Where I Go (1/1)
exciting! my first challenge since big bang '09!
i didn't realize it as it was happening, but the theme of this fic is loosely based on the song "touch me" from the 2006 musical spring awakening. performance embedded at the bottom.
Where I Go
characters: dean/castiel, sam
rating: pg13 for language, sexuality
summary: it's christmas, and the boys hide in the rockies after a defeating confrontation with lucifer (5x10); dean thinks the weird thing here is that castiel lets them.
written for the dc_fireplace challenge!
word count: 2560
thank you to countess7 for being very excited about this, and for giving me an awesome beta. thanks to karabou and dugindeep for their help early on in the process!
NOW WITH PODFIC: download & listen here -- a stunning read by countess7. archived at audiofic by cybel -- thanks, lady!
Castiel is wearing a Santa hat when Dean opens the door.
"Sam said it was important," Castiel says.
"Uh huh."
"He also wanted me to give you this. He said maybe if it was from me, you wouldn't turn it down."
The last gift Dean accepted from Sam was an amulet. It was the most important thing he'd ever owned. He lost it. Sam was in college; Dean was living a little leaner, a little tougher than he is these days. One night after a hunt, he got back to his motel room, pulled his shirt off to examine the claw wounds, and it was gone.
He spent years looking for it: searching deep underground to see if it had turned up in any occult circles, or some two-bit witches’ hands. A few years ago, he’d even crossed back to the sight of the hunt - digging through evergreen and brush-covered trails - to see if it by chance was still lying there in the hard-packed permafrost of the Northern Colorado Rockies. It never turned up.
He eventually found a suitable replacement at a flea market in Ocala, Florida. It cost 75 cents. Sam's never looked at it twice; never noticed. Dean is careful to keep it tucked under his shirt collar anyway.
Sam tries every year, with the Christmas presents. Hides them places, tries to be clever. Some years he doesn't even bother wrapping it; just hands over a new wallet, or a silver flask, or a winter jacket. He says here, and waits expectantly for Dean to take it from him.
He's tried for cheap and unimportant; he's tried for things so expensive he was sure Dean would never turn them down. He refuses to give up, until sometime in mid-January when the thing is rolling around in the backseat, forgotten. It's usually unwrapped by March or April, makes it to the trunk by June. Sam ends up giving it away to someone they meet on the road, or selling it for gas money; never says anything about it to Dean.
Dean tries not to feel bad; he just can't have that happen again.
Castiel’s second Christmas is so much easier than the first; last year Dean had gone crazy with how many questions he’d had, how he’d dissected it and required extensive explanation of where these traditions came from, all rolled up so haphazardly. Sam had fielded the questions like a human search engine while Dean worked his way through a liter of Red Stag on the other side of the room.
Now, Castiel sits across from them in the diner, Santa hat on, smiling, shoveling apple pie into his face. He’s different, Dean thinks, studying him. There’s more there, these days; more love. More appreciation; more empathy; more loyalty. And he adores that freakin’ pie.
Sam is sitting next to Dean, elbow on the table, hand clapped over an expression ready to explode with laughter. Dean can’t help but crack a smile; this is nice.
“Are you two planning to stay here?” Castiel asks, fork astutely catching every stray bit of crust on the plate.
“Yeah,” Sam says. “We know a place. Need a break, just until after Christmas. This Lucifer stuff is, just. It’s not really going anywhere. We’re treading water right now.”
“We just need a couple days.”
“You’re tired,” Castiel nods easily, finishing off the last of his pie with a thumb loading the tines. “Can we order more of this?”
Odd how such an off-handed observation feels so very, very new. This time last year, taking the time to attend Pamela’s funeral was out of the question. Never mind plain old tired.
Sam and Dean are squatting. It’s an old cabin off the beaten path; settled at the mouth of a prehistoric alluvial fan, hiding in the shadows of the Rockies. Sam had remembered it from nearly ten years ago; Dad found it on a job they all worked together. Only spent two days here back then, but Sam’s always been good with directions.
After breakfast, Sam drops Dean off at the cabin and heads back into town to get some necessities. Dean’s task is to ferret out anything in the house that might be of use. He plans to keep them in the living room; their only source of heat is going be the fireplace.
First thing after dumping off his canvas duffel and Sam’s backpack, Dean heads out to the land behind the house and rats around at the tree line to the east. It’s a pathetic swatch of greenery, but there’s plenty of dry wood to be of use. He makes at least four trips.
He’s making sure the water runs clean, scrubbing the sweat off his face, when Castiel shows up again.
“Where do you go?” Dean asks, wiping the underside of his jaw on an old tee-shirt.
“Around,” Castiel says, and regards Dean only fleetingly. Instead he investigates the contents of the kitchen: touches the door handle lightly, notes the sturdiness of the table, opens the dead refrigerator. Smells something unpleasant, by the way he jolts back, expression souring as he carefully closes the door again.
“Around,” Dean laughs. “Man, there was a time I couldn’t pay you to be less specific.”
“This is a good home. A good place to be for a while.”
“It’s enough.”
Domicile, Dean thinks. There was a time it was a domicile.
“Why haven’t you opened it yet?” Castiel says then, leveling his gaze. “You’ve had it in your bag for a week, Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Please. Not that crap again. I call bullshit that he enlisted an angel to do his dirty work. Cas, we’ve been having this fight since long before you put your human shoes on. Keep your nose outta this one, will you?”
Castiel pauses. Then says carefully: “He loves you, you know. Like a little brother. Still needs your approval once in a while. Still needs to know you need him. You’re not just refusing a Christmas present.”
Dean’s fingers tighten in the tee-shirt he’s draping over the back of a chair. He drops his head between his shoulder blades; always with hitting the nerve.
“Whatever’s in that wrapping, you deserve it. You deserve him.”
Dean sighs. “Why do you always know? Why can you always just see me.”
“I just,” Castiel starts, shrugging, and then thinks for a moment. “I can feel you. I don’t know. Doesn’t usually work like that, but.”
Castiel tilts his head, eyes imploring Dean to just understand. And Dean does, but aside from that, he can’t remember a time where he’s watched Castiel struggle for words.
Sam and Dean take turns keeping the fire going that night, huddled in the living room as close to the hearth as they can get. The absence of the tall figure of their father standing over them in the night, keeping it stoked for them, is an ache that still pings Dean’s senses. They’re on their own.
It’s 6am when Dean finally quits tossing and gets up. The floor is too hard on his back, and his ribs ache from the fetal position required to maintain his body heat. He throws on some more wood and lets Sam sleep.
Dean can’t get warm. He’s in the kitchen at the stove. His sleeves are pulled down over his knuckles as he lights the pilots and cranks on the gas burners; one for the instant coffee at the bottom of Dean’s duffel, and one for the carton of eggs Sam snagged at the 7-11 last night.
Dean still remembers what’s in the sparse cabinets of this creaking kitchen; grabs a cob-webbed cast-iron skillet from the one at his knee, and a tin percolator from the one above his head. Nearly ten years and still no one has been here. It’s a shame.
Because he’s alone, he allows his teeth to chatter for a moment before firming up his jaw and picking at his chapped lips. They need a Wal-Mart trip today; Sam is probably good to go, but Dean needs thermals like you read about. It’s gonna be a long winter.
The morning is so still. It takes the water ages to boil. Dean stands over the meager heat source and fatigue sets back in. His gaze unfocuses, his mind quiets. His eyes get heavy. He feels the cold air touching his nose gently.
He feels a change, then, somewhere in his mind. It is not attached to a sound, or a movement of air, or a smell, or the way the hairs on his arm stand up when he senses another presence. It’s something deep and resonating in his chest, like relief, when Dean didn’t know he had anything to be relieved of.
He is not alone anymore.
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak. The dawn is still dark, holding him. He knows it’s Castiel, the way he can always tell whether or not Sam’s close.
Dean’s fingers twitch, arms and elbows held into his chest to lock in the faint heat of his core. He feels warmth blooming inside of him now, like a sunrise, and it is beautiful. It comes from some place else. Gratitude engulfs him so powerfully that he feels his eyes go instantly wet.
Castiel is close. Right at his back, shoulders lined up with Dean’s. He doesn’t speak, or breathe. His mouth hovers at the junction of Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean closes his eyes and zeroes in on the feelings. Together. Not alone. With.
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak. Doesn’t lean back, doesn’t move at all. Castiel is still and perfect. The space between them hums and lights up, and Dean is ignited.
When Castiel is gone, Dean feels it as emptiness, and he hadn’t known that Castiel had filled him up. Disappointment locks his bare feet to the cold tiled floor. He refuses to acknowledge the thought that has started to come to his mind unbidden: When will you be back?
When Dean opens the gift, Sam is in the bathroom, cleaning up with a pot of water he warmed on the stove. Dean is alone, staring at what’s lying delicately in the crumpled up paper bag wrapping.
He sits down on the bed, disbelieving. He touches it, picks it up with trembling fingers. Runs the pad of his thumb over its face. His lungs go tight, breath held against how utterly relieved and proud and young and sorry he feels. He closes it in his fist, grips it tight, makes a promise.
Sam comes out of the bathroom, sees Dean, and stops. Hovers nervously at the door frame for one ludicrous moment before coming to sit down beside him. Their shoulders brush; Sam’s hair is wet and smells clean. Dean rubs his eyes.
“How - where did you find this? I’ve been looking - it’s been a long time.”
“Called around, few months back. Picked it up in town the other day. An antique shop. I know you don’t think I just up and picked this town for any old reason. Idiot.”
“How did you know?”
“Are you kidding,” Sam laughs. “How could I not know? You can’t hide that shit from me. Just took me a while to find it again.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy. Guarded this thing with my fucking life and still lost it. I’m afraid to even take it back. It - it’s too much.”
“Well, it found you again. Must mean y’all are fated, or something. Better hang onto it this time.”
“Sam,” Dean says, and he’s frustrated. Sam’s not taking this seriously. This is serious.
“Hey,” Sam replies softly. Knocks his shoulder into Dean’s. “I’m just glad you opened it.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Dean doesn’t look up from the pilot he’s re-lighting. He focuses on the hissing sound, clicks the lighter, and hears the whoomph of the flame catching. He replaces the oven panel and gently closes the door.
Castiel is at his shoulder when he stands, eyes searching the empty doorway to the living room, ear tilted toward the silence. His gaze swings to Dean, aloof and matter-of-fact.
“It was fine,” Dean says. “Still could’ve stayed out of it.”
“He’s important to you. I’m surprised I have to remind you of that.”
“Didn’t ask for any favors.”
“You need guidance. We all do. That’s why I’m here. That’s why He sent me to you. Sam makes you strong, makes you do things you never would’ve done. You do the same for him. Squandering all of that on petty arguments, is just. Stupid.”
“Standing awful close, Cas.”
“Changing the subject, Dean. You are so predictable.”
Dean snorts, bitterly. “Guess it’s gotta be my winning personality, then.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, Dean,” Castiel sighs, and he’s close enough to feel. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore.”
When Castiel is gone, Dean feels a panic deep down that belts his chest in irons and pushes his feet forward into the empty space Castiel had just filled.
“Come back,” Dean says quietly, into the stillness.
And Castiel comes back, and he’s off-balance and breathless, and his eyes are wide. Dean moves, and Castiel’s arms are already open. The impact of their bodies slamming together gets Dean’s heart full to bursting. Energy dances from his chest outward to the tips of his fingers. He breathes hard, shakes, clutches Castiel’s coat; he feels desperate hands knotted into the back of his shirt. They hold so tight to each other that Dean feels held together for the first time since Lucifer rose.
It’s when Dean feels Castiel’s face turn into his neck that his breath hitches in his chest. He cautiously lets his nose press into Castiel’s hair; it smells like warming firewood.
“Remember when you first met me?” Dean says. “You said I didn’t have any faith. That I didn’t think I deserved to be saved. Well, I need to see it. I need to feel it to believe. And you did it, you’re here. I don’t remember the last time I felt like I was alone.”
“You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”
“I know. I can feel it.”
And Castiel says softly, into Dean’s neck, only his breath touching Dean’s tingling skin: “I. I want to touch you. Dean, I want to touch you.”
And Dean’s heart stumbles dumbly. Chin tucked, eyes cast down, he turns his face to Castiel and waits.
“I don’t know what to do,” Castiel says. “Sometimes I feel lost.”
“Well,” Dean says, too tense to laugh. “That’s just the good old human condition.”
Castiel picks up his chin, and Dean looks up, feeling terrified to his core. Castiel’s eyes are bright, worried, serious. Dean’s never seen anyone look so overwhelmed. But it’s a look that Dean understands, one that is so fundamentally true to all people, and he is comforted.
He leans in carefully, eyes shuttering closed on a heartbeat, parted mouth touching Castiel’s. The warmth is otherworldly. Castiel is still and his breath is held and he touches Dean’s mouth gently with his lips. Dean waits.
And when Castiel leans into it, Dean is ready. He lets a hand tip Castiel’s chin up, settles the other low on his back. Castiel steps into Dean’s space, presses them together, and opens his mouth. Silently he’s asking for more, and Dean is happy to show him the way.
[end]
"touch me," spring awakening cast on the view:
i didn't realize it as it was happening, but the theme of this fic is loosely based on the song "touch me" from the 2006 musical spring awakening. performance embedded at the bottom.
Where I Go
characters: dean/castiel, sam
rating: pg13 for language, sexuality
summary: it's christmas, and the boys hide in the rockies after a defeating confrontation with lucifer (5x10); dean thinks the weird thing here is that castiel lets them.
written for the dc_fireplace challenge!
word count: 2560
thank you to countess7 for being very excited about this, and for giving me an awesome beta. thanks to karabou and dugindeep for their help early on in the process!
NOW WITH PODFIC: download & listen here -- a stunning read by countess7. archived at audiofic by cybel -- thanks, lady!
Castiel is wearing a Santa hat when Dean opens the door.
"Sam said it was important," Castiel says.
"Uh huh."
"He also wanted me to give you this. He said maybe if it was from me, you wouldn't turn it down."
The last gift Dean accepted from Sam was an amulet. It was the most important thing he'd ever owned. He lost it. Sam was in college; Dean was living a little leaner, a little tougher than he is these days. One night after a hunt, he got back to his motel room, pulled his shirt off to examine the claw wounds, and it was gone.
He spent years looking for it: searching deep underground to see if it had turned up in any occult circles, or some two-bit witches’ hands. A few years ago, he’d even crossed back to the sight of the hunt - digging through evergreen and brush-covered trails - to see if it by chance was still lying there in the hard-packed permafrost of the Northern Colorado Rockies. It never turned up.
He eventually found a suitable replacement at a flea market in Ocala, Florida. It cost 75 cents. Sam's never looked at it twice; never noticed. Dean is careful to keep it tucked under his shirt collar anyway.
Sam tries every year, with the Christmas presents. Hides them places, tries to be clever. Some years he doesn't even bother wrapping it; just hands over a new wallet, or a silver flask, or a winter jacket. He says here, and waits expectantly for Dean to take it from him.
He's tried for cheap and unimportant; he's tried for things so expensive he was sure Dean would never turn them down. He refuses to give up, until sometime in mid-January when the thing is rolling around in the backseat, forgotten. It's usually unwrapped by March or April, makes it to the trunk by June. Sam ends up giving it away to someone they meet on the road, or selling it for gas money; never says anything about it to Dean.
Dean tries not to feel bad; he just can't have that happen again.
Castiel’s second Christmas is so much easier than the first; last year Dean had gone crazy with how many questions he’d had, how he’d dissected it and required extensive explanation of where these traditions came from, all rolled up so haphazardly. Sam had fielded the questions like a human search engine while Dean worked his way through a liter of Red Stag on the other side of the room.
Now, Castiel sits across from them in the diner, Santa hat on, smiling, shoveling apple pie into his face. He’s different, Dean thinks, studying him. There’s more there, these days; more love. More appreciation; more empathy; more loyalty. And he adores that freakin’ pie.
Sam is sitting next to Dean, elbow on the table, hand clapped over an expression ready to explode with laughter. Dean can’t help but crack a smile; this is nice.
“Are you two planning to stay here?” Castiel asks, fork astutely catching every stray bit of crust on the plate.
“Yeah,” Sam says. “We know a place. Need a break, just until after Christmas. This Lucifer stuff is, just. It’s not really going anywhere. We’re treading water right now.”
“We just need a couple days.”
“You’re tired,” Castiel nods easily, finishing off the last of his pie with a thumb loading the tines. “Can we order more of this?”
Odd how such an off-handed observation feels so very, very new. This time last year, taking the time to attend Pamela’s funeral was out of the question. Never mind plain old tired.
Sam and Dean are squatting. It’s an old cabin off the beaten path; settled at the mouth of a prehistoric alluvial fan, hiding in the shadows of the Rockies. Sam had remembered it from nearly ten years ago; Dad found it on a job they all worked together. Only spent two days here back then, but Sam’s always been good with directions.
After breakfast, Sam drops Dean off at the cabin and heads back into town to get some necessities. Dean’s task is to ferret out anything in the house that might be of use. He plans to keep them in the living room; their only source of heat is going be the fireplace.
First thing after dumping off his canvas duffel and Sam’s backpack, Dean heads out to the land behind the house and rats around at the tree line to the east. It’s a pathetic swatch of greenery, but there’s plenty of dry wood to be of use. He makes at least four trips.
He’s making sure the water runs clean, scrubbing the sweat off his face, when Castiel shows up again.
“Where do you go?” Dean asks, wiping the underside of his jaw on an old tee-shirt.
“Around,” Castiel says, and regards Dean only fleetingly. Instead he investigates the contents of the kitchen: touches the door handle lightly, notes the sturdiness of the table, opens the dead refrigerator. Smells something unpleasant, by the way he jolts back, expression souring as he carefully closes the door again.
“Around,” Dean laughs. “Man, there was a time I couldn’t pay you to be less specific.”
“This is a good home. A good place to be for a while.”
“It’s enough.”
Domicile, Dean thinks. There was a time it was a domicile.
“Why haven’t you opened it yet?” Castiel says then, leveling his gaze. “You’ve had it in your bag for a week, Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Please. Not that crap again. I call bullshit that he enlisted an angel to do his dirty work. Cas, we’ve been having this fight since long before you put your human shoes on. Keep your nose outta this one, will you?”
Castiel pauses. Then says carefully: “He loves you, you know. Like a little brother. Still needs your approval once in a while. Still needs to know you need him. You’re not just refusing a Christmas present.”
Dean’s fingers tighten in the tee-shirt he’s draping over the back of a chair. He drops his head between his shoulder blades; always with hitting the nerve.
“Whatever’s in that wrapping, you deserve it. You deserve him.”
Dean sighs. “Why do you always know? Why can you always just see me.”
“I just,” Castiel starts, shrugging, and then thinks for a moment. “I can feel you. I don’t know. Doesn’t usually work like that, but.”
Castiel tilts his head, eyes imploring Dean to just understand. And Dean does, but aside from that, he can’t remember a time where he’s watched Castiel struggle for words.
Sam and Dean take turns keeping the fire going that night, huddled in the living room as close to the hearth as they can get. The absence of the tall figure of their father standing over them in the night, keeping it stoked for them, is an ache that still pings Dean’s senses. They’re on their own.
It’s 6am when Dean finally quits tossing and gets up. The floor is too hard on his back, and his ribs ache from the fetal position required to maintain his body heat. He throws on some more wood and lets Sam sleep.
Dean can’t get warm. He’s in the kitchen at the stove. His sleeves are pulled down over his knuckles as he lights the pilots and cranks on the gas burners; one for the instant coffee at the bottom of Dean’s duffel, and one for the carton of eggs Sam snagged at the 7-11 last night.
Dean still remembers what’s in the sparse cabinets of this creaking kitchen; grabs a cob-webbed cast-iron skillet from the one at his knee, and a tin percolator from the one above his head. Nearly ten years and still no one has been here. It’s a shame.
Because he’s alone, he allows his teeth to chatter for a moment before firming up his jaw and picking at his chapped lips. They need a Wal-Mart trip today; Sam is probably good to go, but Dean needs thermals like you read about. It’s gonna be a long winter.
The morning is so still. It takes the water ages to boil. Dean stands over the meager heat source and fatigue sets back in. His gaze unfocuses, his mind quiets. His eyes get heavy. He feels the cold air touching his nose gently.
He feels a change, then, somewhere in his mind. It is not attached to a sound, or a movement of air, or a smell, or the way the hairs on his arm stand up when he senses another presence. It’s something deep and resonating in his chest, like relief, when Dean didn’t know he had anything to be relieved of.
He is not alone anymore.
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak. The dawn is still dark, holding him. He knows it’s Castiel, the way he can always tell whether or not Sam’s close.
Dean’s fingers twitch, arms and elbows held into his chest to lock in the faint heat of his core. He feels warmth blooming inside of him now, like a sunrise, and it is beautiful. It comes from some place else. Gratitude engulfs him so powerfully that he feels his eyes go instantly wet.
Castiel is close. Right at his back, shoulders lined up with Dean’s. He doesn’t speak, or breathe. His mouth hovers at the junction of Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean closes his eyes and zeroes in on the feelings. Together. Not alone. With.
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak. Doesn’t lean back, doesn’t move at all. Castiel is still and perfect. The space between them hums and lights up, and Dean is ignited.
When Castiel is gone, Dean feels it as emptiness, and he hadn’t known that Castiel had filled him up. Disappointment locks his bare feet to the cold tiled floor. He refuses to acknowledge the thought that has started to come to his mind unbidden: When will you be back?
When Dean opens the gift, Sam is in the bathroom, cleaning up with a pot of water he warmed on the stove. Dean is alone, staring at what’s lying delicately in the crumpled up paper bag wrapping.
He sits down on the bed, disbelieving. He touches it, picks it up with trembling fingers. Runs the pad of his thumb over its face. His lungs go tight, breath held against how utterly relieved and proud and young and sorry he feels. He closes it in his fist, grips it tight, makes a promise.
Sam comes out of the bathroom, sees Dean, and stops. Hovers nervously at the door frame for one ludicrous moment before coming to sit down beside him. Their shoulders brush; Sam’s hair is wet and smells clean. Dean rubs his eyes.
“How - where did you find this? I’ve been looking - it’s been a long time.”
“Called around, few months back. Picked it up in town the other day. An antique shop. I know you don’t think I just up and picked this town for any old reason. Idiot.”
“How did you know?”
“Are you kidding,” Sam laughs. “How could I not know? You can’t hide that shit from me. Just took me a while to find it again.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy. Guarded this thing with my fucking life and still lost it. I’m afraid to even take it back. It - it’s too much.”
“Well, it found you again. Must mean y’all are fated, or something. Better hang onto it this time.”
“Sam,” Dean says, and he’s frustrated. Sam’s not taking this seriously. This is serious.
“Hey,” Sam replies softly. Knocks his shoulder into Dean’s. “I’m just glad you opened it.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Dean doesn’t look up from the pilot he’s re-lighting. He focuses on the hissing sound, clicks the lighter, and hears the whoomph of the flame catching. He replaces the oven panel and gently closes the door.
Castiel is at his shoulder when he stands, eyes searching the empty doorway to the living room, ear tilted toward the silence. His gaze swings to Dean, aloof and matter-of-fact.
“It was fine,” Dean says. “Still could’ve stayed out of it.”
“He’s important to you. I’m surprised I have to remind you of that.”
“Didn’t ask for any favors.”
“You need guidance. We all do. That’s why I’m here. That’s why He sent me to you. Sam makes you strong, makes you do things you never would’ve done. You do the same for him. Squandering all of that on petty arguments, is just. Stupid.”
“Standing awful close, Cas.”
“Changing the subject, Dean. You are so predictable.”
Dean snorts, bitterly. “Guess it’s gotta be my winning personality, then.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, Dean,” Castiel sighs, and he’s close enough to feel. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore.”
When Castiel is gone, Dean feels a panic deep down that belts his chest in irons and pushes his feet forward into the empty space Castiel had just filled.
“Come back,” Dean says quietly, into the stillness.
And Castiel comes back, and he’s off-balance and breathless, and his eyes are wide. Dean moves, and Castiel’s arms are already open. The impact of their bodies slamming together gets Dean’s heart full to bursting. Energy dances from his chest outward to the tips of his fingers. He breathes hard, shakes, clutches Castiel’s coat; he feels desperate hands knotted into the back of his shirt. They hold so tight to each other that Dean feels held together for the first time since Lucifer rose.
It’s when Dean feels Castiel’s face turn into his neck that his breath hitches in his chest. He cautiously lets his nose press into Castiel’s hair; it smells like warming firewood.
“Remember when you first met me?” Dean says. “You said I didn’t have any faith. That I didn’t think I deserved to be saved. Well, I need to see it. I need to feel it to believe. And you did it, you’re here. I don’t remember the last time I felt like I was alone.”
“You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”
“I know. I can feel it.”
And Castiel says softly, into Dean’s neck, only his breath touching Dean’s tingling skin: “I. I want to touch you. Dean, I want to touch you.”
And Dean’s heart stumbles dumbly. Chin tucked, eyes cast down, he turns his face to Castiel and waits.
“I don’t know what to do,” Castiel says. “Sometimes I feel lost.”
“Well,” Dean says, too tense to laugh. “That’s just the good old human condition.”
Castiel picks up his chin, and Dean looks up, feeling terrified to his core. Castiel’s eyes are bright, worried, serious. Dean’s never seen anyone look so overwhelmed. But it’s a look that Dean understands, one that is so fundamentally true to all people, and he is comforted.
He leans in carefully, eyes shuttering closed on a heartbeat, parted mouth touching Castiel’s. The warmth is otherworldly. Castiel is still and his breath is held and he touches Dean’s mouth gently with his lips. Dean waits.
And when Castiel leans into it, Dean is ready. He lets a hand tip Castiel’s chin up, settles the other low on his back. Castiel steps into Dean’s space, presses them together, and opens his mouth. Silently he’s asking for more, and Dean is happy to show him the way.
[end]
"touch me," spring awakening cast on the view:
Click to view