiel, standing at the sink, looks down in alarm, assuming he’s splashed water on the device hanging around his neck. It is perfectly dry.
“What about it?” he asks, drying his hands.
“You should take a picture. Capture the site of your first piss on film.”
Castiel considers the smile on Dean’s face, the pleasant drunken blurriness in his mind, the relief of his newly empty bladder. “Alright,” he says with a shrug.
In the second of Castiel’s photographs, he stands in front of a white ceramic urinal, posture stiff. Instead of smiling, he merely looks confused by Dean’s instruction to “Say cheese!” One corner of the photograph is covered by Dean’s dark thumb.
***
June, 2011
Castiel breaks the surface of the water and gasps for air, filling his lungs with precious oxygen before something latches around his ankle and he is pulled down again. Castiel kicks and struggles. He's still not accustomed to his own mortality, so it's not fear for his own life that drives him, but concern for the little girl in his arms. She's a heavier weight than he expected she would be when he dove into the lake after her, and her waterlogged body is a reminder of the responsibility he has to protect her. At first she had struggled too, trying to help him stay afloat, kicking out against the fanged faces surrounding them with only her stockinged feet. A minute ago she went still and limp in his arms, unconscious. Castiel knows he doesn't have much time.
There's no way he can make it to shore. There are at least twenty of the monsters forming a ring around them, their eyes and their long fangs shining in the murky depths. Castiel wonders if they'll let them drown before they eat them, or if they prefer to take their prey alive.
Castiel has operated in a constant cloud of ambient melancholy about the decline in his angelic powers since they'd first started to fade, but now he longs for them fiercely, as the monster drags him and the little girl he's holding deeper into the lake, and all he can do is kick weakly. He doesn't even know how to swim properly. Castiel lets go of the girl - Jenny, he remembers - pushing her up toward the surface of the lake. It won't do much - one of the other monsters will grab her - but there's no sense in them drowning together.
Suddenly, the monsters swarming around him start to thrash, emitting high-pitched squealing noises and gnashing their teeth. The one holding his ankle releases him, and Castiel kicks, violently, and hopes he's facing up not down. Everything is the same shade of green down here, full of black shadows. For some reason, the monsters appear to be swimming away from him.
Castiel is surprised when he breaks the surface of the water; he had thought it was much further away from the surface. For a moment everything is wonderfully calm and silent, the sun on his face and air in his lungs. Then there is splashing just to his left, and Dean leans over him, blocking out the sunlight.
"Cas? Cas, can hear you me?" Dean's voice is frantic and Castiel feels guilty for making him worry, so he opens his eyes. Then he opens his mouth to answer, and coughs up water.
"Hey, hey," Dean says, and then he's wrapping one arm around Castiel so he doesn't sink. "Don't freak out. You're fine." Castiel remembers where he is, then, and looks around frantically. The little girl is draped over Dean's opposite shoulder. She is drenched, mud-covered and wide-eyed, but her eyes are open and her lips are an encouraging pink. Castiel breathes out a sigh of relief, and this time his lungs are empty of water.
"How did you - where did they go?" Castiel asks, and Dean holds up a brown sack, half full, from under the water. There are several identical brown sacks, these ones empty, floating in the water around them. "Salt," Dean says, grinning. "Turns out there's a reason these bitches stick to lakes and rivers. They're allergic to the salt in oceans."
Castiel narrows his eyes. "And you were absolutely sure of that when you followed us in here?" he asks.
Dean shrugs. "Well, Bobby's theories work out at least half the time, and I had all that extra salt in the trunk of my car anyway." He grins, and thumps Castiel firmly on the back, making him lose his breath again for a moment. "Come on, let's get back on solid ground."
The girl's parents are waiting for them at the shore, their station wagon parked haphazardly nearby, its engine still running. The father holds out a faded plaid blanket to her, but the little girl won't let go of Dean, clinging to his neck like he's a life preserver. Which, Castiel supposes, is basically true. Dean has preserved both their lives today. When it becomes clear the girl won't budge, frozen in shock, the father wraps the blanket around her anyway, halfway around Dean's shoulders. The mother offers Castiel her sweater, but he declines before he remembers that his own trench coat and suit jacket are probably on the bottom of the lake by now. He'd discarded them as he'd first struggled through the water toward the place where Jenny had disappeared.
"I don't know how we can possibly thank you," the mother says, and it startles Castiel to realize that she's addressing him, not Dean.
"There's no need," he says, without hesitation. "We're just doing our job." And it makes him feel warm despite his soaked skin that he's telling the truth. As an angel he had been as likely to destroy a human being as to assist one, but he is a hunter now. Castiel glances back at Dean, instinctively, and sees a soft smile playing on his lips.
"We'll never forget this," the father says, as he gently pries his daughter's arms from around Dean's neck. The mention of forgetfulness is a reminder.
"Could you perhaps take our photograph?" Castiel asks, before the father can completely remove his child.
The woman nods, and retrieves Castiel's camera from the beach, where he'd tossed it as he'd run across the sand. Her hands are still shaking.
"Say cheese," she says, half-heartedly, before she snaps the photo.
In the picture, Castiel stares straight at the camera, his expression neutral. His white dress shirt clings to his skin, and his hair, longer now, stands up in every direction. There is a piece of seaweed stuck to his neck. Dean stands to his right, the little girl still in his arms. She looks at the camera too, her lips turned up into a smile that looks more like a grimace, valiant attempt to obey her mother's direction to pose for the camera. Her father's arm leads off the edge of the photograph, his hand wrapped around her smaller one. Dean is the only one not looking at the camera. In one arm he holds the little girl, and in another the sopping, near-empty sack of salt. He faces Castiel, half-smile on his face.
You can't tell from the photograph of course, but Castiel remembers what he was saying. "Dude, I'm just pissed 'cause mermaids were supposed to be hot."
***
August, 2011
Dean kisses his neck, and all Castiel can think about is his camera. It sits across the motel room, on the table beside Castiel’s still perfectly made bed. Castiel tries to focus on the way Dean feels - on his stubble brushing against the skin of his throat, on Dean's calloused fingertips skating across the skin under his t-shirt. Castiel tries to watch Dean, his long eyelashes pressed against the darkening shadows under his eyes, the pale strip of skin between his jeans and his shirt that appears, tantalizingly, every time he leans over to adjust their position, leaning against the headboard.
"Something wrong?" Dean asks, his voice gruff with lust and probably more than a little exhaustion after a full day of driving, but also warm and teasing. "You got somewhere else you wanna be right now?"
"No!" Castiel says, adamant. Dean's mouth curls into a smile, and he presses another kiss to the corner of Castiel's mouth, like reassurance. Truth be told, kissing Dean has quickly become Castiel's very favourite activity, and he can think of absolutely nowhere else he'd rather be. It's just that sometimes it starts to feel unreal, like any moment Castiel could blink and suddenly Dean would be gone. They've been doing this - whatever it is - for weeks, and Castiel is still surprised every time Dean leans over their nightly burgers or pizza to kiss him, every time he drops both of their duffel bags next to one of the beds.
"Then can I have a little focus, here?" Dean says, sliding two fingers under the waistband of the new jeans Castiel is still breaking in, so he has no choice but to comply. "This is sort of a two-man job, you know."
And that distracts Castiel again. Language that refers to them as partners always does, because Castiel knows he's Dean's second choice there, and always will be. He wonders, constantly, if Dean would be in bed with him if Sam were still around, if whenever they find the solution to the Apocalypse they're looking for, Sam will come back and Castiel will need to find a way to exist on the fringes of their shared life again.
"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and pulls Dean forward to meet his mouth, tangling their tongues together. Dean makes a small, pleased sound, and pushes Castiel forward so that his shoulders press firmly against the headboard, straddling his waist. They've been making out for nearly half an hour, and it's the longest they've ever gone without some kind of interruption, so Castiel waits for the phone to ring, or for Dean to decide he wants a snack, or for someone to scream in the hallway because a banshee has followed them home, again. Dean shifts forward so he's practically sitting in Castiel's lap, and Castiel has to lean up to meet his mouth.
The thing is, Castiel really wants to take a picture of this. He's wanted to take a picture of the two of them really together ever since Dean had first kissed him, covered in mud and high on adrenaline in a cornfield after a particularly close call with a pagan fertility god. But Castiel knows Dean well enough to understand that asking to immortalize their every kiss on film would probably not go over well, especially because it probably means very little to Dean. The old man had told him to capture his happiest moments, though, and it feels practically dishonest to not photograph this, Dean's body warm against his, Dean's breath in his own mouth. It feels wrong, like the world's biggest lie by omission.
"Hey," Dean says, voice less gentle now. "Earth to Cas." Then he pulls his t-shirt off over his head and tosses it aside. And okay, Castiel is less distracted now, reaching out to run his hands over the expanse of Dean's skin, the tattoo on his chest, the handprint on his shoulder, the line of soft hair trailing down from his navel. They've never taken off their clothes before.
"Are you okay with this, seriously?" Dean asks, voice softer again. He bites down on Castiel's ear as he says it though, as if to counteract that gentleness. "You seem kind of out of it. We can stop."
"No!" Castiel snaps, clamping one hand around Dean's wrists as if to hold him, keep him. "That's the opposite of what I want."
"Okay," Dean says, expression wary. He shifts in Castiel's lap, as if suddenly aware of what they're doing. "Then what's the problem?"
"I'm just," Castiel bites his own lip until it hurts, to make himself speak through the haze of fear and arousal. "I'm afraid you'll disappear. That something will get in the way, or I'll do something wrong, and this will be over."
Dean nods, and looks oddly relieved. "I don't scare easy, Cas" he says, voice playful. "You know that." He reaches down and pulls Castiel's t-shirt up over his head, tossing it down next to his own. "I'm not planning on stopping." There's something dark, something dangerous in Dean's voice, and it makes Castiel's stomach twist in anticipation.
"Do you promise?" Castiel asks, trying to match Dean's playful tone and only half-succeeding, as his voice breaks on the last word.
"I promise," Dean says, as he unbuttons Castiel's jeans. Dean sits back and tugs at Castiel's hips until Castiel raises them in the air, tugs until Castiel's jeans slide down past his hips, knees, ankles. The jeans join the rest of the clothes in the pile on the floor, and are quickly followed by Castiel's underwear. "I won't stop unless you ask me too."
When Dean wraps his mouth around Castiel's cock, he yells with surprise at pleasure so intense it feels almost like pain. The hot wet heat overwhelms him for a moment. He closes his eyes and loses himself until Dean makes a surprised strangled noise, and he realizes he has unintentionally thrust into Dean's mouth, and grabbed a fistful of Dean's short hair, still damp from the shower. He pulls back immediately, but Dean surges forward, sucking enthusiastically and insistently on his cock.
Castiel looks down at him, and a thrill more visceral than using any of his angel abilities ever had runs through his body, from the tip of his nose to the tips of his toes. Something about looking at Dean, his head bent over his task, Castiel’s hand still resting in his hair, makes Castiel feel whole, present, sure in a way he never has before. Maybe, Castiel thinks, this is what it feels like to be human.
“Stop,” Castiel says, though it comes out more like a gasp. “Wait.”
Dean pulls back, and the cool air on Castiel’s spit-slick cock makes him shiver. “What is it?” Dean says. Castiel can see him struggling not to roll his eyes. His lips are shiny and swollen.
“Just stay there,” Castiel says. “Don’t move.”
It takes him less than thirty seconds to get across the room to his camera and back to the bed. When he gets there, Dean is already pushing himself up off of his knees, eyeing Castiel warily.
“No,” Castiel says desperately, “stay.” He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pushes down until his knees sink into the mattress again.
“Cas,” Dean says, pushing half-heartedly at Castiel’s bare stomach as he tries to settle back down in front of Dean. “Really, with the camera?”
“He said to photograph my happiest moments,” Castiel says. “I can’t not take this photo.” He strokes that spot behind Dean’s ear that always makes him shake.
Dean bites his lip, and it makes Castiel want to do a number of indecent things. “You know, most people who wanna take a picture of a dude sucking their dick aren’t exactly pure of heart,” he says.
“I’m not most people,” Castiel answers, brushing his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean relents.
“Don’t show it to anyone,” he says, and then ducks his head, taking Castiel’s aching cock back into his mouth.
In the photo, you can’t see Dean’s face. His head is tilted downward, his nose nearly touching Castiel’s belly, the line of Castiel’s cock visibly poking against Dean’s cheek. Castiel’s pale hand rests on Dean’s mess of dark hair. The whole thing is a little out of focus, because Castiel hadn’t been able to hold the camera still in his shaking hands.
***
February, 2011
When the Croatoan virus starts to spread, the first thing they do is pick up Chuck. The outbreak isn't widely known yet - Dean and Castiel only recognize it by putting together several seemingly unrelated cases reported in local newspapers - serial killers, mass hysteria, lunatics - and for all they know they might actually be ahead of the government on this one. Dean tries to call the FBI tip-line, though he complains about "breaking the code" beforehand, but they don't pay any attention to a guy predicting a zombie apocalypse.
So they pick up Chuck, and find him on the front step with his bags already packed, and Becky by his side. They don't want to make a habit of bringing along extra people, and at first Dean tells her she can't come along, despite all of Chuck's threats.
"Go back with your family," he says. "We're just taking Chuck on a short trip to help with a case. He'll be back before you know it."
Chuck scoffs. "I told her what's going on," he says, oddly defiant for someone usually so spineless. "It's Croatoan, right?"
Dean scowls. "The reason we came to get you is because you might be useful. She's dead weight.”
Becky kicks Dean in the shin, and Castiel has to choke back a laugh. "I am not useless," she says with so much conviction Castiel can't even bring himself to doubt her. "And even if I was, you should protect me. That's your job. Sam wouldn't leave me to die."
It's the mention of Sam that does it. Dean's eyes flash angry for a moment, and then defeated.
"Fine," he says bitterly. "But don't get in our way."
It's not until they're on the road, with Chuck, Becky, and Becky's bright pink luggage safely stowed in the backseat, that Dean asks the question.
"Chuck, do you know what's going on with Sam?"
Chuck is answering almost before Dean has finished the question, like he's been waiting for it. "No," he says. "My perspective shifted. Now I get everything from your point of view. No more omniscient narrator." He sounds almost wistful.
Dean nods, like this was the answer he expected. "Okay then, we're shooting sort of blind, but at least we know what we have coming."
"Bunny," Chuck says.
"What?" Dean asks, and then swerves around a rabbit hopping across the road. "Oh."
"Yeah," Chuck says. "Maybe my girlfriend and I aren't quite so useless after all." His voice fills with pride.
"Right, okay," Dean admits. "You come as a unit, I get it. Now could you two please tell me where the heck I'm going?"
"Camp Chitaqua," Chuck says, "in Kansas. You're going to insist on stopping to pick up Bobby on the way, but that stubborn bastard will refuse to leave his house."
Dean frowns. "I have to try anyway."
"Of course you do," Becky says, her voice filled with affection. "He's family, and you'll do anything for family."
Dean falls silent, focusing intently on the completely empty road ahead like he needs to navigate through a traffic jam. "Cas," he says finally, "how about we put on some tunes?"
Castiel shuffles through the glove compartment to find something good.
"Metallica," Chuck pipes up from the back.
Dean swears under his breath, and Castiel deliberately chooses a tape marked Queen, earning a smile from Dean when he glances over as Castiel fumbles with the tape deck. When he presses play, however, "Enter Sandman" blares out of the speakers.
Dean groans, and bumps his forehead against the steering wheel. "I guess it was in the wrong case," Castiel explains. Chuck has the grace not to smirk in the backseat.
"Listen," Dean says, "can we just keep the psychic stuff to a minimum. Pass on the information you think I need to know, not every detail of my existence."
"Sure," Chuck says. "But does that include the fact that the next service station down the road is closed, and if you don't stop at this one you'll run out of gas?"
They pull over so Dean can fill up the tank, and Chuck and Becky go into the station and come out with bags loaded with food. They spread a feast composed of shrink-wrapped sandwiches, bags of chips and diet off-brand soda onto one of the picnic tables outside. Becky arranges the dried out carrot and celery sticks she bought into the shape of a pentagram, apparently just for fun, and rambles about super soakers filled with holy water. Castiel can't follow the whole of her train of thought, but it's nice to hear a new voice. He likes being Dean's partner, of course, but it can get a bit lonely.
"So obviously I knew even before Chuck told me, that you two would fall in love. It was so obvious, right from the beginning. And after that night you took him to the brothel? It was only a matter of time before all that sexual tension boiled over."
Castiel sits up straighter in his seat, and Dean grabs Chuck by the collar of his shirt. "I thought I told you not to write anymore of those things," he snaps.
"I'm not publishing them!" Chuck exclaims, wincing in anticipation of a punch. "I just...need to get it out of my head. Writing them down is the only way I get any sleep. No one else is reading them except Becky, and that's because she's editing them for me."
"I'm his beta," Becky says, her chest puffing out with pride, and Dean just boggles at her. "He really is becoming a much better writer."
Chuck smiles at her. "Thanks, honey."
"Well it's just true." Becky answers.
"So let me get this straight," Dean says. "You know everything that's gone on between Cas and I this past year."
"Yep!" Becky exclaims, "Though I wouldn't exactly say we're getting it straight." She giggles in a way that makes Castiel a little nervous.
"Look on the bright side," Chuck says, as Dean releases his shirt and he sinks back into his seat. "At least we already know you're fucking, so you don't need to sneak around."
Unexpectedly, Dean laughs. The sounds rings out into the warm afternoon air, and it somehow makes the slightly warm egg sandwich Castiel is eating taste better. "That is a silver lining," he says after a moment. "So this is it, is it? Team Free Will. A psychic drunk, a washed up angel, a high school dropout with six bucks to his name, and my brother's biggest fan."
"Actually, I'm six days sober," Chuck says.
"And I'm actually more of a Cas fan now," Becky says. "No offense. It's just hard to be Sam's biggest fan when I don't even know what he's up to." She glares at Chuck like he's personally responsible for this tragic oversight in the universe.
"Sorry," Chuck says meekly.
Castiel goes to get his camera. Becky sits between Dean and Chuck in the photo, with an arm around each of their shoulders. She smiles like this is the happiest day of her life, though that might be because she's running her fingers through Dean's hair. Chuck sits to her left, unsmiling but reasonably content, gazed fixed on Becky's face with rapt attention. To Becky's left sits Dean, ignoring her fingers in his hair, and resolutely eating his sandwich. They look like, Castiel thinks, a happy family.
Part Two
Author: bree_black
Art: By catsinthecoffee here.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 13,500
Warning & enticements: brief mention of suicide, implied major character death, light bondage, implied Castiel/OFCs, implied Dean/Risa
Beta: Many thanks to gwendolynd and lookturtles.
Notes: So I decided to find out if it was possible to write a happy fic set in the 2014!verse. I think I almost succeeded. For the 2011 deancasbigbang mini-bang, with beautiful art by catsinthecoffee.
Summary: In 2009, a man who claims to speak to God gives the not-quite-an-angel-anymore Castiel his Polaroid camera. “Use it wisely,” he warns. “Cameras are a strange sort of magic. They hold on to the energy of the moments they capture and keep it alive past its time. That’s why we should only take photographs of our happiest moments. There’s no sense prolonging our pain or sadness, but love and joy are worth saving.”
During the next five years, Castiel superstitiously takes nine photographs of his happiest moments. When a second Dean arrives from the past, Castiel knows he’s been sent to witness something catastrophic, something so terrible Zachariah believes it will scare Dean into accepting his destiny. He senses the end is near, but Castiel can’t quite bring himself to take the final photograph. Dean does it for him.
Castiel perched on the edge of the lumpy sofa, oblivious to the cloud of dust that rose up around him as he did so. Beside him, Dean looked mildly horrified and pulled his hands into his lap so as to avoid touching anything. The house was filthy, its ancient bric-a-brac contents covered in a fine layer of dust and cobwebs that Castiel thought was actually quite beautiful in the morning light, like a fine dusting of snow. Evidently Dean disagreed.
“This place is fucking creepy, dude,” Dean said, not even bothering to drop his voice to a whisper. “Any second now Miss Havisham is going to turn the corner, in flames.”
Castiel didn’t understand the reference, but he knew by Dean’s tone it probably wasn’t flattering. “This man speaks to God. I think we can forgive him his poor housekeeping skills,” he said, voice low.
“He claims he speaks to God,” Dean corrected, concerned with the specificity of language only when it suited him. “And if getting in touch with the big guy turns you into a crazy hermit, I’m not so sure we should be looking for him. Seriously, I think we may be the first people to set foot in this dump in decades.”
Castiel was about to explain just how short a length of time that actually was when Mister Elliot returned, carrying a tea tray. Between the tray and the black box hanging from his neck by a cord, he looked on the verge of tipping over, his tiny frame bent nearly ninety degrees at the waist. Castiel hastened to take the tray from him, setting it on the glass coffee table in the centre of the over-furnished room, where it sank into a thick layer of dust.
The old man smiled broadly at Castiel, his false teeth loose around his gums. “So nice to see a young man with proper manners these days,” he said, lowering himself slowly into an overstuffed armchair, the only piece of furniture in the room not covered in dust. Castiel poured weak tea into three dusty teacups. Dean set his down without even taking a sip.
Castiel felt his heart sink. He had hoped, when they arrived, that this man would immediately recognize him as more than human, despite his rapidly diminishing powers. Dean looked at Castiel expectantly, so he spoke. “You speak to God,” Castiel said, ignoring the clench of doubt in his stomach. “We believe He may have a message for us.”
The old man nodded sagely, shifting forward in his seat. “He speaks to me of many things,” he said. “Between you and me, sometimes I think he gets lonely. What are your names?”
“My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord,” Or at least I was, Castiel thought, conscious of the new heaviness in his limbs, of the fact he slept last night and ate some of Dean’s French fries yesterday evening.
“And I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean added. “God has history with me and my brother, Sam.” Castiel saw it then, in the eager tilt of Dean’s shoulders and the light in his eyes as he said Sam’s name. Dean wanted to find God as much as Castiel did, wanted to find a way to bring him and his brother back together again, after three months of absolute separation.
The old man furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, mumbling to himself in a throaty voice. Dean shifted nervously in his seat. Castiel sipped his tea, and then grimaced at the chalky taste. Mister Elliot opened his eyes after just a moment, clucking his tongue decisively. “Nope,” he declared, “Never heard of either of you.”
Deep inside, Castiel felt another piece of his faith shatter. He was under no illusions that this quest wasn’t hurting him; he knew every failed lead, every trail gone cold, dampened his powers further. Castiel wasn’t falling from Grace so much as it was slipping through his fingers, though he tore his hands to shreds trying to hold on.
Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged. Castiel followed the motion automatically, standing, though his limbs felt strangely numb. “Thanks for your time,” Dean said through the rushing in Castiel’s ears. “We’ve gotta get going.” Dean covered his disappointment well, after a lifetime of practice.
“Oh, please stay,” the old man begged, suddenly looking even smaller and more frail in his oversized chair. “You haven’t even finished your tea, and I so seldom have visitors.”
Dean shook his head, holding more firmly to Castiel’s arm as if to steer him out of the tumble-down house. “We have to go,” he said firmly, and Castiel felt profoundly grateful for the authority in his voice, though he hated himself for needing it so badly.
“At least let me take your picture to remember you by,” the man said, and Castiel very nearly pitied him. Before Dean could object, he raised the black box hanging around his neck and aimed it in their direction. It made a loud clicking noise, and then a whirring sound as a thick square of paper was ejected out of the bottom.
“Wait just a second, it’ll be ready in a jiffy,” the man said, pulling the sheet from the camera and waving it in the air between two tightly pinched fingers.
They waited. Dean kept his fist gripped tightly in the fabric of Castiel’s coat, as if he was afraid he might fall over if he let go. After a minute, the man handed Castiel the square of paper, warning him to grip it only by the edges.
It was mesmerizing, watching the image sharpen into focus before his eyes - Dean, staring straight at the camera with obvious irritation in his expression, while Castiel stood beside him, waiting for Dean to lead him out of this awful house. It struck Castiel with visceral force that photography was not designed for angels. Photography was meant for mortals; it allowed the aging to look back on their youth, the forgetful to remember the experiences of their pasts. Ageless, timeless and usually without physical form, Castiel did not belong in a photograph, and yet there he was, standing next to Dean.
“Never seen instant film before, eh?” the old man said, misidentifying the reason for Castiel’s interest. “I guess you kids do everything on computers these days.”
“Right,” Dean agreed, taking the photograph between two fingers and tugging it out of Castiel’s grip. He felt a strange sense of loss as Dean handed it back to the old man, the desire to hold on to this piece of evidence that he had been here, now, and just like this.
The old man noticed Castiel’s eyes lingering on the photograph. Castiel saw him hesitate, and then a change came over his face. His eyes unfocused, gone distant and glazed, and his posture softened.
“You okay, dude?” Dean asked, and that seemed to snap him out of it. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it.
“Yes,” he said, though he didn’t sound at all sure. He reached up to his throat and pulled the camera’s strap from around his neck, holding it out toward Castiel. “Here. You should have this.”
Castiel meant to decline, or to let Dean decline for him, but he was reaching out for the camera before he realized it. “Thank you,” he said.
“Use it wisely. Cameras are a strange sort of magic,” the man said, voice hesitant. “They hold on to the energy of the moments they capture and keep it alive past its time. That’s why we should only take photographs of our happiest moments. There’s no sense prolonging our pain or sadness, but love and joy are worth saving.”
Castiel nodded solemnly, nearly overcome by the urge to bow deeper, but then Dean caught him by the arm again and dragged him out of the house, shuddering. “That whole place was so fucking creepy,” he announced, as they emerged out into the cool, clean air.
“Yes,” Castiel agreed as they started toward the car, but he clutched the camera tightly to his chest.
***
October, 2009
Castiel’s first photograph is of the sunset. In his defense, he doesn’t know it’s such a cliché when he takes it. Sitting on a wooden bench on the side of a Nebraska highway, it startles him with its beauty, like he’s never seen one before even though he’s lived a thousand lifetimes.
“Ow,” Dean says from beside him, like lifting his glass bottle of beer to his lips is causing him great pain. “I wish your angel mojo would choose better times to crap out. Like when I’m sleeping.”
Castiel frowns and bites his lip. He feels bad about that. His angel powers have been inconsistent of late, and now they’re both covered in grave dirt from having to run a salt and burn without any shortcuts. Castiel knows his angelic abilities have been the only major help he’s been able to provide to Dean, and every time they short out he feels like he’s letting Dean down.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He stretches his arm and it hurts, the new aching in his muscles a reminder of his failure. “I know that without my powers I’m basically…dead weight.”
Dean cuts his sip of beer short, looking over at Castiel in surprise. “It’s not like that,” he says. “I was just bitching for the sake of it, Cas.”
“Okay,” Castiel agrees, quietly. He takes a sip of his own beer. The silence between them grows rapidly awkward.
“This is weird for me,” Dean says. “Because I always did this with Sam.” He inhales on Sam’s name and it comes out stilted.
“I understand,” Castiel says. He picks at the paper label on his bottle.
“Weird,” Dean continues, “but not bad.” He clears his throat. “I want you to know you can stick around, even if your powers go completely. I’m not gonna throw you out on your ass or anything.”
Castiel looks over at Dean, but Dean fixes his gaze on the horizon.
“It’s pretty,” Castiel says. Dean nods, so Castiel gets up and rummages through the Impala’s back seat until he finds his camera. When he holds it up to his face his arms still ache, but they feel different now, less like punishment and more like a symptom of an honest day’s work. Castiel finds he rather likes the sensation.
***
November, 2009
Castiel takes the second photograph at a bar somewhere in the midwestern United States. They’re here to celebrate a relatively successful day’s work. Successful because together they killed the five demons taking this town on Hell’s equivalent of a joy ride, but only relatively so because they didn’t provide any new information about Lucifer or his plans. Castiel suspects Dean starts drinking out of celebration, and keeps drinking out of frustration, and Castiel matches him drink for drink, mostly for something to do with his hands. Dean doesn’t play pool tonight, or flirt with the girls in low-cut jeans, or even get up to go to the jukebox. He just sits at the bar and drinks steadily, until Castiel starts shifting on his stool uncomfortably.
“What’s up with you?” Dean asks a few minutes after Castiel notices the pressure building low in his belly. “You got somewhere else to be or something?” He snorts, because he knows full well all they have is each other lately, with Bobby far away, Sam even further, and everyone Castiel knew in heaven further still.
“No,” Castiel says, resisting the urge to cover Dean’s hand with his own, to tell him that it’s okay to feel lonely but that he’s not actually alone. Sometimes Castiel thinks he doesn’t count as real company to Dean, though he’s not sure if it’s because he’s not fully human or because he’s not Sam. Castiel feels the weight of Sam’s absence constantly - in the jokes he doesn’t understand, the songs he can’t sing along to, and the way he has to be shown how to properly hold a shotgun. Technically, Castiel is Dean’s partner now, but in a million little ways he isn’t. He never will be.
Castiel shifts in his seat again. “Dude,” Dean grumbles.
“I believe I need to urinate,” Castiel explains, and Dean laughs so suddenly that beer dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, and he needs to wipe his face with the back of his hand.
“Well shit,” he says, after he swallows. “So do I. Come on, we can do it together.” Dean is grinning, smile wide and bright because he’s had so much to drink.
Castiel stumbles as he gets down from his stool, and Dean reaches out instinctively to steady him, catching his flailing arm by the wrist. It startles Castiel, the feeling of Dean’s skin on his own. Dean very rarely touches other people directly. He grabs Castiel by the sleeve of his coat, drags Sam to safety by the collar, even guides the women he picks up in bars out the door with a hand on the small of the back, fingers safely above their thin cotton t-shirts. What skin-to-skin contact Castiel has witnessed has been between Dean and Sam, moments of post-battle desperation that seem so sacred Castiel wonders if Dean’s touch does as much to heal Sam as the ointments he applies or the stitches he embeds in his brother’s skin. That and violence, of course, but even though Castiel had laid hands on Dean in anger more than he’d like to admit, Dean had never really fought back. This is the first time Dean has really touched him.
Dean doesn’t drop his wrist until he pushes through the swinging door of the restroom, guiding Castiel across the bar and weaving between the tables. Castiel accidentally makes eye contact with the bartender, and he sees the man quickly drop his gaze, vigorously wiping down the counter. Castiel realizes how they must look, drunk and smiling and Dean leading him into the washroom. It makes Castiel’s face feel hot, but not with shame.
The washroom is small, but surprisingly clean, certainly better than a lot of the other places they’ve stopped in the past few months. A tattered paper sign posted above one of the two urinals warns “Smile, your on camera!,” which might have something to do with the room’s condition.
Dean stands in front of the urinal on the left, so Castiel stands in front of the one on the right. They’re close enough that when he unzips his pants his shoulder brushes against Dean’s, and though they’ve fought side by side for months something about the tiny contact feels oddly intimate.
Relieving himself isn’t exactly difficult, but Dean applauds anyway, finished before Castiel presumably because his bladder hasn’t had years to fill.
“I believe most three year-olds are capable of this,” Castiel says. He resists the urge to look over at Dean. “There’s no need for congratulations.”
“Naw, dude, you’re awesome. You didn’t even get any on your shoes.” He looks down at Castiel’s feet, and Castiel knows he should feel the urge to cover himself, but doesn’t. “’Course, if you did, it wouldn’t be a big deal since I stole those boots off a dead guy.”
Castiel turns to gape at Dean, then, and Dean grins back. “Just shitting you. Maybe.”
Castiel tucks himself into his pants - “shake, shake!” Dean reminds him - and zips them up, and then Dean claps him on the back. “Well done. I am glad we could share this important milestone in your life. Hey! Your camera!”
Castiel, standing at the sink, looks down in alarm, assuming he’s splashed water on the device hanging around his neck. It is perfectly dry.
“What about it?” he asks, drying his hands.
“You should take a picture. Capture the site of your first piss on film.”
Castiel considers the smile on Dean’s face, the pleasant drunken blurriness in his mind, the relief of his newly empty bladder. “Alright,” he says with a shrug.
In the second of Castiel’s photographs, he stands in front of a white ceramic urinal, posture stiff. Instead of smiling, he merely looks confused by Dean’s instruction to “Say cheese!” One corner of the photograph is covered by Dean’s dark thumb.
***
June, 2011
Castiel breaks the surface of the water and gasps for air, filling his lungs with precious oxygen before something latches around his ankle and he is pulled down again. Castiel kicks and struggles. He's still not accustomed to his own mortality, so it's not fear for his own life that drives him, but concern for the little girl in his arms. She's a heavier weight than he expected she would be when he dove into the lake after her, and her waterlogged body is a reminder of the responsibility he has to protect her. At first she had struggled too, trying to help him stay afloat, kicking out against the fanged faces surrounding them with only her stockinged feet. A minute ago she went still and limp in his arms, unconscious. Castiel knows he doesn't have much time.
There's no way he can make it to shore. There are at least twenty of the monsters forming a ring around them, their eyes and their long fangs shining in the murky depths. Castiel wonders if they'll let them drown before they eat them, or if they prefer to take their prey alive.
Castiel has operated in a constant cloud of ambient melancholy about the decline in his angelic powers since they'd first started to fade, but now he longs for them fiercely, as the monster drags him and the little girl he's holding deeper into the lake, and all he can do is kick weakly. He doesn't even know how to swim properly. Castiel lets go of the girl - Jenny, he remembers - pushing her up toward the surface of the lake. It won't do much - one of the other monsters will grab her - but there's no sense in them drowning together.
Suddenly, the monsters swarming around him start to thrash, emitting high-pitched squealing noises and gnashing their teeth. The one holding his ankle releases him, and Castiel kicks, violently, and hopes he's facing up not down. Everything is the same shade of green down here, full of black shadows. For some reason, the monsters appear to be swimming away from him.
Castiel is surprised when he breaks the surface of the water; he had thought it was much further away from the surface. For a moment everything is wonderfully calm and silent, the sun on his face and air in his lungs. Then there is splashing just to his left, and Dean leans over him, blocking out the sunlight.
"Cas? Cas, can hear you me?" Dean's voice is frantic and Castiel feels guilty for making him worry, so he opens his eyes. Then he opens his mouth to answer, and coughs up water.
"Hey, hey," Dean says, and then he's wrapping one arm around Castiel so he doesn't sink. "Don't freak out. You're fine." Castiel remembers where he is, then, and looks around frantically. The little girl is draped over Dean's opposite shoulder. She is drenched, mud-covered and wide-eyed, but her eyes are open and her lips are an encouraging pink. Castiel breathes out a sigh of relief, and this time his lungs are empty of water.
"How did you - where did they go?" Castiel asks, and Dean holds up a brown sack, half full, from under the water. There are several identical brown sacks, these ones empty, floating in the water around them. "Salt," Dean says, grinning. "Turns out there's a reason these bitches stick to lakes and rivers. They're allergic to the salt in oceans."
Castiel narrows his eyes. "And you were absolutely sure of that when you followed us in here?" he asks.
Dean shrugs. "Well, Bobby's theories work out at least half the time, and I had all that extra salt in the trunk of my car anyway." He grins, and thumps Castiel firmly on the back, making him lose his breath again for a moment. "Come on, let's get back on solid ground."
The girl's parents are waiting for them at the shore, their station wagon parked haphazardly nearby, its engine still running. The father holds out a faded plaid blanket to her, but the little girl won't let go of Dean, clinging to his neck like he's a life preserver. Which, Castiel supposes, is basically true. Dean has preserved both their lives today. When it becomes clear the girl won't budge, frozen in shock, the father wraps the blanket around her anyway, halfway around Dean's shoulders. The mother offers Castiel her sweater, but he declines before he remembers that his own trench coat and suit jacket are probably on the bottom of the lake by now. He'd discarded them as he'd first struggled through the water toward the place where Jenny had disappeared.
"I don't know how we can possibly thank you," the mother says, and it startles Castiel to realize that she's addressing him, not Dean.
"There's no need," he says, without hesitation. "We're just doing our job." And it makes him feel warm despite his soaked skin that he's telling the truth. As an angel he had been as likely to destroy a human being as to assist one, but he is a hunter now. Castiel glances back at Dean, instinctively, and sees a soft smile playing on his lips.
"We'll never forget this," the father says, as he gently pries his daughter's arms from around Dean's neck. The mention of forgetfulness is a reminder.
"Could you perhaps take our photograph?" Castiel asks, before the father can completely remove his child.
The woman nods, and retrieves Castiel's camera from the beach, where he'd tossed it as he'd run across the sand. Her hands are still shaking.
"Say cheese," she says, half-heartedly, before she snaps the photo.
In the picture, Castiel stares straight at the camera, his expression neutral. His white dress shirt clings to his skin, and his hair, longer now, stands up in every direction. There is a piece of seaweed stuck to his neck. Dean stands to his right, the little girl still in his arms. She looks at the camera too, her lips turned up into a smile that looks more like a grimace, valiant attempt to obey her mother's direction to pose for the camera. Her father's arm leads off the edge of the photograph, his hand wrapped around her smaller one. Dean is the only one not looking at the camera. In one arm he holds the little girl, and in another the sopping, near-empty sack of salt. He faces Castiel, half-smile on his face.
You can't tell from the photograph of course, but Castiel remembers what he was saying. "Dude, I'm just pissed 'cause mermaids were supposed to be hot."
***
August, 2011
Dean kisses his neck, and all Castiel can think about is his camera. It sits across the motel room, on the table beside Castiel’s still perfectly made bed. Castiel tries to focus on the way Dean feels - on his stubble brushing against the skin of his throat, on Dean's calloused fingertips skating across the skin under his t-shirt. Castiel tries to watch Dean, his long eyelashes pressed against the darkening shadows under his eyes, the pale strip of skin between his jeans and his shirt that appears, tantalizingly, every time he leans over to adjust their position, leaning against the headboard.
"Something wrong?" Dean asks, his voice gruff with lust and probably more than a little exhaustion after a full day of driving, but also warm and teasing. "You got somewhere else you wanna be right now?"
"No!" Castiel says, adamant. Dean's mouth curls into a smile, and he presses another kiss to the corner of Castiel's mouth, like reassurance. Truth be told, kissing Dean has quickly become Castiel's very favourite activity, and he can think of absolutely nowhere else he'd rather be. It's just that sometimes it starts to feel unreal, like any moment Castiel could blink and suddenly Dean would be gone. They've been doing this - whatever it is - for weeks, and Castiel is still surprised every time Dean leans over their nightly burgers or pizza to kiss him, every time he drops both of their duffel bags next to one of the beds.
"Then can I have a little focus, here?" Dean says, sliding two fingers under the waistband of the new jeans Castiel is still breaking in, so he has no choice but to comply. "This is sort of a two-man job, you know."
And that distracts Castiel again. Language that refers to them as partners always does, because Castiel knows he's Dean's second choice there, and always will be. He wonders, constantly, if Dean would be in bed with him if Sam were still around, if whenever they find the solution to the Apocalypse they're looking for, Sam will come back and Castiel will need to find a way to exist on the fringes of their shared life again.
"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and pulls Dean forward to meet his mouth, tangling their tongues together. Dean makes a small, pleased sound, and pushes Castiel forward so that his shoulders press firmly against the headboard, straddling his waist. They've been making out for nearly half an hour, and it's the longest they've ever gone without some kind of interruption, so Castiel waits for the phone to ring, or for Dean to decide he wants a snack, or for someone to scream in the hallway because a banshee has followed them home, again. Dean shifts forward so he's practically sitting in Castiel's lap, and Castiel has to lean up to meet his mouth.
The thing is, Castiel really wants to take a picture of this. He's wanted to take a picture of the two of them really together ever since Dean had first kissed him, covered in mud and high on adrenaline in a cornfield after a particularly close call with a pagan fertility god. But Castiel knows Dean well enough to understand that asking to immortalize their every kiss on film would probably not go over well, especially because it probably means very little to Dean. The old man had told him to capture his happiest moments, though, and it feels practically dishonest to not photograph this, Dean's body warm against his, Dean's breath in his own mouth. It feels wrong, like the world's biggest lie by omission.
"Hey," Dean says, voice less gentle now. "Earth to Cas." Then he pulls his t-shirt off over his head and tosses it aside. And okay, Castiel is less distracted now, reaching out to run his hands over the expanse of Dean's skin, the tattoo on his chest, the handprint on his shoulder, the line of soft hair trailing down from his navel. They've never taken off their clothes before.
"Are you okay with this, seriously?" Dean asks, voice softer again. He bites down on Castiel's ear as he says it though, as if to counteract that gentleness. "You seem kind of out of it. We can stop."
"No!" Castiel snaps, clamping one hand around Dean's wrists as if to hold him, keep him. "That's the opposite of what I want."
"Okay," Dean says, expression wary. He shifts in Castiel's lap, as if suddenly aware of what they're doing. "Then what's the problem?"
"I'm just," Castiel bites his own lip until it hurts, to make himself speak through the haze of fear and arousal. "I'm afraid you'll disappear. That something will get in the way, or I'll do something wrong, and this will be over."
Dean nods, and looks oddly relieved. "I don't scare easy, Cas" he says, voice playful. "You know that." He reaches down and pulls Castiel's t-shirt up over his head, tossing it down next to his own. "I'm not planning on stopping." There's something dark, something dangerous in Dean's voice, and it makes Castiel's stomach twist in anticipation.
"Do you promise?" Castiel asks, trying to match Dean's playful tone and only half-succeeding, as his voice breaks on the last word.
"I promise," Dean says, as he unbuttons Castiel's jeans. Dean sits back and tugs at Castiel's hips until Castiel raises them in the air, tugs until Castiel's jeans slide down past his hips, knees, ankles. The jeans join the rest of the clothes in the pile on the floor, and are quickly followed by Castiel's underwear. "I won't stop unless you ask me too."
When Dean wraps his mouth around Castiel's cock, he yells with surprise at pleasure so intense it feels almost like pain. The hot wet heat overwhelms him for a moment. He closes his eyes and loses himself until Dean makes a surprised strangled noise, and he realizes he has unintentionally thrust into Dean's mouth, and grabbed a fistful of Dean's short hair, still damp from the shower. He pulls back immediately, but Dean surges forward, sucking enthusiastically and insistently on his cock.
Castiel looks down at him, and a thrill more visceral than using any of his angel abilities ever had runs through his body, from the tip of his nose to the tips of his toes. Something about looking at Dean, his head bent over his task, Castiel’s hand still resting in his hair, makes Castiel feel whole, present, sure in a way he never has before. Maybe, Castiel thinks, this is what it feels like to be human.
“Stop,” Castiel says, though it comes out more like a gasp. “Wait.”
Dean pulls back, and the cool air on Castiel’s spit-slick cock makes him shiver. “What is it?” Dean says. Castiel can see him struggling not to roll his eyes. His lips are shiny and swollen.
“Just stay there,” Castiel says. “Don’t move.”
It takes him less than thirty seconds to get across the room to his camera and back to the bed. When he gets there, Dean is already pushing himself up off of his knees, eyeing Castiel warily.
“No,” Castiel says desperately, “stay.” He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pushes down until his knees sink into the mattress again.
“Cas,” Dean says, pushing half-heartedly at Castiel’s bare stomach as he tries to settle back down in front of Dean. “Really, with the camera?”
“He said to photograph my happiest moments,” Castiel says. “I can’t not take this photo.” He strokes that spot behind Dean’s ear that always makes him shake.
Dean bites his lip, and it makes Castiel want to do a number of indecent things. “You know, most people who wanna take a picture of a dude sucking their dick aren’t exactly pure of heart,” he says.
“I’m not most people,” Castiel answers, brushing his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean relents.
“Don’t show it to anyone,” he says, and then ducks his head, taking Castiel’s aching cock back into his mouth.
In the photo, you can’t see Dean’s face. His head is tilted downward, his nose nearly touching Castiel’s belly, the line of Castiel’s cock visibly poking against Dean’s cheek. Castiel’s pale hand rests on Dean’s mess of dark hair. The whole thing is a little out of focus, because Castiel hadn’t been able to hold the camera still in his shaking hands.
***
February, 2011
When the Croatoan virus starts to spread, the first thing they do is pick up Chuck. The outbreak isn't widely known yet - Dean and Castiel only recognize it by putting together several seemingly unrelated cases reported in local newspapers - serial killers, mass hysteria, lunatics - and for all they know they might actually be ahead of the government on this one. Dean tries to call the FBI tip-line, though he complains about "breaking the code" beforehand, but they don't pay any attention to a guy predicting a zombie apocalypse.
So they pick up Chuck, and find him on the front step with his bags already packed, and Becky by his side. They don't want to make a habit of bringing along extra people, and at first Dean tells her she can't come along, despite all of Chuck's threats.
"Go back with your family," he says. "We're just taking Chuck on a short trip to help with a case. He'll be back before you know it."
Chuck scoffs. "I told her what's going on," he says, oddly defiant for someone usually so spineless. "It's Croatoan, right?"
Dean scowls. "The reason we came to get you is because you might be useful. She's dead weight.”
Becky kicks Dean in the shin, and Castiel has to choke back a laugh. "I am not useless," she says with so much conviction Castiel can't even bring himself to doubt her. "And even if I was, you should protect me. That's your job. Sam wouldn't leave me to die."
It's the mention of Sam that does it. Dean's eyes flash angry for a moment, and then defeated.
"Fine," he says bitterly. "But don't get in our way."
It's not until they're on the road, with Chuck, Becky, and Becky's bright pink luggage safely stowed in the backseat, that Dean asks the question.
"Chuck, do you know what's going on with Sam?"
Chuck is answering almost before Dean has finished the question, like he's been waiting for it. "No," he says. "My perspective shifted. Now I get everything from your point of view. No more omniscient narrator." He sounds almost wistful.
Dean nods, like this was the answer he expected. "Okay then, we're shooting sort of blind, but at least we know what we have coming."
"Bunny," Chuck says.
"What?" Dean asks, and then swerves around a rabbit hopping across the road. "Oh."
"Yeah," Chuck says. "Maybe my girlfriend and I aren't quite so useless after all." His voice fills with pride.
"Right, okay," Dean admits. "You come as a unit, I get it. Now could you two please tell me where the heck I'm going?"
"Camp Chitaqua," Chuck says, "in Kansas. You're going to insist on stopping to pick up Bobby on the way, but that stubborn bastard will refuse to leave his house."
Dean frowns. "I have to try anyway."
"Of course you do," Becky says, her voice filled with affection. "He's family, and you'll do anything for family."
Dean falls silent, focusing intently on the completely empty road ahead like he needs to navigate through a traffic jam. "Cas," he says finally, "how about we put on some tunes?"
Castiel shuffles through the glove compartment to find something good.
"Metallica," Chuck pipes up from the back.
Dean swears under his breath, and Castiel deliberately chooses a tape marked Queen, earning a smile from Dean when he glances over as Castiel fumbles with the tape deck. When he presses play, however, "Enter Sandman" blares out of the speakers.
Dean groans, and bumps his forehead against the steering wheel. "I guess it was in the wrong case," Castiel explains. Chuck has the grace not to smirk in the backseat.
"Listen," Dean says, "can we just keep the psychic stuff to a minimum. Pass on the information you think I need to know, not every detail of my existence."
"Sure," Chuck says. "But does that include the fact that the next service station down the road is closed, and if you don't stop at this one you'll run out of gas?"
They pull over so Dean can fill up the tank, and Chuck and Becky go into the station and come out with bags loaded with food. They spread a feast composed of shrink-wrapped sandwiches, bags of chips and diet off-brand soda onto one of the picnic tables outside. Becky arranges the dried out carrot and celery sticks she bought into the shape of a pentagram, apparently just for fun, and rambles about super soakers filled with holy water. Castiel can't follow the whole of her train of thought, but it's nice to hear a new voice. He likes being Dean's partner, of course, but it can get a bit lonely.
"So obviously I knew even before Chuck told me, that you two would fall in love. It was so obvious, right from the beginning. And after that night you took him to the brothel? It was only a matter of time before all that sexual tension boiled over."
Castiel sits up straighter in his seat, and Dean grabs Chuck by the collar of his shirt. "I thought I told you not to write anymore of those things," he snaps.
"I'm not publishing them!" Chuck exclaims, wincing in anticipation of a punch. "I just...need to get it out of my head. Writing them down is the only way I get any sleep. No one else is reading them except Becky, and that's because she's editing them for me."
"I'm his beta," Becky says, her chest puffing out with pride, and Dean just boggles at her. "He really is becoming a much better writer."
Chuck smiles at her. "Thanks, honey."
"Well it's just true." Becky answers.
"So let me get this straight," Dean says. "You know everything that's gone on between Cas and I this past year."
"Yep!" Becky exclaims, "Though I wouldn't exactly say we're getting it straight." She giggles in a way that makes Castiel a little nervous.
"Look on the bright side," Chuck says, as Dean releases his shirt and he sinks back into his seat. "At least we already know you're fucking, so you don't need to sneak around."
Unexpectedly, Dean laughs. The sounds rings out into the warm afternoon air, and it somehow makes the slightly warm egg sandwich Castiel is eating taste better. "That is a silver lining," he says after a moment. "So this is it, is it? Team Free Will. A psychic drunk, a washed up angel, a high school dropout with six bucks to his name, and my brother's biggest fan."
"Actually, I'm six days sober," Chuck says.
"And I'm actually more of a Cas fan now," Becky says. "No offense. It's just hard to be Sam's biggest fan when I don't even know what he's up to." She glares at Chuck like he's personally responsible for this tragic oversight in the universe.
"Sorry," Chuck says meekly.
Castiel goes to get his camera. Becky sits between Dean and Chuck in the photo, with an arm around each of their shoulders. She smiles like this is the happiest day of her life, though that might be because she's running her fingers through Dean's hair. Chuck sits to her left, unsmiling but reasonably content, gazed fixed on Becky's face with rapt attention. To Becky's left sits Dean, ignoring her fingers in his hair, and resolutely eating his sandwich. They look like, Castiel thinks, a happy family.
Part Two