SPN fic: Keeping the stars apart
Keeping the stars apart
Dean/Castiel, Sam, Jo, Bobby | NC-17 | 7,900 words | AU
a/n: Set in the syntax 'verse, which goes AU after 4x22. Title by ee cummings. Written for my kissbingo table, prompt: body: fingers, and for nyoka--this is either a late birthday present, an early birthday present, a winter present, or a just 'cause ♥. Thank you to smilla02 for the beta reading and suggestions.
Summary: After saving the world, what's next? Maybe Dean should be glad Cas wasn't full-tilt on an even crazier mission that made less sense.
He and Sam were just leaving Texas, Sam driving and the scent of the salt-and-burn still lingering in Dean's nose when his cell went off. It was Jo.
As Dean moved in his seat, sitting up straighter, Sam's gaze flickered from the road to him.
"Everything okay?" Dean said, without waiting for her to speak first. Jo rarely called only to say hey, how's it going?
She was super focused these days, and Dean was tempted to ask her sometime what did she have left to prove, who was she trying to prove it to. Jo'd helped put the devil back into his cage, after all, and she'd become a damn good hunter. But he hadn't asked, not wanting to get his head bitten off; she must have her own reasons.
"Fine," Jo said. "Got some news for you, though."
"Yeah?" Dean tried to ignore the way his stomach knotted. Nothing in Jo's tone sounded like a death notice call, but there was plenty of other bad crap that could happen besides that. Plenty.
"Just got off a hunt with your boyfriend," Jo said. The blare of a truck horn sounded in the background, the rattle of a big vehicle going by fast; she was probably at a rest stop somewhere. The wind made it hard to hear her voice.
"You hunted together? Is he okay?"
Turning towards the window, Dean ignored how Sam kept looking over at him. The Impala raced through flat country baked in harsh sunlight.
"He's okay. Thought you'd like to know."
"Thanks, Jo."
Another truck roared by in the background of her call. The line went silent and Jo said, unusually hesitant, "I know how hard it can be, trying to go off and do this by yourself, especially when you're new to the life."
"Yeah." Plus there was Castiel's bonus pack of issues, things most new hunters never had to think about, most humans never had to think about. Maybe Dean should be glad Cas wasn't full-tilt on some even crazier mission that made less sense.
He'd been worried that Cas was on the same spiral Dean had been on for a while after they'd put the devil back in his cage and saved the world. But eventually Dean got it, that wasn't what this was about; and Castiel was Castiel.
"Take care, Dean." Jo hung up before Dean could ask her what she and Cas had hunted, or tell her to watch after herself.
A few months after Cas leaves, Dean gets up in the middle of the night and walks down the stairs of the house he and Sam and Cas have been renting. He's wearing sweats and a t-shirt, a little chilly in his bare feet. The floorboards creak under his careful steps. Dean hasn't dreamed of Hell in a long time, and he's not as much of an insomniac as he once was, but sometimes he can't sleep anyway. Especially now--the mattress seems too big, serving as a reminder of what's missing. He tells himself at least he knows Castiel is out there, and at least since last check-in, safe. He remembers what Cas promised, and believes that he keeps his promises.
During the day it's easier to put it out of his mind, get lost in business as usual. There are monsters to hunt, cars to repair at his part-time job at the garage, things around the house that need attention.
Dean runs his fingers along the stair railing, where the paint's grown faded and chipped, exposing the wood beneath. Repairing the house and working on engines seems to calm him. It's a way to fix things that doesn't involve rock salt, blood, silver blades, or the sound of gunfire.
Six unusually vicious and powerful spirits once haunted the house. It took Sam, Dean, Cas, Jo and Ellen a weekend to track down their remains and clean all the ghosts out. The grateful owner, unable to sell because of the property's bad rep, agreed to rent it to Sam and Dean and Cas at half market rate. At first Dean thought it would be a few months while they rested up, the way Dad used to do it, before they went back to the usual living out of motel rooms, but then they stayed. And stayed.
He still feels the itch beneath his skin, the pull to be out on the road on the way to another hunt, but Dean has to admit he's grown to like the idea of a place to return to. The smells and sounds of it are growing familiar. Sam's coffee wafting up from the kitchen in the mornings, the sunny patch on the couch Cas likes to sit in while he reads, the rise and fall of Sam and Castiel's voices as they argue some point from an archaic book. Sometimes Jo crashes on the couch. Jo seems taller every time they see her, with a new scar and a new story to tell. Ellen's busy running her new bar, and seems to have accepted Jo's life is a cycle of wandering and hunting. Rufus shows up every so often as well, needing a place to sleep on his way to yet another hunt (or hide from the cops). Bobby built them a panic room in the basement. There's the sound of rain on the roof, the protection sigils Sam carved over all the doors and windows, Dean waking up with Cas in the bed next to him every morning.
At least he had Cas there as part of it for a while but Cas isn't there now and won't say when he'll be back yet. It doesn't hurt the way it did the first weeks of it, not because Dean's adjusted or resigned, but because it no longer seems like betrayal. Things Cas said, seeing him a few times on hunts, knowing that Castiel's powers were slowly fading--it made a weird kind of sense. Or it almost made sense, the full click of understanding hovering right at the edge of his brain, always elusive. Which is how it often worked with Castiel.
There's a light on in the living room. Sam's at the table, head bent over a couple of large books. When Dean's foot makes a board creak, Sam glances up and slides another book over the one he's been reading.
"Hey." Sam's voice is a little rough from tiredness.
"You can't sleep either?" Dean takes the chair opposite Sam.
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Not tonight, apparently."
"You still have those nightmares?"
"No." Sam lowers his hand. "Not for a long time. Every once in a while--sometimes I hear Lucifer whispering in my head while I sleep. But not much." His hand curls on the page of an old book full of symbols.
Dean reaches out and slides that book aside to reveal the law book Sam was reading when Dean interrupted. "Why're you hiding that?"
"I don't know," Sam says, his expression saying he really didn't, even if it was his idea. "Superstitious, maybe." He shrugs. "Like I don't want to jinx it. I don't want to start thinking hey maybe I could go back to school. Because there's always more shit coming." He leans forward, the lamp casting half his face into shadow. "You ever ask yourself, what's next?"
"Sure." Dean slouches in the chair and folds his arms against the cool air. "I think I should go get donuts for breakfast, I've got a lead on a possible case in Delaware, a string of gruesome deaths, I think there's something wrong with the hot water heater--"
"No, Dean, I mean what's next for us beyond tomorrow, next week, next year. What's next when we don't hunt?"
"Always going to be things to hunt."
"Yes, but is it the only thing? Most of my life I asked myself that, wanted more, wanted to put the life behind me. Then I stopped thinking about that. But I went from only wanting out to seeing no way out at all." Sam gives him a wry, sad smile. "There's got to be an in-between, right?"
"Maybe?"
Dean hasn't really thought about it. Living at the same address seems big enough; keeping everyone alive; the world not being ended.
"Think about it." Sam stares at him a little too hard. "Besides hunting, besides me and Cas and everyone being safe--if you aren't hunting, what do you want?" He turns his gaze back down to the law book.
Shit. Why did Sam always ask questions like this at two in the morning? Dean grabs a snack, goes back to bed, and doesn't fall asleep until just before dawn.
Dean waited for Sam outside a truck stop, leaning against the Impala. The sun reflected bright against the chrome and his skin was tight from the heat.
Sam appeared, crossing the parking lot holding two large sodas and a bag with their lunch. As he reached the car, Dean's cell phone blipped with a text message.
He stared at it for what seemed like a long while, until Sam cleared his throat.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah." Dean snapped his phone shut and put it away.
"Castiel?" Sam said, handing Dean a cup of soda.
Dean nodded. Sam leaned against the car beside him.
"He all right?"
"Yes. He texted me. He's in Chesapeake."
"You going to go check up on him?" Sam took a loud sip of soda through his straw.
"Maybe," Dean pressed the cold cup against his nose and chin.
This was easier than it'd been last month, and the month before that.
Sam kept his gaze on the parking lot and noisily drank his coke.
"All right, yes, I'm going to check up on him," Dean said, lowering his soda. "Honestly, Sam, I'm sick of this. Sure, he checks in regular--but who knows what could happen in between. At least he finally started telling me where he is." He took a few slow gulps of soda. "I get it, why he's doing this, has to go find himself, some woo-woo self-affirmation crap, saving people, killing all the things…I get it. I really do." He didn't have the same hard knot in his stomach he'd had for a while whenever he talked about this. The last few times he and Cas'd seen each other, it'd been easier, more comfortable, than the first few times after Cas had left.
"So, you want me to drive you to Chesapeake?" Sam offered.
"Nah." Dean ran his finger along the hot metal of the Impala's hood. "Just…drive me a few hours in that direction, and drop me at a bus station, okay?"
"Like nothing I've ever seen before," Bobby mutters into the phone when Dean checks in. "Barring Lucifer's apocalyptic boogie-woogie. Chimera outbreak, not something that happens every day. Eight of 'em? All in Arkansas?"
Sam's gone after the one in Batesville, Jo and Ellen are after the two tearing things up outside Memphis, and Dean winds up in a cave near Ouachita National Park.
It smells of mud and moss, the footing slippery, glow of his flashlight a pale white beam that creates too many shadows.
The chimera's tail snaps out of the darkness, catching Dean in the legs. He hits the wall, managing to keep a grip on his shotgun but drops his flashlight. Dean slides to the floor, spying the beam a few yards off.
Cursing, Dean raises his gun and slowly gets to his feet. The spots where he'll be bruised later flare with pain.
"Come at me again, you son of a bitch." He edges towards the flashlight, bends to pick it up, but the bastard tail-sweeps his ankles, knocking him to the ground again.
The tick of claws and a damp snuffling noise come from the darkness as Dean raises his gun, lying on his back.
A shotgun blast fills the cave only it's not from his gun. He hears an animalistic yelp and a groan behind him, and turns to catch the shape of the chimera staggering back.
Dean fires, finishing it off.
There's another shape in the cave, a man with a familiar shape to his head and shoulders and jacket. Dean snatches up his flashlight and gets to his feet quickly, aiming the beam right into the guy's face.
Castiel throws up his arm against the sudden light, shotgun in his other hand.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean takes a step closer, willing his heart to stop jumping around.
"Chimera outbreak," Cas says, his voice calm and even, as if it should be self-evident he'd be on the case.
He's not even out of breath. Screw him.
Of course, if they all knew about it, so could other hunters, including Castiel. "Well good for you," Dean says acidly, and thinks he sees Cas flinch. He doesn't mean to hurt and lash out like that, but Castiel left. It was his idea. Dean's not in the mood to make this easier for him.
Dean walks past Castiel, who's between Dean and the cave exit, deliberately knocking hard into his shoulder as he goes by. He'll take a break and then deal with the chimera's carcass.
Outside, the foggy day seems over-bright by contrast with the cave. Blinking, Dean takes a few gulps from his water bottle and puts his gun down carefully.
Cas is behind him without Dean hearing his steps following him out of the cave. Typical.
"You couldn't have texted me you were in the area?" Dean turns around. "Oh right, I forgot, you don't bother much with checking in. Captain Communication." He mock salutes.
Castiel's mouth goes into a tight line.
He seems bulkier than the last time Dean saw him. His hair's gotten longer and he's wearing the army jacket Dean bought him last winter, jeans that look almost as threadbare in the knees as Dean's, and heavy boots splattered with dried mud.
They glare at each other for a full minute, while Dean's heart keeps hammering too hard. He wonders if Cas can hear it.
Then Castiel's expression softens. He bends to lean his gun against a rock. "Perhaps I was too extreme in how much to keep away. I can check in more often."
"Don't strain yourself." Dean takes another swallow of water, pretending he doesn't see the flicker of pain in Castiel's face.
"Dean…"
"Hey, you do what you need to do. I'm not pining away by the phone like some sixteen year old girl."
"You understand why I'm doing this."
Dean takes a deep breath, fingers tightening around the water bottle. "I'm trying. At least…I get why you need to do it, I kind of do but." He has no idea what he was going to say after the last word, none at all--has some vague idea it has to do with the ache of hurt he's been carrying in his chest.
When Cas steps forward and grabs the collar of Dean's jacket, Dean's so startled that he drops the water bottle. Castiel shoves Dean back until he hits the mossy rock beside the cave entrance. His mouth covers Dean's, hard and wet and wanting, his hands moving up to cradle the back of Dean's head.
Dean kisses him back, sliding his hands up under the back of Castiel's jacket and shirt, needing to touch his skin, assure himself of his presence.
For a short time, they're pressed up against each other, and Dean's acutely aware of the hardness and give of Castiel's body, the lingering taste of coffee in his mouth, the way he smells of woods and mud and gun oil as well as a scent elusive and cool like stone that Dean's always associated with Cas, before they move apart.
The silence sinks between them.
Cas picks up his shotgun and walks away, vanishing into the fog.
Two days later, Dean gets a text from Cas letting him know he was okay.
Dean didn't bother getting a room. He had the taxi drop him right in front of the bar. Strings of lights hung from wooden pillars along the dock, reflecting on the water while boats gently rocked up and down. It wasn't yet midnight, the bar lit up, sounds of laughter and talk drifting out the propped-open door.
He stood on the walkway, duffel slung over his shoulder, too warm in his old army jacket. A place like this was going to be packed with college kids and tourists, too noisy and crowded. Sweat made the back of his neck itch, and he changed his grip on the duffel. Maybe Cas wanted to be left alone, and Dean didn't want to look like he was hovering, checking on him. Except it wasn't really about looking after Cas, not entirely, but Dean pushed that thought down. He'd think about that later, why he'd come there, why his chest had gone a little tight.
Maybe he'd just go, walk back to the bus stop, and take the long ride all the way home without saying anything.
Through the window, Dean spotted Castiel as he stepped into view, holding two glasses, turning to look back over his shoulder to listen to someone. He'd cut his hair shorter than Dean had ever seen it, almost as short as Dean's. His serious, attentive face broke into a grin in response to some remark a customer made before he moved again, lost to Dean's sight.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face. Somewhere Sam was laughing his head off and had no idea why. Dean must look like a complete idiot, too chicken shit to go in and say hey, I got your text and happened to be in the area… Yeah, right.
"Oh, what the hell," Dean said loudly (and it made him flinch less, using that curse, than it used to). A couple walking by gave him a wary glance.
He glared after them, gripped the handle of his duffel tighter, palms grown a little damp, and walked into the bar. The air outside had been relatively cooler, the inside of the bar warm and smelling of beer and fried seafood. Dean let it all wash over him a moment--Credence's "Travelin' Band" playing on the sound system, the clatter of conversation and laughter--before he stepped over to the bar and slid onto a stool. He dropped his duffel to the floor and folded his arms on the polished wood. Using a move he'd seen Sam do over and over (without realizing it half the time, Dean was pretty sure) he hunched his shoulders, ducking his head to stay unobtrusive.
Cas stands on the porch in a faded t-shirt, jeans, and thick-soled boots, a knapsack slung over his shoulder. He's been letting his hair grow longer, and his tousled head is a far cry from the more corporate-drone cut he wore for a long time.
"I'm trying to figure out who I am now. I need a sense of purpose, to be useful."
"You are useful," Dean says. Which isn't what he means to say but it's how it comes out.
"I have to do this." Cas hitches the strap of the knapsack more firmly upward, jaw going into a familiar, immovable line.
Dean wants to punch Cas in the face, but instead he lets him go, watches him walk towards the road while the bottom falls out of everything. He's hardly aware he's gripping the porch pillar so hard his fingernails leave marks in the paint.
His heart almost beats its way out of his chest when Cas stops at the mailbox, turns around, and returns to the porch, to the spot where Dean remains unmoving.
"I'll come back," Castiel says. "I promise," and he sounds as fierce as he always had when he could bend the laws of space and time.
He steps close and kisses Dean, tongue and warm breath and fingers digging hard into Dean's hair, pushes up against Dean like he's going to make damn sure Dean stays there and listens to what Cas is trying to say with his body.
Then he pulls back, goes down the porch steps again, and walks away. Dean doesn't stay to watch him leave this time.
He goes inside, pours himself a fifth of whiskey, and plays Metallica loud. Sam doesn't complain, and he brings Dean apple pie from the good bakery for dinner.
That night, Dean sprawls himself out on the bed, limbs in all directions, and screw Castiel anyway, maybe he'll go become a hippie, the jackass. At least now Dean has the mattress all to himself. Castiel's snores were really annoying anyway.
Dean watched Castiel work, the easy flick of his wrist as he cleaned up a spill, the quick dance of his hands as he poured drinks. The precision and speed was the same as every time Dean had watched Cas draw a sigil or do some angelic spell. It was also the way Cas made sandwiches, coffee, and spaghetti--Cas burned a lot of what he cooked, but when he didn't the food tasted good. He wore a black t-shirt, and Dean thought he seemed more muscular than the last time he'd seen him a few weeks ago.
A few people leaving the bar, locals not college students, called out to Castiel, one of the girls raising her hand to wave. They called him "Cal," the name Cas had adopted as his favorite alias; there were enough pockets of demons hanging around that the name Castiel was still dangerous. Cas called back to them, comfortable and easy.
He turned back to the bar and sliced a lime, a brisk flash of the knife blade. Dean watched his slim, strong fingers, noticing a tiny scar that was probably from cutting up limes, not hunting. At one time Cas could've self-healed it away. A cold knot formed in Dean's stomach at the small reminder.
Cas finished cutting the lime, scooped the pieces into a slot in the tray, glanced up, and caught Dean's gaze. The cold in Dean turned to heat. Castiel froze, then frowned a question. When Dean raised his hand, giving the signal for no emergency, everyone's fine, Castiel's eyes widened and he gave Dean a lopsided smile, a small glad quirk in the corner of his mouth, before he turned to take another drink order.
Dean busied himself eating the peanut and pretzel mix. After a few minutes, Cas poured a draft of Dean's favorite kind of beer and came over with it. He put a napkin down on the bar and rested the beer glass on it.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" Dean felt a little silly, playing this game with Cas, but it was easier than stumbling over words, the awkwardness.
He took a sip of beer and licked the foam off his lips, purposefully slow, and saw Cas watching his mouth and tongue as he did it.
"Not sure," Cas said, and leaned with his palm flat against the bar. "You seem vaguely familiar." He tilted his head to the side, his hand sliding closer to Dean's.
"I'm not from around here." Dean hooked his finger around Castiel's, and the warmth of Castiel's skin, damp from pouring drinks and slicing limes, made his dick twitch. "Need someone to show me around. What time do you get off?"
"In an hour."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," Cas said, no teasing in his voice this time.
Not long after Castiel's powers start to fail him, the three of them go after some demons just outside Lincoln.
Sam's bellowing the rituale romanum, one of the demons caught in their devil's trap in the abandoned diner, while the other two and Dean circle each other. Dean is waiting for the right moment to make his move when Cas lunges, putting his palm to the nearest demon's forehead. The demon dies with a white-red flash of light, the host slumping to the floor. Before Dean can do anything, Cas's hand goes out to the next demon.
Nothing happens. The demon smiles, slow and amused with Castiel's hand against his forehead. This isn't a demon of any great power, it's just a garden-variety henchperson, a follower of Lucifer's who's pissed off that the leader he idolized is once again imprisoned and out of the world. Castiel blinks, startled.
"Cas!" Dean yells a warning, as the demon spits out, "Castiel," and then Cas is flying across the diner.
It would've been the usual bruises and dings hunters take, except there's a broken, jagged edge of counter rim.
Dean jumps at the demon, stabbing him with Ruby's knife. Sam has just finished the rituale romanum, the demon vacating in a stream of smoke while the host, unconscious but hopefully still alive, slumps to the floor.
Running over to Castiel, who's slumped with back against the base of the counter, Dean kneels on the broken linoleum floor. He presses both hands against the wound in Castiel's side, trying to stop the flow of blood. Cas's mouth is shut tight with pain, but he doesn't make a sound, his blue eyes full of not fear exactly, but something like frustration and apology.
"His mojo's not working," Dean grates out as Sam kneels beside him. "He's not healing."
"Oh, shit, Castiel." Sam looks down, touches Cas on the shoulder. "Okay. It'll be okay."
Sam checks on the remaining host, and gives a thumbs up: alive. But there's no time to stay and help him through the disorientation and aftermath.
Sam and Dean help Cas to the Impala between them, his arms slung over their shoulders. Dean climbs in the back, keeping a towel pressed tight against the wound while he holds Cas against him and Sam breaks speed limits and run seven red lights getting them to the ER.
People in scrubs whisk Castiel away on a gurney. Dean sinks into a chair in the waiting room and wonders if he might puke, while Sam deals with all the check-in paperwork and shit like that. The hospital's fluorescent lights are too bright and nothing seems real.
They put Cas into ICU. Only family members can visit.
Dean's still got traces of Castiel's blood dried on his hands, and his knees are wobbly. He's about ready to shove past the nurse, rules or no rules, let the fucking orderlies drag him away if they want, but then Sam's hand closes tight around Dean's arm and he pushes forward.
"We're…his brothers," Sam says quickly.
The nurse purses her lips like she doesn't quite buy it, but she takes another look at their faces and lets them pass.
The clock over the bar went fifteen minutes past when Cas said he'd be getting off-shift; the place was giving little sign of quieting down before Cas finally nodded at Dean. Dean slid off the bar stool and went outside, leaving that same half-finished glass of beer. The water of the bay was dark and smooth. Dean waited, watching the boats, duffel heavy on his shoulder.
Cas was next to him before Dean realized he'd even approached, a knack the fallen angel still had as a carryover from when he'd had all his mojo.
"Dean," Castiel said.
"Hey, Cas."
"Sam is well? Jo and Ellen and Bobby?"
They started to walk along the dock.
"All good."
Closing his hands around Dean's biceps, Cas pulled Dean swiftly into the narrow alley between two buildings. He manuevered Dean until his back hit the weathered gray siding. Their mouths met, while Cas curved one hand around the back of Dean's neck, the other digging into his shoulder, right over Dean's hand-print scar. Dean slid his hands down over Castiel's t-shirt, pulling it free until his fingers found the skin at Castiel's narrow hips. He tasted a hint of lime on Castiel's tongue--Cas had always liked citrus, probably snuck a slice into his mouth during his shift--and felt the roughness of Castiel's stubble against his jaw. The hard planes and edges of Castiel's body seemed to find every give and notch on his own, as Castiel jammed his leg in between Dean's thighs and sent a jolt of heat from Dean's crotch up through his body.
Rocking up against Dean, Castiel moved his hand to Dean's face, tracing his thumb over Dean's lower lip. Dean caught his hand and kissed the pads of Castiel's fingers, one at a time, then put his tongue to the center of Castiel's palm, making Cas inhale sharply.
Cas moved his mouth down to Dean's neck, teasing with his tongue and a graze of teeth, shoving against him again, and jesus, Dean was going to come right there in the alley if they kept this up.
Pulling away, Castiel's mouth twitched, the smug jackass all too aware of how easily he could strip away all Dean's defenses, take him apart with his hands and his tongue until Dean was squirming, gasping, even begging.
Then Castiel's gaze tracked slowly over Dean's face as if he were trying to re-learn what he looked like. His fingers came up to touch Dean's jaw, a light touch of reassurance, maybe for himself, maybe for Dean.
A few weeks after the first incident where his powers flicker out, Cas rolls out of bed at dawn.
"What's up?" Dean mutters, propping himself up on his elbow and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. His amulet swings out and settles with the metal cold against his chest.
"Nothing," Cas says, seated on the edge of the bed as he pulls on his jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. "Going out for some target practice."
Dean sits up. "You want me to come with you? Give you more coaching?"
"Nah," Cas says, and Dean can tell how much he's trying to sound casual.
He leans back a little, puts his palm against the side of Dean's face. There are calluses on Cas's fingers that didn't used to be there.
Cas pulls, drawing Dean closer, and kisses him, his other hand trailing up Dean's bare arm, fingers lingering over the faded scar on Dean's shoulder that Cas used to be so afraid to touch. Then he gets up, grabbing his boots.
The room seems colder after Castiel's gone.
Lunchtime comes and goes. Hours later Cas still hasn't come back. Dean waits until at least four, when the sun's slanting low and thinner and cooler before he goes to find him.
Castiel is in the clearing by the stream, shooting rocks and beer cans off a fallen tree trunk. Picks them off fast, reloads, finishes the row, shooting quick with his body held taut and controlled.
"Hey, Clint," Dean says, keeping his voice quiet.
Cas lowers the handgun and turns. His face softens, yet he seems embarrassed, shifting his feet with a shuffle of leaves, lacking his usual stillness. "Hello, Dean."
"I brought you a sandwich." Dean holds out the package. "Did you even eat today?"
"I'm fine," Cas says, taking the sandwich. He opens the bag and takes a large bite.
Dean rests his hand against a tree, picking at the bark. "What're you doing, Cas?"
"I told you. Practice."
"Yeah, you seem like you've done enough for one day. Those cans and rocks aren't going to bother anyone ever again." There are more all over the ground, showing the marks of Castiel's efforts.
"It's not funny, Dean." There's too much sharpness to fit the sardonic, off-hand tone Castiel's voice wears.
"What is it? C'mon, man." Dean steps away from the tree, moving closer to Castiel. "Give me something, here."
Cas sits on the log, putting the gun down. Dean comes over and sits next to him, their thighs touching.
"My powers had grown limited already, and now they're draining away. I have to get this right."
"Seems like you're doing pretty well."
"'Pretty well' isn't good enough," Cas says, and stares into the trees, the dying sunlight glowing through the branches, falling over his face, and Dean sees how ragged Cas looks, shadows under his eyes, lines of care in his forehead.
Dean wants to tell him yeah it is, that Castiel's anything is always way more than good enough. During the long months when they alternately hid from or hunted or battled Lucifer, Castiel watched their backs, fought with them to make sure the world stayed safe from the machinations of angels and demons. He's been watching Sam and Dean's backs ever since, doing crazy brave shit even after his angelic batteries started to short out.
He thinks about the year after they put Lucifer back in his cage, when Dean barely slept, went after hunt after hunt, chasing the burn of adrenaline. How it worked through him like a fever until it calmed, and then it was like waking to discover he sleepwalked to the edge of a cliff.
He doesn't know how to form the words, so Dean reaches down, curling his fingers around Castiel's hand instead, rubbing his thumb over the warm rise of veins and bones.
They managed to get up the wooden stairs that led to the entrance to the room Castiel rented and inside, door barely clicked shut behind them before Dean was tugging up Castiel's shirt. Castiel obligingly lifted his arms to help. With the slide of Dean's hands over Castiel's chest, the flicker of Dean's tongue over Castiel's right nipple, Castiel's breath went shaky in a way Dean heard as well as felt in the shudder of his body. Dean brushed his fingers over the line of tattoos on Castiel's shoulders, Enochian letters and symbols that Cas told him guarded him from demonic possession and hid him from other angels, should any besides him remain on earth.
Cas pulled at Dean's jacket insistently, yanking it off his shoulders, mouth hungrily covering Dean's, and Dean shrugged out of it and pulled off his own shirt. He stepped back to kick off his boots and get rid of his socks, jeans, and underwear, watching the graceful, wiry twists of Castiel's body as he shed the rest of his own clothing.
The room was cool with the window open, goosebumps rising along Dean's arms. They hadn't even bothered turning on a lamp, but the glow from an exterior light on the building across the way outlined Castiel's body, and yeah, he'd definitely added more muscle.
Dean didn't have much time to contemplate the view before Castiel's body was up against his again, close enough that Dean's amulet dug into his chest, and everything narrowed to hot skin. Even if the last vestiges of Castiel's angel mojo were going, his body temperature still seemed to be higher than a human's. Some things didn't change, this warm slide of Castiel's skin under his hands, Castiel's tongue and fingers roaming over Dean's body. His hand closed over the scar on Dean's shoulder, before his hand moved away. At the touch of Castiel's tongue there instead, tracing the ridges of the mark, Dean caught his lower lip between his teeth, holding back the sound of need that wanted to burst from his throat.
Wrapping his fingers around Cas's cock, Dean began to stroke him slow, pausing to brush his thumb over the slit at the head where he'd gone wet with pre-come, and Cas's hips jerked forward into his touch. Dean felt the brush of Castiel's lips on his neck as they formed words that might've been Enochian, or Latin, or garbled English, Dean wasn't sure, and he didn't care. He recognized the tone in Castiel's voice, the way it'd gone rougher and quieter than usual, knew from prior experience what the meaning of the words were likely to be. It was easier that Cas did it in languages Dean had to work to understand because Dean still wasn't sure he would know what to do with it otherwise.
The night's cloudy, moon vanishing and reappearing like a flashlight, and it's cold up on the roof when Dean climbs out the window. The slope isn't too steep, forming a comfortable, broad space to sit. It reminds Dean of a spot on Bobby's roof where he and Sam used to sit and watch stars when they were teenagers. In the rented house, Dean and Sam have sat there a few times; sometimes Cas has joined them. Dean knows Sam goes up there to be by himself at times.
Cas stands near the edge. "Hello, Dean," he says, without turning around, even though Dean hasn't made any noise.
"Hey, Cas," Dean says softly. "What're you doing?"
"Pondering the mysteries of the universe. Big place, the universe. Older 'n me, and I'm pretty old, Dean. Do you have any idea how old I am?"
"Uh…" Dean comes to stand next to Cas and notices the empty beer bottles lying on the roof, caught at the gutter. "Is that a rhetorical question? Old. I don't know."
"Neither do I, in terms that you could comprehend, but I know anyway. I don't recall the exact moment of my creation, or have a way to express measurement of the time from then to now in a fashion that would make sense to you, but I know."
"Yes, got it, you know how old you are. That's…good." Dean's never seen Cas drunk before. He moves closer because Cas is swaying on his feet a little.
As he turns to face Dean, Castiel's body steadies. "Your existence is a fraction of that length of time." He's over enunciating the way some do when they're drunk and trying not to sound drunk. "How is it that it seems to me to be longer than everything before it?" He frowns. "Maybe because I'm stuck in this pathetic shell of bones and blood and fragile skin. Things move too slowly." His gaze fixes on Dean, the kind of stare that makes Dean's skin prickle a little, an electric itch that reminds Dean that Castiel isn't human. "You take up lots of space in my head," Cas says softly.
"Okay," Dean says, wanting to step closer but also move away, not sure how he feels about the way Cas says that, as if he's glad about it and resents it all at the same time, as if Dean is important.
Dean turns away first. They stand there while clouds skid across the moon until Cas cranes his neck back to look up at the darkness. "I used to be able to fly."
His throat gone too tight with a grief that's not for himself, Dean clenches and unclenches his fingers. There's nothing he could possibly say to make this better.
"It was awesome," Cas goes on, still gazing upwards. Then he lowers his head and takes a deliberate, purposeful step closer to the edge of the roof.
Dean wraps his arms around Cas from behind, arms crossing his chest. Cas smells of beer and a hint of detergent, cotton of his t-shirt too stiff and new, not broken in yet from years of laundry cycles.
"I wasn't going to jump," Castiel says disdainfully.
Dean holds on anyway, and Cas doesn't seem to mind, muscles going slack as he leans back into him.
The murmur of incomprehensible language broke into one syllable, Dean, over and over, with Castiel pushing Dean down into the thin mattress, and Dean's fingers digging into the flesh of Castiel's back hard enough that he was probably leaving red marks that would take time to fade. Once upon a time, they would've faded faster. Dean wasn't sure if he was more worried that Cas could be so easily marked now, or pleased that Dean could now mark him that easily.
Castiel threaded his fingers into Dean's hair, leaning down to kiss him hard, and Dean kissed him back, tongue thrusting into Castiel's mouth.
"Cas," Dean said, as Castiel's mouth moved down to his neck, only it came out as a half-groan. "Fuck."
Those long, slim fingers were at Dean's mouth, brushes against his lower lip. Dean kissed them again, then took them in, sucking on Castiel's index and middle finger, teasing at them with his tongue while Cas's breathing grew more ragged. Castiel thrust against Dean and let out a sound from deep in his throat, a strangled whimper. Dean sucked harder, then let Castiel's fingers slip out of his mouth.
"Tell me what you want," Dean said. He was right on the edge, a few more thrusts, any smallest movement, he'd go over.
His gaze locked with Dean's, Castiel slid his hand up along Dean's thigh, then into the curve of Dean's ass. He thrust two fingers into him, causing Dean to arch upwards.
"I want to fuck you into the mattress," Cas said, low and rough.
"Then you'd better get on that," Dean ordered.
Castiel's fingers moved out of him, his body moved off him, and Dean let out a moan from the sensation of it, the loss of the touch, from the sudden brush of cooler air over his skin. There was a small bedside table; Cas opened the draw, rummaged around inside, and pulled out a bottle of lube.
It was tempting to make a joke about Cas keeping that kind of thing around, but Dean didn't. It wasn't like either one of them had discussed the issue, it was just that, well, Dean did a lot more flirting without making plays now, and Castiel, well, Dean had no idea. He'd picked up some things Dean had never taught him but maybe he watched a lot of porn.
Any thinking went out of his head as Cas lowered himself behind Dean, slid his fingers, slick with lube, into Dean. His other hand curved around Dean's cock and he began to stroke in time with the thrust of his fingers.
"Cas." Dean pushed back, wanting him deeper in. "Castiel." Once he'd felt kind of stupid, calling out his name that way. It happened even though he tried not to. But they were way past pretending about how much Dean wanted this and needed it.
It's raining. Dean's got the door of the garage up--it's little more than a shed, really, a separate building near the house, big enough for the Impala, the battered used red '72 Chevy truck Sam bought, and a couple of footlockers full of weapons and ammo. That's one advantage of having a home base, Dean thinks. If the zombie apocalypse happens, they have a place to hole up with ready access to supplies to fight them off.
The Impala's been making strange noises so Dean's working on her engine, grease stains up beyond his wrists. His favorite heavy metal mix-tape plays on the small tape deck on the worktable.
His brain's still turning over what to do about that mess with the werewolves up in Iowa, that stupid fight he had with Cas over it with Sam in the middle going look, guys…that's a good point but maybe Dean…okay Cas has a good point too… until finally Sam flung up his hands and stomped out, telling them to punch each other, yell, and have make-up sex already.
Dean's stomach twists remembering how Cas's face had gone frighteningly neutral and controlled before he, too, walked out. He leans over to turn the volume up higher.
With the music that loud it's no wonder he doesn't hear Castiel's footsteps.
"Dean," he says quietly, and Dean jumps, almost hitting his head on the hood.
Castiel's shirt and hair are damp with rain.
"Jesus H. Christ, I swear I'm going to tie a bell around your neck one of these days." Dean wipes his hands on a rag and walks over to face Castiel.
Neither of them says anything. Castiel's face is so godamned serious, so lost and mournful, Dean thinks he could give Sam a run for his money in the sad puppy face department.
"You're right," Cas finally says, hands hanging loose at his sides in a helpless way. "I didn't know what I was doing and I should've waited."
"No, it was my fault. So busy trying to keep you from getting hurt that I--"
"No, Dean," Cas says, voice sharp now, more commanding. "It was I who was stubborn and convinced I could handle the three on my own."
"Cas?" Dean takes a step closer. "Shut up." Because he's not dead, that's the important thing.
He reaches out, takes a handful of Castiel's shirt, pulls him in, while Castiel lets himself be pulled, wraps his arms around Dean. The rain batters onto the thin roof of the shed.
Cas steps back, rubs the back of his hand across his chin. There's still something troubled at the back of his expression, but Dean can't read what it is.
Castiel thrust into Dean with his hand wrapped around Dean's cock, while Dean pressed his face into the pillow to muffle his moans. He came with Castiel far inside of him, his chest pressed hard against Dean's back, everything gone but the feel of Castiel filling him, his hands on him, the rush of heat and pleasure. A moment later Cas came too, groaning with his lips and tongue warm and wet against the base of Dean's neck.
So much for being quiet; Dean was pretty sure the neighbors knew exactly what the bartender named Cal was up to that night.
Dean had no idea what time he drifted off to sleep, but when he woke the sunlight shone through the thin curtain moving in a breeze that smelled of salt, and Cas was asleep curled within the curve of Dean's body, his weight on Dean's arm. The rise and fall of Cas's breathing and the soft scratch of hair on his legs tangled with Dean's, the lingering taste of Castiel on his tongue, the movement of the curtain and the wild spikes of Castiel's dark hair against the off-white pillowcase was all Dean let himself think about or feel for a few minutes, another minute, another.
He eased his arm out from under Castiel carefully, inch by inch, so he wouldn't wake him. Dean watched him sleep, looking at the scar beneath Castiel's ribs, the one he'd gotten from the demon ambush in the diner, the one he should've been able to heal himself from. There'd be more. There were always more, a never-ending succession of wounds and scars and demons and ghosts and monsters.
"Take care of yourself, asshole," Dean whispered, pausing as he pulled on his jeans and shirt.
He'd waited too long, he should've gotten up sooner, left sooner. Cas stirred, turning onto his back still asleep, and Cas had no idea, no fucking idea at all, how it got difficult for Dean to swallow, to move, how much he didn't want to get up from that bed.
He finally started to get up, slowly, because if he didn't do it then, he wouldn't be able to leave, and right now, that was what had to happen.
But Cas moved, eyes opening as his fingers closed lighting-quick and with what seemed like Castiel's old preternatural strength around Dean's wrist, fingers on his pulse.
"I'll see you soon, Dean," Cas said, gaze and tone weighted with immovable intention.
"Yeah."
"Dean."
He heard it in Castiel's voice there, Dean wasn't the only one having trouble letting go. "See you soon," Dean said, making sure his voice was steady.
They remained frozen like that a moment, Castiel's fingers around Dean's wrist. Then Cas let go.
~end
Dean/Castiel, Sam, Jo, Bobby | NC-17 | 7,900 words | AU
a/n: Set in the syntax 'verse, which goes AU after 4x22. Title by ee cummings. Written for my kissbingo table, prompt: body: fingers, and for nyoka--this is either a late birthday present, an early birthday present, a winter present, or a just 'cause ♥. Thank you to smilla02 for the beta reading and suggestions.
Summary: After saving the world, what's next? Maybe Dean should be glad Cas wasn't full-tilt on an even crazier mission that made less sense.
He and Sam were just leaving Texas, Sam driving and the scent of the salt-and-burn still lingering in Dean's nose when his cell went off. It was Jo.
As Dean moved in his seat, sitting up straighter, Sam's gaze flickered from the road to him.
"Everything okay?" Dean said, without waiting for her to speak first. Jo rarely called only to say hey, how's it going?
She was super focused these days, and Dean was tempted to ask her sometime what did she have left to prove, who was she trying to prove it to. Jo'd helped put the devil back into his cage, after all, and she'd become a damn good hunter. But he hadn't asked, not wanting to get his head bitten off; she must have her own reasons.
"Fine," Jo said. "Got some news for you, though."
"Yeah?" Dean tried to ignore the way his stomach knotted. Nothing in Jo's tone sounded like a death notice call, but there was plenty of other bad crap that could happen besides that. Plenty.
"Just got off a hunt with your boyfriend," Jo said. The blare of a truck horn sounded in the background, the rattle of a big vehicle going by fast; she was probably at a rest stop somewhere. The wind made it hard to hear her voice.
"You hunted together? Is he okay?"
Turning towards the window, Dean ignored how Sam kept looking over at him. The Impala raced through flat country baked in harsh sunlight.
"He's okay. Thought you'd like to know."
"Thanks, Jo."
Another truck roared by in the background of her call. The line went silent and Jo said, unusually hesitant, "I know how hard it can be, trying to go off and do this by yourself, especially when you're new to the life."
"Yeah." Plus there was Castiel's bonus pack of issues, things most new hunters never had to think about, most humans never had to think about. Maybe Dean should be glad Cas wasn't full-tilt on some even crazier mission that made less sense.
He'd been worried that Cas was on the same spiral Dean had been on for a while after they'd put the devil back in his cage and saved the world. But eventually Dean got it, that wasn't what this was about; and Castiel was Castiel.
"Take care, Dean." Jo hung up before Dean could ask her what she and Cas had hunted, or tell her to watch after herself.
A few months after Cas leaves, Dean gets up in the middle of the night and walks down the stairs of the house he and Sam and Cas have been renting. He's wearing sweats and a t-shirt, a little chilly in his bare feet. The floorboards creak under his careful steps. Dean hasn't dreamed of Hell in a long time, and he's not as much of an insomniac as he once was, but sometimes he can't sleep anyway. Especially now--the mattress seems too big, serving as a reminder of what's missing. He tells himself at least he knows Castiel is out there, and at least since last check-in, safe. He remembers what Cas promised, and believes that he keeps his promises.
During the day it's easier to put it out of his mind, get lost in business as usual. There are monsters to hunt, cars to repair at his part-time job at the garage, things around the house that need attention.
Dean runs his fingers along the stair railing, where the paint's grown faded and chipped, exposing the wood beneath. Repairing the house and working on engines seems to calm him. It's a way to fix things that doesn't involve rock salt, blood, silver blades, or the sound of gunfire.
Six unusually vicious and powerful spirits once haunted the house. It took Sam, Dean, Cas, Jo and Ellen a weekend to track down their remains and clean all the ghosts out. The grateful owner, unable to sell because of the property's bad rep, agreed to rent it to Sam and Dean and Cas at half market rate. At first Dean thought it would be a few months while they rested up, the way Dad used to do it, before they went back to the usual living out of motel rooms, but then they stayed. And stayed.
He still feels the itch beneath his skin, the pull to be out on the road on the way to another hunt, but Dean has to admit he's grown to like the idea of a place to return to. The smells and sounds of it are growing familiar. Sam's coffee wafting up from the kitchen in the mornings, the sunny patch on the couch Cas likes to sit in while he reads, the rise and fall of Sam and Castiel's voices as they argue some point from an archaic book. Sometimes Jo crashes on the couch. Jo seems taller every time they see her, with a new scar and a new story to tell. Ellen's busy running her new bar, and seems to have accepted Jo's life is a cycle of wandering and hunting. Rufus shows up every so often as well, needing a place to sleep on his way to yet another hunt (or hide from the cops). Bobby built them a panic room in the basement. There's the sound of rain on the roof, the protection sigils Sam carved over all the doors and windows, Dean waking up with Cas in the bed next to him every morning.
At least he had Cas there as part of it for a while but Cas isn't there now and won't say when he'll be back yet. It doesn't hurt the way it did the first weeks of it, not because Dean's adjusted or resigned, but because it no longer seems like betrayal. Things Cas said, seeing him a few times on hunts, knowing that Castiel's powers were slowly fading--it made a weird kind of sense. Or it almost made sense, the full click of understanding hovering right at the edge of his brain, always elusive. Which is how it often worked with Castiel.
There's a light on in the living room. Sam's at the table, head bent over a couple of large books. When Dean's foot makes a board creak, Sam glances up and slides another book over the one he's been reading.
"Hey." Sam's voice is a little rough from tiredness.
"You can't sleep either?" Dean takes the chair opposite Sam.
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Not tonight, apparently."
"You still have those nightmares?"
"No." Sam lowers his hand. "Not for a long time. Every once in a while--sometimes I hear Lucifer whispering in my head while I sleep. But not much." His hand curls on the page of an old book full of symbols.
Dean reaches out and slides that book aside to reveal the law book Sam was reading when Dean interrupted. "Why're you hiding that?"
"I don't know," Sam says, his expression saying he really didn't, even if it was his idea. "Superstitious, maybe." He shrugs. "Like I don't want to jinx it. I don't want to start thinking hey maybe I could go back to school. Because there's always more shit coming." He leans forward, the lamp casting half his face into shadow. "You ever ask yourself, what's next?"
"Sure." Dean slouches in the chair and folds his arms against the cool air. "I think I should go get donuts for breakfast, I've got a lead on a possible case in Delaware, a string of gruesome deaths, I think there's something wrong with the hot water heater--"
"No, Dean, I mean what's next for us beyond tomorrow, next week, next year. What's next when we don't hunt?"
"Always going to be things to hunt."
"Yes, but is it the only thing? Most of my life I asked myself that, wanted more, wanted to put the life behind me. Then I stopped thinking about that. But I went from only wanting out to seeing no way out at all." Sam gives him a wry, sad smile. "There's got to be an in-between, right?"
"Maybe?"
Dean hasn't really thought about it. Living at the same address seems big enough; keeping everyone alive; the world not being ended.
"Think about it." Sam stares at him a little too hard. "Besides hunting, besides me and Cas and everyone being safe--if you aren't hunting, what do you want?" He turns his gaze back down to the law book.
Shit. Why did Sam always ask questions like this at two in the morning? Dean grabs a snack, goes back to bed, and doesn't fall asleep until just before dawn.
Dean waited for Sam outside a truck stop, leaning against the Impala. The sun reflected bright against the chrome and his skin was tight from the heat.
Sam appeared, crossing the parking lot holding two large sodas and a bag with their lunch. As he reached the car, Dean's cell phone blipped with a text message.
He stared at it for what seemed like a long while, until Sam cleared his throat.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah." Dean snapped his phone shut and put it away.
"Castiel?" Sam said, handing Dean a cup of soda.
Dean nodded. Sam leaned against the car beside him.
"He all right?"
"Yes. He texted me. He's in Chesapeake."
"You going to go check up on him?" Sam took a loud sip of soda through his straw.
"Maybe," Dean pressed the cold cup against his nose and chin.
This was easier than it'd been last month, and the month before that.
Sam kept his gaze on the parking lot and noisily drank his coke.
"All right, yes, I'm going to check up on him," Dean said, lowering his soda. "Honestly, Sam, I'm sick of this. Sure, he checks in regular--but who knows what could happen in between. At least he finally started telling me where he is." He took a few slow gulps of soda. "I get it, why he's doing this, has to go find himself, some woo-woo self-affirmation crap, saving people, killing all the things…I get it. I really do." He didn't have the same hard knot in his stomach he'd had for a while whenever he talked about this. The last few times he and Cas'd seen each other, it'd been easier, more comfortable, than the first few times after Cas had left.
"So, you want me to drive you to Chesapeake?" Sam offered.
"Nah." Dean ran his finger along the hot metal of the Impala's hood. "Just…drive me a few hours in that direction, and drop me at a bus station, okay?"
"Like nothing I've ever seen before," Bobby mutters into the phone when Dean checks in. "Barring Lucifer's apocalyptic boogie-woogie. Chimera outbreak, not something that happens every day. Eight of 'em? All in Arkansas?"
Sam's gone after the one in Batesville, Jo and Ellen are after the two tearing things up outside Memphis, and Dean winds up in a cave near Ouachita National Park.
It smells of mud and moss, the footing slippery, glow of his flashlight a pale white beam that creates too many shadows.
The chimera's tail snaps out of the darkness, catching Dean in the legs. He hits the wall, managing to keep a grip on his shotgun but drops his flashlight. Dean slides to the floor, spying the beam a few yards off.
Cursing, Dean raises his gun and slowly gets to his feet. The spots where he'll be bruised later flare with pain.
"Come at me again, you son of a bitch." He edges towards the flashlight, bends to pick it up, but the bastard tail-sweeps his ankles, knocking him to the ground again.
The tick of claws and a damp snuffling noise come from the darkness as Dean raises his gun, lying on his back.
A shotgun blast fills the cave only it's not from his gun. He hears an animalistic yelp and a groan behind him, and turns to catch the shape of the chimera staggering back.
Dean fires, finishing it off.
There's another shape in the cave, a man with a familiar shape to his head and shoulders and jacket. Dean snatches up his flashlight and gets to his feet quickly, aiming the beam right into the guy's face.
Castiel throws up his arm against the sudden light, shotgun in his other hand.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean takes a step closer, willing his heart to stop jumping around.
"Chimera outbreak," Cas says, his voice calm and even, as if it should be self-evident he'd be on the case.
He's not even out of breath. Screw him.
Of course, if they all knew about it, so could other hunters, including Castiel. "Well good for you," Dean says acidly, and thinks he sees Cas flinch. He doesn't mean to hurt and lash out like that, but Castiel left. It was his idea. Dean's not in the mood to make this easier for him.
Dean walks past Castiel, who's between Dean and the cave exit, deliberately knocking hard into his shoulder as he goes by. He'll take a break and then deal with the chimera's carcass.
Outside, the foggy day seems over-bright by contrast with the cave. Blinking, Dean takes a few gulps from his water bottle and puts his gun down carefully.
Cas is behind him without Dean hearing his steps following him out of the cave. Typical.
"You couldn't have texted me you were in the area?" Dean turns around. "Oh right, I forgot, you don't bother much with checking in. Captain Communication." He mock salutes.
Castiel's mouth goes into a tight line.
He seems bulkier than the last time Dean saw him. His hair's gotten longer and he's wearing the army jacket Dean bought him last winter, jeans that look almost as threadbare in the knees as Dean's, and heavy boots splattered with dried mud.
They glare at each other for a full minute, while Dean's heart keeps hammering too hard. He wonders if Cas can hear it.
Then Castiel's expression softens. He bends to lean his gun against a rock. "Perhaps I was too extreme in how much to keep away. I can check in more often."
"Don't strain yourself." Dean takes another swallow of water, pretending he doesn't see the flicker of pain in Castiel's face.
"Dean…"
"Hey, you do what you need to do. I'm not pining away by the phone like some sixteen year old girl."
"You understand why I'm doing this."
Dean takes a deep breath, fingers tightening around the water bottle. "I'm trying. At least…I get why you need to do it, I kind of do but." He has no idea what he was going to say after the last word, none at all--has some vague idea it has to do with the ache of hurt he's been carrying in his chest.
When Cas steps forward and grabs the collar of Dean's jacket, Dean's so startled that he drops the water bottle. Castiel shoves Dean back until he hits the mossy rock beside the cave entrance. His mouth covers Dean's, hard and wet and wanting, his hands moving up to cradle the back of Dean's head.
Dean kisses him back, sliding his hands up under the back of Castiel's jacket and shirt, needing to touch his skin, assure himself of his presence.
For a short time, they're pressed up against each other, and Dean's acutely aware of the hardness and give of Castiel's body, the lingering taste of coffee in his mouth, the way he smells of woods and mud and gun oil as well as a scent elusive and cool like stone that Dean's always associated with Cas, before they move apart.
The silence sinks between them.
Cas picks up his shotgun and walks away, vanishing into the fog.
Two days later, Dean gets a text from Cas letting him know he was okay.
Dean didn't bother getting a room. He had the taxi drop him right in front of the bar. Strings of lights hung from wooden pillars along the dock, reflecting on the water while boats gently rocked up and down. It wasn't yet midnight, the bar lit up, sounds of laughter and talk drifting out the propped-open door.
He stood on the walkway, duffel slung over his shoulder, too warm in his old army jacket. A place like this was going to be packed with college kids and tourists, too noisy and crowded. Sweat made the back of his neck itch, and he changed his grip on the duffel. Maybe Cas wanted to be left alone, and Dean didn't want to look like he was hovering, checking on him. Except it wasn't really about looking after Cas, not entirely, but Dean pushed that thought down. He'd think about that later, why he'd come there, why his chest had gone a little tight.
Maybe he'd just go, walk back to the bus stop, and take the long ride all the way home without saying anything.
Through the window, Dean spotted Castiel as he stepped into view, holding two glasses, turning to look back over his shoulder to listen to someone. He'd cut his hair shorter than Dean had ever seen it, almost as short as Dean's. His serious, attentive face broke into a grin in response to some remark a customer made before he moved again, lost to Dean's sight.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face. Somewhere Sam was laughing his head off and had no idea why. Dean must look like a complete idiot, too chicken shit to go in and say hey, I got your text and happened to be in the area… Yeah, right.
"Oh, what the hell," Dean said loudly (and it made him flinch less, using that curse, than it used to). A couple walking by gave him a wary glance.
He glared after them, gripped the handle of his duffel tighter, palms grown a little damp, and walked into the bar. The air outside had been relatively cooler, the inside of the bar warm and smelling of beer and fried seafood. Dean let it all wash over him a moment--Credence's "Travelin' Band" playing on the sound system, the clatter of conversation and laughter--before he stepped over to the bar and slid onto a stool. He dropped his duffel to the floor and folded his arms on the polished wood. Using a move he'd seen Sam do over and over (without realizing it half the time, Dean was pretty sure) he hunched his shoulders, ducking his head to stay unobtrusive.
Cas stands on the porch in a faded t-shirt, jeans, and thick-soled boots, a knapsack slung over his shoulder. He's been letting his hair grow longer, and his tousled head is a far cry from the more corporate-drone cut he wore for a long time.
"I'm trying to figure out who I am now. I need a sense of purpose, to be useful."
"You are useful," Dean says. Which isn't what he means to say but it's how it comes out.
"I have to do this." Cas hitches the strap of the knapsack more firmly upward, jaw going into a familiar, immovable line.
Dean wants to punch Cas in the face, but instead he lets him go, watches him walk towards the road while the bottom falls out of everything. He's hardly aware he's gripping the porch pillar so hard his fingernails leave marks in the paint.
His heart almost beats its way out of his chest when Cas stops at the mailbox, turns around, and returns to the porch, to the spot where Dean remains unmoving.
"I'll come back," Castiel says. "I promise," and he sounds as fierce as he always had when he could bend the laws of space and time.
He steps close and kisses Dean, tongue and warm breath and fingers digging hard into Dean's hair, pushes up against Dean like he's going to make damn sure Dean stays there and listens to what Cas is trying to say with his body.
Then he pulls back, goes down the porch steps again, and walks away. Dean doesn't stay to watch him leave this time.
He goes inside, pours himself a fifth of whiskey, and plays Metallica loud. Sam doesn't complain, and he brings Dean apple pie from the good bakery for dinner.
That night, Dean sprawls himself out on the bed, limbs in all directions, and screw Castiel anyway, maybe he'll go become a hippie, the jackass. At least now Dean has the mattress all to himself. Castiel's snores were really annoying anyway.
Dean watched Castiel work, the easy flick of his wrist as he cleaned up a spill, the quick dance of his hands as he poured drinks. The precision and speed was the same as every time Dean had watched Cas draw a sigil or do some angelic spell. It was also the way Cas made sandwiches, coffee, and spaghetti--Cas burned a lot of what he cooked, but when he didn't the food tasted good. He wore a black t-shirt, and Dean thought he seemed more muscular than the last time he'd seen him a few weeks ago.
A few people leaving the bar, locals not college students, called out to Castiel, one of the girls raising her hand to wave. They called him "Cal," the name Cas had adopted as his favorite alias; there were enough pockets of demons hanging around that the name Castiel was still dangerous. Cas called back to them, comfortable and easy.
He turned back to the bar and sliced a lime, a brisk flash of the knife blade. Dean watched his slim, strong fingers, noticing a tiny scar that was probably from cutting up limes, not hunting. At one time Cas could've self-healed it away. A cold knot formed in Dean's stomach at the small reminder.
Cas finished cutting the lime, scooped the pieces into a slot in the tray, glanced up, and caught Dean's gaze. The cold in Dean turned to heat. Castiel froze, then frowned a question. When Dean raised his hand, giving the signal for no emergency, everyone's fine, Castiel's eyes widened and he gave Dean a lopsided smile, a small glad quirk in the corner of his mouth, before he turned to take another drink order.
Dean busied himself eating the peanut and pretzel mix. After a few minutes, Cas poured a draft of Dean's favorite kind of beer and came over with it. He put a napkin down on the bar and rested the beer glass on it.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" Dean felt a little silly, playing this game with Cas, but it was easier than stumbling over words, the awkwardness.
He took a sip of beer and licked the foam off his lips, purposefully slow, and saw Cas watching his mouth and tongue as he did it.
"Not sure," Cas said, and leaned with his palm flat against the bar. "You seem vaguely familiar." He tilted his head to the side, his hand sliding closer to Dean's.
"I'm not from around here." Dean hooked his finger around Castiel's, and the warmth of Castiel's skin, damp from pouring drinks and slicing limes, made his dick twitch. "Need someone to show me around. What time do you get off?"
"In an hour."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," Cas said, no teasing in his voice this time.
Not long after Castiel's powers start to fail him, the three of them go after some demons just outside Lincoln.
Sam's bellowing the rituale romanum, one of the demons caught in their devil's trap in the abandoned diner, while the other two and Dean circle each other. Dean is waiting for the right moment to make his move when Cas lunges, putting his palm to the nearest demon's forehead. The demon dies with a white-red flash of light, the host slumping to the floor. Before Dean can do anything, Cas's hand goes out to the next demon.
Nothing happens. The demon smiles, slow and amused with Castiel's hand against his forehead. This isn't a demon of any great power, it's just a garden-variety henchperson, a follower of Lucifer's who's pissed off that the leader he idolized is once again imprisoned and out of the world. Castiel blinks, startled.
"Cas!" Dean yells a warning, as the demon spits out, "Castiel," and then Cas is flying across the diner.
It would've been the usual bruises and dings hunters take, except there's a broken, jagged edge of counter rim.
Dean jumps at the demon, stabbing him with Ruby's knife. Sam has just finished the rituale romanum, the demon vacating in a stream of smoke while the host, unconscious but hopefully still alive, slumps to the floor.
Running over to Castiel, who's slumped with back against the base of the counter, Dean kneels on the broken linoleum floor. He presses both hands against the wound in Castiel's side, trying to stop the flow of blood. Cas's mouth is shut tight with pain, but he doesn't make a sound, his blue eyes full of not fear exactly, but something like frustration and apology.
"His mojo's not working," Dean grates out as Sam kneels beside him. "He's not healing."
"Oh, shit, Castiel." Sam looks down, touches Cas on the shoulder. "Okay. It'll be okay."
Sam checks on the remaining host, and gives a thumbs up: alive. But there's no time to stay and help him through the disorientation and aftermath.
Sam and Dean help Cas to the Impala between them, his arms slung over their shoulders. Dean climbs in the back, keeping a towel pressed tight against the wound while he holds Cas against him and Sam breaks speed limits and run seven red lights getting them to the ER.
People in scrubs whisk Castiel away on a gurney. Dean sinks into a chair in the waiting room and wonders if he might puke, while Sam deals with all the check-in paperwork and shit like that. The hospital's fluorescent lights are too bright and nothing seems real.
They put Cas into ICU. Only family members can visit.
Dean's still got traces of Castiel's blood dried on his hands, and his knees are wobbly. He's about ready to shove past the nurse, rules or no rules, let the fucking orderlies drag him away if they want, but then Sam's hand closes tight around Dean's arm and he pushes forward.
"We're…his brothers," Sam says quickly.
The nurse purses her lips like she doesn't quite buy it, but she takes another look at their faces and lets them pass.
The clock over the bar went fifteen minutes past when Cas said he'd be getting off-shift; the place was giving little sign of quieting down before Cas finally nodded at Dean. Dean slid off the bar stool and went outside, leaving that same half-finished glass of beer. The water of the bay was dark and smooth. Dean waited, watching the boats, duffel heavy on his shoulder.
Cas was next to him before Dean realized he'd even approached, a knack the fallen angel still had as a carryover from when he'd had all his mojo.
"Dean," Castiel said.
"Hey, Cas."
"Sam is well? Jo and Ellen and Bobby?"
They started to walk along the dock.
"All good."
Closing his hands around Dean's biceps, Cas pulled Dean swiftly into the narrow alley between two buildings. He manuevered Dean until his back hit the weathered gray siding. Their mouths met, while Cas curved one hand around the back of Dean's neck, the other digging into his shoulder, right over Dean's hand-print scar. Dean slid his hands down over Castiel's t-shirt, pulling it free until his fingers found the skin at Castiel's narrow hips. He tasted a hint of lime on Castiel's tongue--Cas had always liked citrus, probably snuck a slice into his mouth during his shift--and felt the roughness of Castiel's stubble against his jaw. The hard planes and edges of Castiel's body seemed to find every give and notch on his own, as Castiel jammed his leg in between Dean's thighs and sent a jolt of heat from Dean's crotch up through his body.
Rocking up against Dean, Castiel moved his hand to Dean's face, tracing his thumb over Dean's lower lip. Dean caught his hand and kissed the pads of Castiel's fingers, one at a time, then put his tongue to the center of Castiel's palm, making Cas inhale sharply.
Cas moved his mouth down to Dean's neck, teasing with his tongue and a graze of teeth, shoving against him again, and jesus, Dean was going to come right there in the alley if they kept this up.
Pulling away, Castiel's mouth twitched, the smug jackass all too aware of how easily he could strip away all Dean's defenses, take him apart with his hands and his tongue until Dean was squirming, gasping, even begging.
Then Castiel's gaze tracked slowly over Dean's face as if he were trying to re-learn what he looked like. His fingers came up to touch Dean's jaw, a light touch of reassurance, maybe for himself, maybe for Dean.
A few weeks after the first incident where his powers flicker out, Cas rolls out of bed at dawn.
"What's up?" Dean mutters, propping himself up on his elbow and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. His amulet swings out and settles with the metal cold against his chest.
"Nothing," Cas says, seated on the edge of the bed as he pulls on his jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. "Going out for some target practice."
Dean sits up. "You want me to come with you? Give you more coaching?"
"Nah," Cas says, and Dean can tell how much he's trying to sound casual.
He leans back a little, puts his palm against the side of Dean's face. There are calluses on Cas's fingers that didn't used to be there.
Cas pulls, drawing Dean closer, and kisses him, his other hand trailing up Dean's bare arm, fingers lingering over the faded scar on Dean's shoulder that Cas used to be so afraid to touch. Then he gets up, grabbing his boots.
The room seems colder after Castiel's gone.
Lunchtime comes and goes. Hours later Cas still hasn't come back. Dean waits until at least four, when the sun's slanting low and thinner and cooler before he goes to find him.
Castiel is in the clearing by the stream, shooting rocks and beer cans off a fallen tree trunk. Picks them off fast, reloads, finishes the row, shooting quick with his body held taut and controlled.
"Hey, Clint," Dean says, keeping his voice quiet.
Cas lowers the handgun and turns. His face softens, yet he seems embarrassed, shifting his feet with a shuffle of leaves, lacking his usual stillness. "Hello, Dean."
"I brought you a sandwich." Dean holds out the package. "Did you even eat today?"
"I'm fine," Cas says, taking the sandwich. He opens the bag and takes a large bite.
Dean rests his hand against a tree, picking at the bark. "What're you doing, Cas?"
"I told you. Practice."
"Yeah, you seem like you've done enough for one day. Those cans and rocks aren't going to bother anyone ever again." There are more all over the ground, showing the marks of Castiel's efforts.
"It's not funny, Dean." There's too much sharpness to fit the sardonic, off-hand tone Castiel's voice wears.
"What is it? C'mon, man." Dean steps away from the tree, moving closer to Castiel. "Give me something, here."
Cas sits on the log, putting the gun down. Dean comes over and sits next to him, their thighs touching.
"My powers had grown limited already, and now they're draining away. I have to get this right."
"Seems like you're doing pretty well."
"'Pretty well' isn't good enough," Cas says, and stares into the trees, the dying sunlight glowing through the branches, falling over his face, and Dean sees how ragged Cas looks, shadows under his eyes, lines of care in his forehead.
Dean wants to tell him yeah it is, that Castiel's anything is always way more than good enough. During the long months when they alternately hid from or hunted or battled Lucifer, Castiel watched their backs, fought with them to make sure the world stayed safe from the machinations of angels and demons. He's been watching Sam and Dean's backs ever since, doing crazy brave shit even after his angelic batteries started to short out.
He thinks about the year after they put Lucifer back in his cage, when Dean barely slept, went after hunt after hunt, chasing the burn of adrenaline. How it worked through him like a fever until it calmed, and then it was like waking to discover he sleepwalked to the edge of a cliff.
He doesn't know how to form the words, so Dean reaches down, curling his fingers around Castiel's hand instead, rubbing his thumb over the warm rise of veins and bones.
They managed to get up the wooden stairs that led to the entrance to the room Castiel rented and inside, door barely clicked shut behind them before Dean was tugging up Castiel's shirt. Castiel obligingly lifted his arms to help. With the slide of Dean's hands over Castiel's chest, the flicker of Dean's tongue over Castiel's right nipple, Castiel's breath went shaky in a way Dean heard as well as felt in the shudder of his body. Dean brushed his fingers over the line of tattoos on Castiel's shoulders, Enochian letters and symbols that Cas told him guarded him from demonic possession and hid him from other angels, should any besides him remain on earth.
Cas pulled at Dean's jacket insistently, yanking it off his shoulders, mouth hungrily covering Dean's, and Dean shrugged out of it and pulled off his own shirt. He stepped back to kick off his boots and get rid of his socks, jeans, and underwear, watching the graceful, wiry twists of Castiel's body as he shed the rest of his own clothing.
The room was cool with the window open, goosebumps rising along Dean's arms. They hadn't even bothered turning on a lamp, but the glow from an exterior light on the building across the way outlined Castiel's body, and yeah, he'd definitely added more muscle.
Dean didn't have much time to contemplate the view before Castiel's body was up against his again, close enough that Dean's amulet dug into his chest, and everything narrowed to hot skin. Even if the last vestiges of Castiel's angel mojo were going, his body temperature still seemed to be higher than a human's. Some things didn't change, this warm slide of Castiel's skin under his hands, Castiel's tongue and fingers roaming over Dean's body. His hand closed over the scar on Dean's shoulder, before his hand moved away. At the touch of Castiel's tongue there instead, tracing the ridges of the mark, Dean caught his lower lip between his teeth, holding back the sound of need that wanted to burst from his throat.
Wrapping his fingers around Cas's cock, Dean began to stroke him slow, pausing to brush his thumb over the slit at the head where he'd gone wet with pre-come, and Cas's hips jerked forward into his touch. Dean felt the brush of Castiel's lips on his neck as they formed words that might've been Enochian, or Latin, or garbled English, Dean wasn't sure, and he didn't care. He recognized the tone in Castiel's voice, the way it'd gone rougher and quieter than usual, knew from prior experience what the meaning of the words were likely to be. It was easier that Cas did it in languages Dean had to work to understand because Dean still wasn't sure he would know what to do with it otherwise.
The night's cloudy, moon vanishing and reappearing like a flashlight, and it's cold up on the roof when Dean climbs out the window. The slope isn't too steep, forming a comfortable, broad space to sit. It reminds Dean of a spot on Bobby's roof where he and Sam used to sit and watch stars when they were teenagers. In the rented house, Dean and Sam have sat there a few times; sometimes Cas has joined them. Dean knows Sam goes up there to be by himself at times.
Cas stands near the edge. "Hello, Dean," he says, without turning around, even though Dean hasn't made any noise.
"Hey, Cas," Dean says softly. "What're you doing?"
"Pondering the mysteries of the universe. Big place, the universe. Older 'n me, and I'm pretty old, Dean. Do you have any idea how old I am?"
"Uh…" Dean comes to stand next to Cas and notices the empty beer bottles lying on the roof, caught at the gutter. "Is that a rhetorical question? Old. I don't know."
"Neither do I, in terms that you could comprehend, but I know anyway. I don't recall the exact moment of my creation, or have a way to express measurement of the time from then to now in a fashion that would make sense to you, but I know."
"Yes, got it, you know how old you are. That's…good." Dean's never seen Cas drunk before. He moves closer because Cas is swaying on his feet a little.
As he turns to face Dean, Castiel's body steadies. "Your existence is a fraction of that length of time." He's over enunciating the way some do when they're drunk and trying not to sound drunk. "How is it that it seems to me to be longer than everything before it?" He frowns. "Maybe because I'm stuck in this pathetic shell of bones and blood and fragile skin. Things move too slowly." His gaze fixes on Dean, the kind of stare that makes Dean's skin prickle a little, an electric itch that reminds Dean that Castiel isn't human. "You take up lots of space in my head," Cas says softly.
"Okay," Dean says, wanting to step closer but also move away, not sure how he feels about the way Cas says that, as if he's glad about it and resents it all at the same time, as if Dean is important.
Dean turns away first. They stand there while clouds skid across the moon until Cas cranes his neck back to look up at the darkness. "I used to be able to fly."
His throat gone too tight with a grief that's not for himself, Dean clenches and unclenches his fingers. There's nothing he could possibly say to make this better.
"It was awesome," Cas goes on, still gazing upwards. Then he lowers his head and takes a deliberate, purposeful step closer to the edge of the roof.
Dean wraps his arms around Cas from behind, arms crossing his chest. Cas smells of beer and a hint of detergent, cotton of his t-shirt too stiff and new, not broken in yet from years of laundry cycles.
"I wasn't going to jump," Castiel says disdainfully.
Dean holds on anyway, and Cas doesn't seem to mind, muscles going slack as he leans back into him.
The murmur of incomprehensible language broke into one syllable, Dean, over and over, with Castiel pushing Dean down into the thin mattress, and Dean's fingers digging into the flesh of Castiel's back hard enough that he was probably leaving red marks that would take time to fade. Once upon a time, they would've faded faster. Dean wasn't sure if he was more worried that Cas could be so easily marked now, or pleased that Dean could now mark him that easily.
Castiel threaded his fingers into Dean's hair, leaning down to kiss him hard, and Dean kissed him back, tongue thrusting into Castiel's mouth.
"Cas," Dean said, as Castiel's mouth moved down to his neck, only it came out as a half-groan. "Fuck."
Those long, slim fingers were at Dean's mouth, brushes against his lower lip. Dean kissed them again, then took them in, sucking on Castiel's index and middle finger, teasing at them with his tongue while Cas's breathing grew more ragged. Castiel thrust against Dean and let out a sound from deep in his throat, a strangled whimper. Dean sucked harder, then let Castiel's fingers slip out of his mouth.
"Tell me what you want," Dean said. He was right on the edge, a few more thrusts, any smallest movement, he'd go over.
His gaze locked with Dean's, Castiel slid his hand up along Dean's thigh, then into the curve of Dean's ass. He thrust two fingers into him, causing Dean to arch upwards.
"I want to fuck you into the mattress," Cas said, low and rough.
"Then you'd better get on that," Dean ordered.
Castiel's fingers moved out of him, his body moved off him, and Dean let out a moan from the sensation of it, the loss of the touch, from the sudden brush of cooler air over his skin. There was a small bedside table; Cas opened the draw, rummaged around inside, and pulled out a bottle of lube.
It was tempting to make a joke about Cas keeping that kind of thing around, but Dean didn't. It wasn't like either one of them had discussed the issue, it was just that, well, Dean did a lot more flirting without making plays now, and Castiel, well, Dean had no idea. He'd picked up some things Dean had never taught him but maybe he watched a lot of porn.
Any thinking went out of his head as Cas lowered himself behind Dean, slid his fingers, slick with lube, into Dean. His other hand curved around Dean's cock and he began to stroke in time with the thrust of his fingers.
"Cas." Dean pushed back, wanting him deeper in. "Castiel." Once he'd felt kind of stupid, calling out his name that way. It happened even though he tried not to. But they were way past pretending about how much Dean wanted this and needed it.
It's raining. Dean's got the door of the garage up--it's little more than a shed, really, a separate building near the house, big enough for the Impala, the battered used red '72 Chevy truck Sam bought, and a couple of footlockers full of weapons and ammo. That's one advantage of having a home base, Dean thinks. If the zombie apocalypse happens, they have a place to hole up with ready access to supplies to fight them off.
The Impala's been making strange noises so Dean's working on her engine, grease stains up beyond his wrists. His favorite heavy metal mix-tape plays on the small tape deck on the worktable.
His brain's still turning over what to do about that mess with the werewolves up in Iowa, that stupid fight he had with Cas over it with Sam in the middle going look, guys…that's a good point but maybe Dean…okay Cas has a good point too… until finally Sam flung up his hands and stomped out, telling them to punch each other, yell, and have make-up sex already.
Dean's stomach twists remembering how Cas's face had gone frighteningly neutral and controlled before he, too, walked out. He leans over to turn the volume up higher.
With the music that loud it's no wonder he doesn't hear Castiel's footsteps.
"Dean," he says quietly, and Dean jumps, almost hitting his head on the hood.
Castiel's shirt and hair are damp with rain.
"Jesus H. Christ, I swear I'm going to tie a bell around your neck one of these days." Dean wipes his hands on a rag and walks over to face Castiel.
Neither of them says anything. Castiel's face is so godamned serious, so lost and mournful, Dean thinks he could give Sam a run for his money in the sad puppy face department.
"You're right," Cas finally says, hands hanging loose at his sides in a helpless way. "I didn't know what I was doing and I should've waited."
"No, it was my fault. So busy trying to keep you from getting hurt that I--"
"No, Dean," Cas says, voice sharp now, more commanding. "It was I who was stubborn and convinced I could handle the three on my own."
"Cas?" Dean takes a step closer. "Shut up." Because he's not dead, that's the important thing.
He reaches out, takes a handful of Castiel's shirt, pulls him in, while Castiel lets himself be pulled, wraps his arms around Dean. The rain batters onto the thin roof of the shed.
Cas steps back, rubs the back of his hand across his chin. There's still something troubled at the back of his expression, but Dean can't read what it is.
Castiel thrust into Dean with his hand wrapped around Dean's cock, while Dean pressed his face into the pillow to muffle his moans. He came with Castiel far inside of him, his chest pressed hard against Dean's back, everything gone but the feel of Castiel filling him, his hands on him, the rush of heat and pleasure. A moment later Cas came too, groaning with his lips and tongue warm and wet against the base of Dean's neck.
So much for being quiet; Dean was pretty sure the neighbors knew exactly what the bartender named Cal was up to that night.
Dean had no idea what time he drifted off to sleep, but when he woke the sunlight shone through the thin curtain moving in a breeze that smelled of salt, and Cas was asleep curled within the curve of Dean's body, his weight on Dean's arm. The rise and fall of Cas's breathing and the soft scratch of hair on his legs tangled with Dean's, the lingering taste of Castiel on his tongue, the movement of the curtain and the wild spikes of Castiel's dark hair against the off-white pillowcase was all Dean let himself think about or feel for a few minutes, another minute, another.
He eased his arm out from under Castiel carefully, inch by inch, so he wouldn't wake him. Dean watched him sleep, looking at the scar beneath Castiel's ribs, the one he'd gotten from the demon ambush in the diner, the one he should've been able to heal himself from. There'd be more. There were always more, a never-ending succession of wounds and scars and demons and ghosts and monsters.
"Take care of yourself, asshole," Dean whispered, pausing as he pulled on his jeans and shirt.
He'd waited too long, he should've gotten up sooner, left sooner. Cas stirred, turning onto his back still asleep, and Cas had no idea, no fucking idea at all, how it got difficult for Dean to swallow, to move, how much he didn't want to get up from that bed.
He finally started to get up, slowly, because if he didn't do it then, he wouldn't be able to leave, and right now, that was what had to happen.
But Cas moved, eyes opening as his fingers closed lighting-quick and with what seemed like Castiel's old preternatural strength around Dean's wrist, fingers on his pulse.
"I'll see you soon, Dean," Cas said, gaze and tone weighted with immovable intention.
"Yeah."
"Dean."
He heard it in Castiel's voice there, Dean wasn't the only one having trouble letting go. "See you soon," Dean said, making sure his voice was steady.
They remained frozen like that a moment, Castiel's fingers around Dean's wrist. Then Cas let go.
~end