[FIC]: Winter Song (Dean/Castiel, Adult)
Title: Winter Song
Author: nyoka @ chocolate_muse
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: language; sexuality; AU post-5x22
Count: ~4,200
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I own nothing and no one.
Notes: This story goes AU post-5x22 with the premise that Dean has gone off to hunt alone. Written for oddlyfamiliar for the deancas_xmas Secret Santa Exchange, and originally posted here. Many thanks to micalaux for the beta.
Summary: Sometimes the best gifts are the ones you never see coming.
:::
This place is called White Earth and Dean has never known a more apt name.
Through the frosted glass of the window, he watches the morning light glint off of the miles of swollen, bleached ground outside. The surrounding field beyond the cabin is covered in a blanket of fresh snow and ice, the remnants of last night's storm.
Dean found this cabin two weeks ago while on a hunt deep in the wilds of Minnesota. The place is old, but dry and well-constructed; it smells like dust and earth, but it's all he needs to rough out a few days in the middle of nowhere, recoup from one too many hunts gone bad. It's been a long year.
Dean digs his fingers into the wool blanket he wrapped around his shoulders to stave off the biting chill; he bunches up the fabric in his fists before smoothing it back down, repeats the action several times. Outside the snow falls as thick as rain, relentless and steady. It seems to stamp out all color, leaving behind an empty white canvas Dean has the urge to color in.
The wind beats a rhythm against the cabin's log exterior, while big, fat flakes clink against the window, clinging to the pane for a moment before melting away. The snowfall is mesmerizing to watch, and Dean has to shake himself out of a trance more than once. He spent much of yesterday by the window witnessing winter's final coup d'état.
Dean lets the dingy curtain fall back in place, turns away. Today he needs to dig his girl out, buried out there all alone under a foot or more of snow. Maybe he'll even cut down a small tree, put a slab of ham on the woodstove fire, crack open a bottle of whiskey. He checked the calendar this morning. It's Christmas Eve.
:::
The snow stops sometime during the early evening. Dean puts on his heaviest jacket, cap, scarf, gloves, and boots before he heads out. The woods around the cabin are quiet, asleep under inches of ice. Shovel in hand, Dean trudges through the mush, ducking his head against the bitter wind that manages to cut through his multiple layers. Thick gusts send the snow swirling in little cyclones. Dean blinks against the light; the snowy terrain is a blinding white that pains his eyes.
It's so cold it almost hurts to breathe, but he finds the Impala and manages to get her cleared in good time. Mounds of snow pile up around him, and Dean gives into the memory of all those Christmases with Sam before he left for Stanford, building snowmen and waging snowball fights. Sipping hot cocoa while burrowing under layers and layers of blankets when Dad couldn't afford to pay the heating bill. It's been half a year since Sam fell into the Pit, half a year since Dean started hunting on his own. Half a year of living with his brother's sacrifice. The wound is still fresh, deepening as the days pass.
Dean pushes down the thoughts, pushes them far away; he can't afford to break down, let the memories and pain take hold of him. He can't afford to live in a hell of his own making again. He can't afford to break. Not yet, not here.
Dean shudders, shaking snow from his coat. He sets about heating the car up, then scraping ice off the Impala's windshield. He's been taking it one day at a time, finding ways to take care of himself, learning to navigate one season then the next and the next.
Dean's learning by doing, which is the only way he's really ever learned anything.
:::
Dean's walking back toward the cabin when he sees it. A blur of movement ahead in the trees, a dark shadow against the bone-white sky and earth. Dean's got his gun out in seconds, training it on the figure making its way up the snow-packed drive. He lowers it when he recognizes the fluid movements, the messy attire. Shit.
"Cas?" Dean calls, the sound of the angel's name punching out into the deep silence, echoing throughout the clearing. Dean's own shocked voice feels foreign to him, unrecognizable.
Castiel pauses mid-motion, the wind whipping at his trench coat, sending it fluttering behind him like wings. "Hello, Dean," he says, head tilting. There's a soft smile on his face. Warmth in his expression.
Dean makes a noise deep in his throat, breath forcing its way out of his lungs as he moves towards Castiel, his boots crunching loud over the snow and ice. Cas starts walking again as well, and they close the distance between each other in seconds. Dean's eyes skirt over Castiel, checking to see if he's okay, if he's the same. It's only been a few months, but in some ways it feels like a lifetime. Nothing's changed though: same dark, windblown hair, rumpled dress shirt, and loosened tie.
The wind tousles Castiel's hair as he turns to stare at Dean. He's outlined by the darkening horizon, body held rigid. "Perhaps I should have called," Castiel says, his voice almost thoughtful. He watches Dean for a long moment, and Dean wants to laugh, wants to knock him the fuck out, but he's momentarily caught off guard by the tiny icicles on Castiel's eyebrows and lashes, the ruby flush to his cheeks. It's freezing out here, and Castiel's feathery ass is running around in just a trench coat. Figures.
Dean reaches for Cas, pulls him to him in a tight and fast hug. Whispers, "Damn right you should have called. You're a dick, you know that right?"
"I apologize," Cas says as Dean pulls away. He looks contrite, regretful almost.
"Well," Dean huffs a laugh. "You don't call, you don't write. A guy could start to feel unloved."
"We wouldn't want you to feel unloved," Castiel says, his voice a dry rumble, the humor evident. Dean grins because damn if Castiel isn't learning sarcasm.
Dean looks Cas over again, shaking his head. "I can honestly say you're the last person I was expecting to see today. Out here of all places. What's up?"
"Can we take this inside?" Castiel asks, his hand falling warm and heavy on Dean's shoulder, his grip tightening. "You're shivering."
Dean laughs again because he's not sure if he's shivering because of the cold or because of Castiel, but he nods and lets Cas lead the way back towards the cabin. When Dean glances behind them for one more look at the Impala, he notices how their shoes have left hollow grooves in the snow. Dean's been alone for a while now, and it's a strange sight to see: his footprints side-by-side Castiel's.
:::
The lit fireplace casts an orange glow in the main room. The fire's giving off good heat; Castiel's little spell is probably enough to keep it roaring without continuously feeding it new logs throughout the evening.
Dean takes his boots and socks off, moving slow since his body still feels numb and gummy with a deep-seated cold. He puts on a couple of pairs of clean woolen socks, fresh t-shirts and flannel, deciding against too many extra layers in case...well, just in case.
Cas sits in front of the fire, eyes steady on the flames, hands clasped in front of him like he's in silent prayer or meditation. He hasn't said a word since they walked into the cabin, and Dean senses that there's something weighing heavy on his mind.
Dean walks closer, deciding in that moment to sit down beside Cas, to watch the flames dance, skip across the stone. Dean closes and opens his fists over and over, trying to get blood circling through his fingers. The room is cast mostly in shadows, lit only by dim firelight. Its soft, muted glow settles on Cas, illuminating his pale skin; he's ghostly in the half-light.
Dean wants to say something to break the ice but he's not sure if he should. How's the civil war going? or Why are you even here? or What the fuck does heaven want now? or Are you okay? Really? or Can you help me find a way to save Sam? or You're just missing my pretty face, right? or How long can you stay? Thing is, Dean's shit at talking these days; he hasn't spoken much since Sam went into the cage.
Dean leans back against his hands, sighs heavily as he tilts his head to stare at the water-spotted ceiling. The cabin's been empty a long time, and everything's covered in a thick layer of dust, with ornately-spun cobwebs mounted in the corners. There's no power, no running water, but Dean's managed fine all week. The place has four walls, a roof, a fire to keep him warm, and ample amounts of solitude; really that's all he's been needing. Somewhere to get his head on right. Somewhere to get lost.
But with Cas here now, Dean's realizing just how lonely he's been. Maybe that's why he can't help what he does next. He reaches out. He places both his hands on Castiel's shoulder. Cas turns away from the fire, eyes widening at Dean's touch, gaze catching on Dean's own. For a moment Dean notices how the flames are reflected in Castiel's eyes, and he wants to crack a joke about how Castiel's eyes smolder like in all those cheesy Harlequin's he used to catch Sam reading. But Dean doesn't have the chance. Cas pulls him close, pulling him in, and Dean goes because Cas is warmer than the fire. Dean goes because he's missed this, missed Cas, missed how they were together. Castiel has always been warmer than anyone Dean's ever touched, constantly radiating insane amounts of natural heat. Castiel once said it was from forcing his angelic grace into a human body.
Dean places his hands around Castiel's waist, presses his face against his neck. Castiel's arms wrap tighter around Dean, holding him there. Dean breathes and settles close, feeling a wet heat against his eyes. Shit. Dean might be shaking, but he's not sure. He might even be crying, but he'd never admit that. Cas has already seen him at his worst, as damaged as Dean's ever been. Truth is, Cas is the only one Dean's ever broken down in front of outside of family. And for a moment Dean remembers what it's like to have family, to give someone comfort, to receive it in turn. It's a heady feeling.
Dean shudders, and Cas rakes his hands up and down Dean's back. Dean presses his mouth against the skin along Castiel's neck, his chapped lips scraping over the warm flesh. He lets his lips linger there for a long moment before opening his mouth, letting his tongue taste. Castiel whimpers, grips him tighter. Dean whimpers right back; it's been so fucking long, too goddamn long. His hands fist and tangle in Castiel's shirt and coat, tugging, pulling, ripping. Castiel pulls his head back and Dean's about to yank him forward again but Cas beats him to it. Castiel takes Dean's head between his two hands and closes the distance, pressing lips against lips.
Dean falls forward, eager to taste Castiel again after so long, his tongue probing deep into the warmth of his mouth. Sloppy and graceless, Castiel leans over Dean, hands holding his face, claiming his mouth with kiss after kiss. Rough and needy, it's a heated mix of clashing lips, tongues, and teeth. Dean groans into it, his head spinning, his body quaking, and his hands fumbling in Castiel's coat as he tries to hold on. Dean just needs to hold on.
:::
In the late evening, they stand together for a while under the washed-out sky, watching the snowfall. It's starting to come down faster and faster, thick enough to make it impossible to see far, a whiteness that blankets everything. There are a few times Dean is positive Cas is making the flakes spin a certain way, move like an intricate ballet dance right in front of their eyes. Showoff.
"It's quite beautiful," Castiel says after a time, his eyes roaming around the clearing before settling back on Dean. His words come out on a steamy cloud.
"It's definitely something." Dean grins, stepping closer so that he can dust flakes from Castiel's hair. They catch in Castiel's lashes again, melting when they fall down his cheek. They look like tears.
Castiel mimics Dean's action, running his own thumb along the side of Dean's eye, brushing away the flakes clinging to his long lashes. Dean feels ridiculous; no, he feels like his heart is about ready to climb out of his chest and offer itself up to Castiel. But he doesn't tell Cas to stop, to go. Dean simply closes his eyes, tries to slow his rushing blood while Cas slides his long fingers over Dean's cheek to his mouth, trails them across Dean's lips, following the curve of Dean's smile.
When Cas moves his hand from his face, Dean's sorry to see it go. Dean turns to watch as Cas thrusts his arms out in front of him, putting his hands palm-side up as if trying to catch a few flakes.
"No, Cas," Dean says, grinning, feeling warm despite the deep chill. "Like this." Dean leans his head back, sticks out his tongue, and captures the cool flakes that way.
From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Cas following his actions. His moon-pale face turns upward, his mouth opens wide, and his long tongue sticks out like he's trying to taste the whole damn sky.
The snow falls harder, the trees shake with the wind, and Castiel starts to spin around and around as he attempts to get more flakes in his mouth. It's one the most ridiculous sights Dean's ever seen. Seconds later, minutes, maybe hours, Dean's laughing so hard his whole body shakes. He's laughing so hard he could cry.
:::
Dean sets candles in all the shadowed-darkened corners of the cabin. The fire crackles and hisses in the fireplace as Castiel adds another log, casts a second spell. When Castiel stands up, he's backlit by the amber firelight, and for a moment Dean's reminded of what he is, of all that they have gone through. Castiel surrounded by fire is a sight he's never forgotten.
The flames flicker, and Dean turns away, shakes his head. He doesn't speak as he goes about lighting the candles and pushing the mattress he's been sleeping on closer to the fireplace. The mattress is musty and old, sagging with dust and age, but it's good enough. The temperature's dropping, and Dean takes out his extra sleeping bags, wool blankets and quilts, readying himself for another cold night.
Dean hunkers down beside Cas on the mattress in front of the fire, and they're quiet together for a while, watching the fire lick at the logs, watching the wax drip down the candles, watching each other. Dean can hear the storm pounding fresh snow against the cabin, the wind whistling through the cracks in the window frames.
"Dean," Castiel says, and his words are heavy, strained almost. His gaze roves over Dean's face, seeking.
Dean swallows, thick and slow. "Don't," he says because he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to hear.
A draft sends the candles' flames dancing, throwing shadows across the walls, across Castiel's face. Castiel sits, silhouetted against the fire, somber and still as he continues to regard Dean.
"I tried to come sooner," Castiel admits, ignoring Dean's lonely protest, and Dean has the urge to punch him in the face just for that. "I was unable to --"
"Fuck it," Dean interrupts, and he kisses Cas just to shut him up, because that's how it's always been with them. Punches turned to bloody kisses, arguments turned to fast fucking. Words were never easy, but this always was.
Dean's hands wind in the strands of Castiel's snow-damp hair, tugging his head closer as he chases his wet tongue, laps at his stubbled jaw. Dean kisses Cas until they're both pulling apart for air, gasping into each other's mouths, eyes locked and pleading.
"I'm so sorry, Dean," Castiel says, voice gone hoarse and rough, and Dean doesn't even know what the fuck he's apologizing for right now. All he knows is that Cas's mouth is moving slick and hot against his neck, his teeth biting down, bringing a sweet sting of pain Dean loves and wants more of.
When Castiel's hands fumble and catch in Dean's flannel shirt, Dean moves back, throwing off the flannel and then yanking his layers of t-shirts up and over his head. He laughs when he gets his arms stuck along the way, and Castiel has to pull him free. Dean sucks in a breath as the cool air in the cabin raises gooseflesh along his skin. They're rushing then, breathless as they both work Dean free of his jeans and boxers, and then move on to discard Castiel's clothes. This is an old, familiar dance between them.
Before Dean knows it, they're both naked, skin glowing soft in the firelight. Castiel pushes Dean down on the mattress, climbs on top of him and straddles his waist.
Dean lies back, smirks. "Hi."
"Hello," Castiel says with a soft quirk of his mouth. His eyes are bluer than ever, intense in a way Dean has never been able to handle.
"Come here," Dean says, reaching up and tilting Castiel's head down a little so that he can mouth along the edge of his chin. Castiel leans in, fingers tracing up and down Dean's arm before he places a hand over his faded brand. He grips Dean tight there and Dean moans, bucking up, a sweet, hot fire spreading through his blood.
"Castiel," Dean breathes, the angel's full name catching in his throat. It's sharp and raw; a summoning.
"Tell me what you need," Cas says, words like liquid heat, voice like gravel.
Dean licks his lips and whispers, "I need you." The confession comes out softer than he intends, hesitant and quiet almost; like a secret, like their secret.
Castiel lowers his head and kisses Dean's mouth, rolling them together chest to chest, cock to cock. He presses Dean deeper and deeper into the mattress, and Dean lets his head fall back, arching up as Castiel's lips move soft and wet against his throat, across his collarbone, and down his chest to his belly.
Dean drags his heels up the mattress, lets his legs fall open, and closes his eyes. Waits for Cas to take, to move. Castiel settles between Dean's spread legs, kisses along Dean's sensitive inner thighs, fingers running gentle strokes up and down Dean's thickening cock. Dean shudders, keens, blood boiling in anticipation. He sucks in a breath as Castiel cups and massages his balls before placing spit-slick fingers against Dean's hole, spreading him open.
"Fuck, yeah," Dean pants. "That's it, Cas."
Outside, the wind gusts through the trees, moaning along with Dean's own sounds. Eyes still closed, Dean takes low, careful breaths as Cas works him open. He gets lost in the slow burn of Castiel's long, practiced fingers sliding inside of him, the weight of his body pressing down against him.
"More Cas," Dean hisses, raising his hips, widening his legs as Cas pushes in deeper, his knuckles riding along the cleft of Dean's ass. Dean closes his eyes again, exhaling when he finally feels the head of Castiel's cock move gently against his hole. Oh, god. He tilts his hips up, wanting more, begging for it.
"Fuck me," Dean groans, shameless, body arching up, fists squeezing the blanket tight, moaning desperately as Castiel slides right in.
Cas takes his time though, drawing this out like he's trying to memorize every second, like fucking Dean's something worth savoring. Dean's whimpering, cursing Castiel's name over and over again by the time he finally presses all the way inside, his lean body rocking into Dean, fucking into him with long, steady strokes.
Dean urges Cas on, rolling his hips, fingers clawing into his back. Cas seems to understand, lifting one of Dean's legs, bending Dean nearly in half as he thrusts inside with a hard snap of his hips, his balls slapping loud against Dean's ass as he goes harder, goes deeper. Cas fucks Dean like Dean's been begging for, wild and manic, fearless.
"Dean," Cas breathes, bending over him, pushing his leg even higher as he moves to nip along Dean's neck. He whispers, breath hushed and hot, into Dean's ears: "I want you to still feel me after I'm gone."
"God," Dean chokes out as Cas thrusts harder, setting a new, devastating rhythm that has Dean's body scooting up the mattress. Something inside of Dean throbs and aches, sends him shaking with a fierce pleasure that winds through his entire body. Castiel fucks Dean until this is all Dean knows: the thick, hard perfect slide of Castiel's cock, the stretch and burn of his every shift. Castiel fucks Dean until everything else disappears.
Dean's lost in warm skin, warm hands, warm touch. Castiel is hot like the fire, burning Dean up from the inside out. Another hard push, and Dean's breaking apart, falling to pieces. A slow ripple of heat moves through his body, catching like wildfire. Castiel speeds up, pumping faster, hitting deeper, until they're both drowning in each other, coming apart with a mirrored cry.
Dean kisses Cas then, needing to feel anchored to this world again, anchored to something real, something more than his memories. Needing to feel there's something still worth fighting for.
:::
The cabin's dark, the fire's dying, and the last lit candle is threatening to flicker out, push their world into darkness. Dean can hear the storm pressing against the windows, the old cabin creaking and shaking under the weight of it. He shifts onto his side, his hand resting on Castiel's hip. Propping his head up with his free hand, Dean smiles at Castiel.
"I can't stay," Castiel says, eyes shifting down, voice somber. "Heaven's never faced a threat as it does right now. If there was any other way..."
"I know," Dean says, because this is something he's always known. They look at each other for a long moment before drifting into silence again.
Dean studies Castiel's face, memorizing the soft features of the vessel Castiel's made his permanent home on earth. His lean, naked body is bathed in firelight, gone orange-golden and ethereal. Dean's fingers move up and down Castiel's belly, tracing the line of dark hair under his navel, before climbing further up to settle over his heart.
"So," Dean says, grinning wide, remembering something. "I guess I should wish you a very Merry Christmas."
"I admit," Castiel says, eyes smiling, "Even though your traditions rarely get their histories right, of all of your human holidays, this one is my favorite."
"Is that why you came?" Dean asks, lips quirking. "Wanted to stock up on gingerbread men?"
Cas looks at him directly, the fire reflected in his eyes. "I didn't want you to be alone," he admits, voice gone soft.
Dean swallows, looks away. Shrugs uncomfortably. "You're telling me Santa decided to give me my own angel for Christmas?" he laughs, trying for something light.
Castiel frowns, head tilting. "Surely you don't believe in a Santa --"
"Cas," Dean says, chuckling, pulling him close, and running his lips against his ear lobe. "I didn't use to believe in angels. I'm okay with being proven wrong," he says. Then Dean leans over and kisses the perturbed look right off of Castiel's face.
The fire crackles and pops as the remaining pieces of wood catch and burn. Dean turns to pull a quilt over the top of them, wanting to keep the cold at bay as long as he can. They curl together under the pile of blankets, their legs sliding alongside each other, fingers locking. For a while Dean kisses Castiel to the sounds of fire and ice warring in the background. They don't speak anymore. Not about the war, about their past, about all they've lost. They communicate through movement, through touch, relearning each other in the dark.
Dean knows that this is only a temporary lull in the storm. In a few hours Cas will be gone, a solider still caught in a war Dean's no longer leading. In a few days Dean will be on the road again looking for another hunt, another town, another way to free Sam.
But for now Dean will take this, remember this, hold on to it during the dark days ahead. Sometimes the best gifts are the ones you never see coming.
-fin-
Author: nyoka @ chocolate_muse
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: language; sexuality; AU post-5x22
Count: ~4,200
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I own nothing and no one.
Notes: This story goes AU post-5x22 with the premise that Dean has gone off to hunt alone. Written for oddlyfamiliar for the deancas_xmas Secret Santa Exchange, and originally posted here. Many thanks to micalaux for the beta.
Summary: Sometimes the best gifts are the ones you never see coming.
:::
This place is called White Earth and Dean has never known a more apt name.
Through the frosted glass of the window, he watches the morning light glint off of the miles of swollen, bleached ground outside. The surrounding field beyond the cabin is covered in a blanket of fresh snow and ice, the remnants of last night's storm.
Dean found this cabin two weeks ago while on a hunt deep in the wilds of Minnesota. The place is old, but dry and well-constructed; it smells like dust and earth, but it's all he needs to rough out a few days in the middle of nowhere, recoup from one too many hunts gone bad. It's been a long year.
Dean digs his fingers into the wool blanket he wrapped around his shoulders to stave off the biting chill; he bunches up the fabric in his fists before smoothing it back down, repeats the action several times. Outside the snow falls as thick as rain, relentless and steady. It seems to stamp out all color, leaving behind an empty white canvas Dean has the urge to color in.
The wind beats a rhythm against the cabin's log exterior, while big, fat flakes clink against the window, clinging to the pane for a moment before melting away. The snowfall is mesmerizing to watch, and Dean has to shake himself out of a trance more than once. He spent much of yesterday by the window witnessing winter's final coup d'état.
Dean lets the dingy curtain fall back in place, turns away. Today he needs to dig his girl out, buried out there all alone under a foot or more of snow. Maybe he'll even cut down a small tree, put a slab of ham on the woodstove fire, crack open a bottle of whiskey. He checked the calendar this morning. It's Christmas Eve.
:::
The snow stops sometime during the early evening. Dean puts on his heaviest jacket, cap, scarf, gloves, and boots before he heads out. The woods around the cabin are quiet, asleep under inches of ice. Shovel in hand, Dean trudges through the mush, ducking his head against the bitter wind that manages to cut through his multiple layers. Thick gusts send the snow swirling in little cyclones. Dean blinks against the light; the snowy terrain is a blinding white that pains his eyes.
It's so cold it almost hurts to breathe, but he finds the Impala and manages to get her cleared in good time. Mounds of snow pile up around him, and Dean gives into the memory of all those Christmases with Sam before he left for Stanford, building snowmen and waging snowball fights. Sipping hot cocoa while burrowing under layers and layers of blankets when Dad couldn't afford to pay the heating bill. It's been half a year since Sam fell into the Pit, half a year since Dean started hunting on his own. Half a year of living with his brother's sacrifice. The wound is still fresh, deepening as the days pass.
Dean pushes down the thoughts, pushes them far away; he can't afford to break down, let the memories and pain take hold of him. He can't afford to live in a hell of his own making again. He can't afford to break. Not yet, not here.
Dean shudders, shaking snow from his coat. He sets about heating the car up, then scraping ice off the Impala's windshield. He's been taking it one day at a time, finding ways to take care of himself, learning to navigate one season then the next and the next.
Dean's learning by doing, which is the only way he's really ever learned anything.
:::
Dean's walking back toward the cabin when he sees it. A blur of movement ahead in the trees, a dark shadow against the bone-white sky and earth. Dean's got his gun out in seconds, training it on the figure making its way up the snow-packed drive. He lowers it when he recognizes the fluid movements, the messy attire. Shit.
"Cas?" Dean calls, the sound of the angel's name punching out into the deep silence, echoing throughout the clearing. Dean's own shocked voice feels foreign to him, unrecognizable.
Castiel pauses mid-motion, the wind whipping at his trench coat, sending it fluttering behind him like wings. "Hello, Dean," he says, head tilting. There's a soft smile on his face. Warmth in his expression.
Dean makes a noise deep in his throat, breath forcing its way out of his lungs as he moves towards Castiel, his boots crunching loud over the snow and ice. Cas starts walking again as well, and they close the distance between each other in seconds. Dean's eyes skirt over Castiel, checking to see if he's okay, if he's the same. It's only been a few months, but in some ways it feels like a lifetime. Nothing's changed though: same dark, windblown hair, rumpled dress shirt, and loosened tie.
The wind tousles Castiel's hair as he turns to stare at Dean. He's outlined by the darkening horizon, body held rigid. "Perhaps I should have called," Castiel says, his voice almost thoughtful. He watches Dean for a long moment, and Dean wants to laugh, wants to knock him the fuck out, but he's momentarily caught off guard by the tiny icicles on Castiel's eyebrows and lashes, the ruby flush to his cheeks. It's freezing out here, and Castiel's feathery ass is running around in just a trench coat. Figures.
Dean reaches for Cas, pulls him to him in a tight and fast hug. Whispers, "Damn right you should have called. You're a dick, you know that right?"
"I apologize," Cas says as Dean pulls away. He looks contrite, regretful almost.
"Well," Dean huffs a laugh. "You don't call, you don't write. A guy could start to feel unloved."
"We wouldn't want you to feel unloved," Castiel says, his voice a dry rumble, the humor evident. Dean grins because damn if Castiel isn't learning sarcasm.
Dean looks Cas over again, shaking his head. "I can honestly say you're the last person I was expecting to see today. Out here of all places. What's up?"
"Can we take this inside?" Castiel asks, his hand falling warm and heavy on Dean's shoulder, his grip tightening. "You're shivering."
Dean laughs again because he's not sure if he's shivering because of the cold or because of Castiel, but he nods and lets Cas lead the way back towards the cabin. When Dean glances behind them for one more look at the Impala, he notices how their shoes have left hollow grooves in the snow. Dean's been alone for a while now, and it's a strange sight to see: his footprints side-by-side Castiel's.
:::
The lit fireplace casts an orange glow in the main room. The fire's giving off good heat; Castiel's little spell is probably enough to keep it roaring without continuously feeding it new logs throughout the evening.
Dean takes his boots and socks off, moving slow since his body still feels numb and gummy with a deep-seated cold. He puts on a couple of pairs of clean woolen socks, fresh t-shirts and flannel, deciding against too many extra layers in case...well, just in case.
Cas sits in front of the fire, eyes steady on the flames, hands clasped in front of him like he's in silent prayer or meditation. He hasn't said a word since they walked into the cabin, and Dean senses that there's something weighing heavy on his mind.
Dean walks closer, deciding in that moment to sit down beside Cas, to watch the flames dance, skip across the stone. Dean closes and opens his fists over and over, trying to get blood circling through his fingers. The room is cast mostly in shadows, lit only by dim firelight. Its soft, muted glow settles on Cas, illuminating his pale skin; he's ghostly in the half-light.
Dean wants to say something to break the ice but he's not sure if he should. How's the civil war going? or Why are you even here? or What the fuck does heaven want now? or Are you okay? Really? or Can you help me find a way to save Sam? or You're just missing my pretty face, right? or How long can you stay? Thing is, Dean's shit at talking these days; he hasn't spoken much since Sam went into the cage.
Dean leans back against his hands, sighs heavily as he tilts his head to stare at the water-spotted ceiling. The cabin's been empty a long time, and everything's covered in a thick layer of dust, with ornately-spun cobwebs mounted in the corners. There's no power, no running water, but Dean's managed fine all week. The place has four walls, a roof, a fire to keep him warm, and ample amounts of solitude; really that's all he's been needing. Somewhere to get his head on right. Somewhere to get lost.
But with Cas here now, Dean's realizing just how lonely he's been. Maybe that's why he can't help what he does next. He reaches out. He places both his hands on Castiel's shoulder. Cas turns away from the fire, eyes widening at Dean's touch, gaze catching on Dean's own. For a moment Dean notices how the flames are reflected in Castiel's eyes, and he wants to crack a joke about how Castiel's eyes smolder like in all those cheesy Harlequin's he used to catch Sam reading. But Dean doesn't have the chance. Cas pulls him close, pulling him in, and Dean goes because Cas is warmer than the fire. Dean goes because he's missed this, missed Cas, missed how they were together. Castiel has always been warmer than anyone Dean's ever touched, constantly radiating insane amounts of natural heat. Castiel once said it was from forcing his angelic grace into a human body.
Dean places his hands around Castiel's waist, presses his face against his neck. Castiel's arms wrap tighter around Dean, holding him there. Dean breathes and settles close, feeling a wet heat against his eyes. Shit. Dean might be shaking, but he's not sure. He might even be crying, but he'd never admit that. Cas has already seen him at his worst, as damaged as Dean's ever been. Truth is, Cas is the only one Dean's ever broken down in front of outside of family. And for a moment Dean remembers what it's like to have family, to give someone comfort, to receive it in turn. It's a heady feeling.
Dean shudders, and Cas rakes his hands up and down Dean's back. Dean presses his mouth against the skin along Castiel's neck, his chapped lips scraping over the warm flesh. He lets his lips linger there for a long moment before opening his mouth, letting his tongue taste. Castiel whimpers, grips him tighter. Dean whimpers right back; it's been so fucking long, too goddamn long. His hands fist and tangle in Castiel's shirt and coat, tugging, pulling, ripping. Castiel pulls his head back and Dean's about to yank him forward again but Cas beats him to it. Castiel takes Dean's head between his two hands and closes the distance, pressing lips against lips.
Dean falls forward, eager to taste Castiel again after so long, his tongue probing deep into the warmth of his mouth. Sloppy and graceless, Castiel leans over Dean, hands holding his face, claiming his mouth with kiss after kiss. Rough and needy, it's a heated mix of clashing lips, tongues, and teeth. Dean groans into it, his head spinning, his body quaking, and his hands fumbling in Castiel's coat as he tries to hold on. Dean just needs to hold on.
:::
In the late evening, they stand together for a while under the washed-out sky, watching the snowfall. It's starting to come down faster and faster, thick enough to make it impossible to see far, a whiteness that blankets everything. There are a few times Dean is positive Cas is making the flakes spin a certain way, move like an intricate ballet dance right in front of their eyes. Showoff.
"It's quite beautiful," Castiel says after a time, his eyes roaming around the clearing before settling back on Dean. His words come out on a steamy cloud.
"It's definitely something." Dean grins, stepping closer so that he can dust flakes from Castiel's hair. They catch in Castiel's lashes again, melting when they fall down his cheek. They look like tears.
Castiel mimics Dean's action, running his own thumb along the side of Dean's eye, brushing away the flakes clinging to his long lashes. Dean feels ridiculous; no, he feels like his heart is about ready to climb out of his chest and offer itself up to Castiel. But he doesn't tell Cas to stop, to go. Dean simply closes his eyes, tries to slow his rushing blood while Cas slides his long fingers over Dean's cheek to his mouth, trails them across Dean's lips, following the curve of Dean's smile.
When Cas moves his hand from his face, Dean's sorry to see it go. Dean turns to watch as Cas thrusts his arms out in front of him, putting his hands palm-side up as if trying to catch a few flakes.
"No, Cas," Dean says, grinning, feeling warm despite the deep chill. "Like this." Dean leans his head back, sticks out his tongue, and captures the cool flakes that way.
From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Cas following his actions. His moon-pale face turns upward, his mouth opens wide, and his long tongue sticks out like he's trying to taste the whole damn sky.
The snow falls harder, the trees shake with the wind, and Castiel starts to spin around and around as he attempts to get more flakes in his mouth. It's one the most ridiculous sights Dean's ever seen. Seconds later, minutes, maybe hours, Dean's laughing so hard his whole body shakes. He's laughing so hard he could cry.
:::
Dean sets candles in all the shadowed-darkened corners of the cabin. The fire crackles and hisses in the fireplace as Castiel adds another log, casts a second spell. When Castiel stands up, he's backlit by the amber firelight, and for a moment Dean's reminded of what he is, of all that they have gone through. Castiel surrounded by fire is a sight he's never forgotten.
The flames flicker, and Dean turns away, shakes his head. He doesn't speak as he goes about lighting the candles and pushing the mattress he's been sleeping on closer to the fireplace. The mattress is musty and old, sagging with dust and age, but it's good enough. The temperature's dropping, and Dean takes out his extra sleeping bags, wool blankets and quilts, readying himself for another cold night.
Dean hunkers down beside Cas on the mattress in front of the fire, and they're quiet together for a while, watching the fire lick at the logs, watching the wax drip down the candles, watching each other. Dean can hear the storm pounding fresh snow against the cabin, the wind whistling through the cracks in the window frames.
"Dean," Castiel says, and his words are heavy, strained almost. His gaze roves over Dean's face, seeking.
Dean swallows, thick and slow. "Don't," he says because he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to hear.
A draft sends the candles' flames dancing, throwing shadows across the walls, across Castiel's face. Castiel sits, silhouetted against the fire, somber and still as he continues to regard Dean.
"I tried to come sooner," Castiel admits, ignoring Dean's lonely protest, and Dean has the urge to punch him in the face just for that. "I was unable to --"
"Fuck it," Dean interrupts, and he kisses Cas just to shut him up, because that's how it's always been with them. Punches turned to bloody kisses, arguments turned to fast fucking. Words were never easy, but this always was.
Dean's hands wind in the strands of Castiel's snow-damp hair, tugging his head closer as he chases his wet tongue, laps at his stubbled jaw. Dean kisses Cas until they're both pulling apart for air, gasping into each other's mouths, eyes locked and pleading.
"I'm so sorry, Dean," Castiel says, voice gone hoarse and rough, and Dean doesn't even know what the fuck he's apologizing for right now. All he knows is that Cas's mouth is moving slick and hot against his neck, his teeth biting down, bringing a sweet sting of pain Dean loves and wants more of.
When Castiel's hands fumble and catch in Dean's flannel shirt, Dean moves back, throwing off the flannel and then yanking his layers of t-shirts up and over his head. He laughs when he gets his arms stuck along the way, and Castiel has to pull him free. Dean sucks in a breath as the cool air in the cabin raises gooseflesh along his skin. They're rushing then, breathless as they both work Dean free of his jeans and boxers, and then move on to discard Castiel's clothes. This is an old, familiar dance between them.
Before Dean knows it, they're both naked, skin glowing soft in the firelight. Castiel pushes Dean down on the mattress, climbs on top of him and straddles his waist.
Dean lies back, smirks. "Hi."
"Hello," Castiel says with a soft quirk of his mouth. His eyes are bluer than ever, intense in a way Dean has never been able to handle.
"Come here," Dean says, reaching up and tilting Castiel's head down a little so that he can mouth along the edge of his chin. Castiel leans in, fingers tracing up and down Dean's arm before he places a hand over his faded brand. He grips Dean tight there and Dean moans, bucking up, a sweet, hot fire spreading through his blood.
"Castiel," Dean breathes, the angel's full name catching in his throat. It's sharp and raw; a summoning.
"Tell me what you need," Cas says, words like liquid heat, voice like gravel.
Dean licks his lips and whispers, "I need you." The confession comes out softer than he intends, hesitant and quiet almost; like a secret, like their secret.
Castiel lowers his head and kisses Dean's mouth, rolling them together chest to chest, cock to cock. He presses Dean deeper and deeper into the mattress, and Dean lets his head fall back, arching up as Castiel's lips move soft and wet against his throat, across his collarbone, and down his chest to his belly.
Dean drags his heels up the mattress, lets his legs fall open, and closes his eyes. Waits for Cas to take, to move. Castiel settles between Dean's spread legs, kisses along Dean's sensitive inner thighs, fingers running gentle strokes up and down Dean's thickening cock. Dean shudders, keens, blood boiling in anticipation. He sucks in a breath as Castiel cups and massages his balls before placing spit-slick fingers against Dean's hole, spreading him open.
"Fuck, yeah," Dean pants. "That's it, Cas."
Outside, the wind gusts through the trees, moaning along with Dean's own sounds. Eyes still closed, Dean takes low, careful breaths as Cas works him open. He gets lost in the slow burn of Castiel's long, practiced fingers sliding inside of him, the weight of his body pressing down against him.
"More Cas," Dean hisses, raising his hips, widening his legs as Cas pushes in deeper, his knuckles riding along the cleft of Dean's ass. Dean closes his eyes again, exhaling when he finally feels the head of Castiel's cock move gently against his hole. Oh, god. He tilts his hips up, wanting more, begging for it.
"Fuck me," Dean groans, shameless, body arching up, fists squeezing the blanket tight, moaning desperately as Castiel slides right in.
Cas takes his time though, drawing this out like he's trying to memorize every second, like fucking Dean's something worth savoring. Dean's whimpering, cursing Castiel's name over and over again by the time he finally presses all the way inside, his lean body rocking into Dean, fucking into him with long, steady strokes.
Dean urges Cas on, rolling his hips, fingers clawing into his back. Cas seems to understand, lifting one of Dean's legs, bending Dean nearly in half as he thrusts inside with a hard snap of his hips, his balls slapping loud against Dean's ass as he goes harder, goes deeper. Cas fucks Dean like Dean's been begging for, wild and manic, fearless.
"Dean," Cas breathes, bending over him, pushing his leg even higher as he moves to nip along Dean's neck. He whispers, breath hushed and hot, into Dean's ears: "I want you to still feel me after I'm gone."
"God," Dean chokes out as Cas thrusts harder, setting a new, devastating rhythm that has Dean's body scooting up the mattress. Something inside of Dean throbs and aches, sends him shaking with a fierce pleasure that winds through his entire body. Castiel fucks Dean until this is all Dean knows: the thick, hard perfect slide of Castiel's cock, the stretch and burn of his every shift. Castiel fucks Dean until everything else disappears.
Dean's lost in warm skin, warm hands, warm touch. Castiel is hot like the fire, burning Dean up from the inside out. Another hard push, and Dean's breaking apart, falling to pieces. A slow ripple of heat moves through his body, catching like wildfire. Castiel speeds up, pumping faster, hitting deeper, until they're both drowning in each other, coming apart with a mirrored cry.
Dean kisses Cas then, needing to feel anchored to this world again, anchored to something real, something more than his memories. Needing to feel there's something still worth fighting for.
:::
The cabin's dark, the fire's dying, and the last lit candle is threatening to flicker out, push their world into darkness. Dean can hear the storm pressing against the windows, the old cabin creaking and shaking under the weight of it. He shifts onto his side, his hand resting on Castiel's hip. Propping his head up with his free hand, Dean smiles at Castiel.
"I can't stay," Castiel says, eyes shifting down, voice somber. "Heaven's never faced a threat as it does right now. If there was any other way..."
"I know," Dean says, because this is something he's always known. They look at each other for a long moment before drifting into silence again.
Dean studies Castiel's face, memorizing the soft features of the vessel Castiel's made his permanent home on earth. His lean, naked body is bathed in firelight, gone orange-golden and ethereal. Dean's fingers move up and down Castiel's belly, tracing the line of dark hair under his navel, before climbing further up to settle over his heart.
"So," Dean says, grinning wide, remembering something. "I guess I should wish you a very Merry Christmas."
"I admit," Castiel says, eyes smiling, "Even though your traditions rarely get their histories right, of all of your human holidays, this one is my favorite."
"Is that why you came?" Dean asks, lips quirking. "Wanted to stock up on gingerbread men?"
Cas looks at him directly, the fire reflected in his eyes. "I didn't want you to be alone," he admits, voice gone soft.
Dean swallows, looks away. Shrugs uncomfortably. "You're telling me Santa decided to give me my own angel for Christmas?" he laughs, trying for something light.
Castiel frowns, head tilting. "Surely you don't believe in a Santa --"
"Cas," Dean says, chuckling, pulling him close, and running his lips against his ear lobe. "I didn't use to believe in angels. I'm okay with being proven wrong," he says. Then Dean leans over and kisses the perturbed look right off of Castiel's face.
The fire crackles and pops as the remaining pieces of wood catch and burn. Dean turns to pull a quilt over the top of them, wanting to keep the cold at bay as long as he can. They curl together under the pile of blankets, their legs sliding alongside each other, fingers locking. For a while Dean kisses Castiel to the sounds of fire and ice warring in the background. They don't speak anymore. Not about the war, about their past, about all they've lost. They communicate through movement, through touch, relearning each other in the dark.
Dean knows that this is only a temporary lull in the storm. In a few hours Cas will be gone, a solider still caught in a war Dean's no longer leading. In a few days Dean will be on the road again looking for another hunt, another town, another way to free Sam.
But for now Dean will take this, remember this, hold on to it during the dark days ahead. Sometimes the best gifts are the ones you never see coming.
-fin-