[fic] hell or high water (5/5)
Warnings, notes & summary in full here
(IV.)
It had been so long since the last time Dean had woken up in bed with another living being that he could probably be forgiven had he assumed that he was back at Lisa’s, that the last eight months or so had just been one long psychotic break he was finally waking up from.
Yet strangely enough, that wasn’t where his mind went at all. From the second he opened his eyes, he knew exactly who the warm body next to his own belonged to: Cas, still out like a light, snoring gently in the old Zeppelin t-shirt Dean had forced him into.
Stretching, Dean rolled to face him, studying the planes and angles that made up his face, watching Castiel sleep as Castiel had watched him so many times before. Dean had always maintained that that particular habit was creepy and vaguely stalkerish, but from this side of things he could see that it really wasn’t. At least, it didn’t feel that way. It felt right, somehow; like he could happily lie here listening to Castiel’s soft exhalations for hours if the rest of the world would leave them alone long enough. The thought should have sent him running, but he was feeling weirdly at peace with the world right now, in spite of all the shit that had been going down lately.
Castiel had slept relatively peacefully all night; something for which Dean was both thankful and surprised. The last time they had shared this bed -- the night before Detroit -- Castiel had tossed and turned and whimpered all night, waking at one point with a gasp and a filthy look when Dean awkwardly attempted to calm him. Cas had been human then, too, but that had felt like the inevitable end of them all. This, now, felt more like a new beginning, only Dean wasn’t quite sure what exactly it was the beginning of.
Castiel sleeping looked younger somehow, without the weight of countless millennia behind those eyes, vulnerable and unguarded in a way he never was while awake. Dean took in the straight slope of his nose, the dark stubble shadowing his jaw; absently, he reached out to run his thumb over the ridge of one sharp cheekbone. It occurred to him after a moment to wonder just what the hell he thought he was doing -- but even then, he didn’t stop.
Dean was beginning to feel as though he was on the brink of some long overdue self-realization when a disconcertingly familiar sound filled the room: the fluttering, tearing noise of invisible wings that he usually associated with Castiel’s imminent arrival, but Castiel was right next to him, and no longer an angel.
He was groping for the knife under his pillow -- for all the good it would do him -- when Balthazar materialized at the foot of the bed, wearing that eternally irritating smirk he had so well perfected. His eyebrows arched theatrically at the sight of Dean and Castiel curled under the covers together, and Dean clamped down on the overwhelming urge to smack him one. If only for the sake of his hand.
“Well. This is cozy.”
Dean gritted his teeth. “You got something to say, say it.”
“Fine.” The smug look disappeared from Balthazar’s face in a manner that was both disconcerting and more than a little worrying. “I don’t like you.”
“Okay. That’s, uh… not exactly news, but thanks for the update. We done now?”
Balthazar glared at him in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of Castiel in his pissiest moments, moving closer to the bed in two quick strides.
“You think you know my brother; you don’t,” he snapped, and there was something serious in his tone that Dean hadn’t heard before. “I’ve been fighting at his side since before the concept of humanity had even begun brewing in our Father’s head, and believe me when I say that that kind of bond runs deep. If you need a point of reference, think of the way you feel about Sam -- then imagine if you’d had an eternity to feel it, and you might get somewhere close. Now pay attention, because here comes the important part.”
At this point, Balthazar took a deep breath that Dean was fairly sure was for display purposes only, as though he was bracing himself to say something particularly distasteful. It didn’t leave Dean feeling overly optimistic.
“I don’t like you. But since you’re apparently so slow on the uptake that you make him look sharp --” on the ‘him’, he tilted his chin towards Castiel, still comatose next to Dean. “-- I’m going to give you a few pointers in this specific area. To clarify: my brother is totally gone on you. Frankly, it’s embarrassing. In fact, he adores you to such a ridiculous degree that I can’t help thinking whatever Zachariah did to him back in the day must have knocked something loose in his brain.”
“The hell have you been smoking?” Dean scoffed; a knee-jerk reaction, but as far as protests went it was weak, and he knew it. He wasn’t blind, and no matter what Sam might say he wasn’t so emotionally stunted that he didn’t notice. The way Castiel would look at him sometimes, as though Dean was the only thing that mattered -- hell, as though Dean was the only thing that existed. The tension that always lay suffocating between them whenever they were in the same room together, like two magnets repelling and attracting at the same time, always just one broken thread away from either kissing or killing one another.
Yeah, Dean was aware. And he had wondered, occasionally, how Castiel would respond if Dean were to wrap a hand around that tie and use it to reel him in, what the angel would do if Dean were to put his tongue to that hollow at the base of his throat. He always sort of got the impression that Cas would be cool with it, even after the brothel incident. He thought that maybe if he’d offered to take care of Castiel’s virginity himself that night, rather than trying to pawn him off on some random unsuspecting hooker, things could have gone very differently indeed. But it had always seemed like something impossible, with all the chaos and violence that was constantly rumbling on around the both of them. Maybe that was just more deflection, denial; Dean didn’t know. All he knew was that, after all this time, he was so damn tired of putting obstacles in the way of getting what he wanted.
“You will never be able to understand the enormity of what Castiel has given up for you,” Balthazar was saying now, “but know this: if you ever screw him over, or let him down in any way, it will give me great pleasure to throw you back into the darkest corner of the Pit. Are we clear on that, or shall I draw you up some illustrations to help it sink in?”
Despite the snark, Dean had no doubt that the angel was being one hundred percent serious; the tone of his voice and the expression on his face spoke volumes. Dean nodded minutely, swallowing down the automatic panic response that still came even now whenever he thought of Hell.
“I hear you,” he affirmed. “No need to get out the Crayola.”
As if someone had flipped a switch, the trademark, devil-may-care look of self-satisfied superiority settled back over Balthazar’s features. “Right well, that’s settled, then. I’d best be off: with Raphael and Castiel both effectively out of the picture, Heaven’s going to be in complete meltdown. Again.”
Funny -- Dean hadn’t even considered how Cas being stuck on Earth would affect things on the celestial plane, post-war. He sincerely hoped that Castiel hadn’t actually left Balthazar in charge. He knew they were friends, but that could only be a disaster on roughly the same scale as having Charlie Sheen in the White House.
Balthazar’s gaze shifted to the still-motionless body next to Dean’s, and the look on his face softened somewhat, growing almost fond.
“Give Cas my best, won’t you?” And then he was gone before Dean even had a chance to reply, vanishing with another rustle of feathers.
The room suddenly seemed oppressively silent, save for the rhythmic sound of Castiel’s breathing, and Dean took a moment to consider everything Balthazar had said. If Castiel really did think about him… that way, would that be something Dean wanted? With Cas? After all, it was becoming painfully obvious that Cas himself was never going to do anything about it, so maybe it was time for Dean to grow a backbone and face his feelings head-on, for once.
He remembered all too clearly how he’d felt just last night, the mass of anxiety knotting his intestines when he’d thought Castiel’s third and most likely permanent death was an absolute certainty. Somehow, impossibly, the angel had dodged yet another bullet, and maybe that was a sign -- a sign that Dean should take his chances in the here and now before they were gone for good.
He was saved from any further thought on the matter when Castiel shifted and frowned, mumbling something incoherent before opening hazy blue eyes and squinting around in vague confusion. Dean watched him closely, but when it seemed unlikely that Castiel was going to freak out upon waking up human, he figured it was probably safe to speak.
“How do you feel?”
Castiel didn’t answer for a long moment, stretching his limbs out slowly, almost experimentally, holding a hand out in front of his face and studying it intently. It was as if, Dean mused, he was attempting to catalogue each and every part of his body, assessing the situation to find the most accurate means of answering the question. It was something of a relief to see -- clearly there were some things that would never change, and Castiel’s freakish computer brain was one of them.
“Decidedly human.” Castiel didn’t exactly sound thrilled at the prospect, but he didn’t sound like he was about to go and raid the nearest liquor store either, so Dean was cautiously optimistic. His voice was rough and abused in a way that had Dean thinking back to how he had screamed as the last of his Grace left him the night before, but it still carried that quiet intensity that never failed to command attention. Dean remembered Cas-from-the-future, Jimmy Novak, that Misha guy from the bizarro alternate universe Balthazar had dropped them into -- all of them had spoken in higher-pitched tones, and Dean found himself wondering how long it would be before that coil of power faded from this Castiel’s voice, too.
“I hope you won’t think less of me,” Castiel said quietly. Dean blinked in surprise because, seriously?
“For being human? I think that’d be a little bit hypocritical of me.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Castiel sighed. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and the avoidance was unusual enough that it set Dean on edge. “The things I’ve done in the name of this war… Dean, I just killed my brother.”
“Yeah, well, he had it coming.”
“Dean,” Castiel chastised. “Raphael wasn’t evil. He was just… misguided.”
“He wanted to end the world!”
“He wanted Paradise,” Castiel argued. “I wanted the same thing, once.”
“Yeah, once. And then you realized how wrong it was. You managed to think for yourself; why couldn’t he do the same thing?”
“He didn’t have you,” Castiel said simply. And… no. There was no way he was going to make Dean responsible for his entire rebellion -- again.
“Give yourself some credit, Cas. You made those choices yourself. I just… gave you a push in the right direction.”
Dean expected more argument, so he was pleasantly surprised when he got a faint smile instead, though it was tinged with sadness.
“Perhaps,” Castiel conceded, “but it isn’t just Raphael. It’s all the angels -- my brothers, my sisters; the ones I killed and tortured, and the ones I sent onto the battlefield to die on my behalf. I remember their names, all of them. And now I have to live with that.”
Dean found himself wishing that Castiel would stop talking. Given all the unsavory things he’d done himself, he doubted there was anything Cas could say that would make Dean think less of him; but all the same, there were things he really didn’t need to know. He propped himself up on one elbow, leaned over Castiel until he was forced to meet Dean’s gaze. He had done a similar thing in the Green Room on the eve of Armageddon, so long ago now. Now, like then, Castiel was powerless to resist him for long.
“You’re gonna drive yourself crazy playing these games. Believe me, I’ve been there. I know I’ve been pretty hard on you lately -- and don’t get me wrong, you’ve been a real dick at times -- but you’re not a bad person, Cas. You’re a good person who’s had to do some bad things because of a crappy situation; I get that better than anybody. I mean, there are things I did in Hell that -- even now, I struggle with it. Gotta keep my game face on for Sam, ‘cause that wall of his isn’t gonna last very long if he sees me freaking out all the time, but… The point is, no-one’s gonna judge you for doing what you had to do, least of all me. And I don’t know what you’re planning on doing now that you’re here for good, but… I’d sure appreciate it if you stuck around.”
Castiel held him under that intense scrutiny for a while, as though he was trying to see what the catch was; then he sighed, turning his head away.
“I don’t need your pity, Dean.”
“Fuck pity,” Dean snarled, suddenly angry. “This isn’t about pity, Cas; I want you around. Like I said, you’re a dick, and I don’t think I have to tell you that you drive me up the fucking wall half the time, but I’m well aware that I can be just as bad. You and me, we butt heads more than I’ve ever butted heads with anyone who isn’t Sam -- but the truth is, I think that’s why we work together so well. We don’t take each other’s shit, you know? We call each other out when we’re acting like asshats.”
Castiel continued to look at him disbelievingly, but Dean thought that maybe there was a tiny flicker of hope in there, somewhere. “So all is forgiven, then? Just like that? Dean, I used you.”
“Yeah, and that was one hell of a douche move, don’t get me wrong, but I think you’ve more than made up for it since then. You just saved my ass, if I remember rightly. Sam’s too, God. Thank you for that.”
“If it wasn’t for me, you would never have been endangered in the first place. I thought I was… protecting you, by keeping my distance, but obviously it wasn’t enough.” Castiel’s face twisted into something bitter and painful. “Raphael knew you were my weakness. How could he not?”
“Cas, for fuck’s sake,” Dean grated, cursing stubborn angels everywhere. Castiel stared at him, unreadable as ever -- until suddenly he wasn’t, the poker face crumpling into something more human as he closed his eyes in such an obvious gesture of surrender Dean almost expected him to start waving a white flag.
“I don’t know if I can be what you need me to be,” he said tightly. “I’m not the same as I was before.”
Dean snorted his exasperation. “Yeah, so you lost your wings. So what?”
Castiel’s eyes widened in outraged hurt. “Dean --”
“Just -- shut the fuck up and let me say this, would you?”
Castiel continued to glare but fell mostly silent, and Dean battled with his natural aversion to any discussion involving feelings, wishing momentarily for a strong drink. “Look, from the moment I met you, you’ve been this scary, scary son of a bitch. I mean -- there’s nothing that slows you down, not even for a second. I used to think it was ‘cause you were an angel, but then I actually met the rest of the family. And I gotta tell you, Cas, your brothers? Cowards and douchebags, every last one of ‘em. So you being the way you are has nothing to with whether you’re an angel or a human or something in between; it’s because you’re you. And that’s never gonna change. You’re always gonna be this pissy little bastard who kicks my ass six ways to Sunday and then risks everything to pull it out of the line of fire because, for some reason, you’ve decided I’m worth saving.”
Dean probably could have continued rambling on in this slightly embarrassing manner for a while longer, but he was effectively shut up by Castiel leaning up and pressing his lips to Dean’s own. It was just a chaste thing, barely lasting five seconds, but with it the universe seemed to finally make sense, stars and galaxies swinging into alignment and something Dean hadn’t even noticed he was missing finally falling into place.
“Well, son of a bitch. I guess Balthazar was telling the truth after all,” Dean muttered as they broke apart. Castiel blinked up at him owlishly.
“Balthazar was here?”
“Yeah, just before you woke up. He went to go take care of things upstairs, though. Uh, speaking of which -- that guy isn’t really in charge of Heaven now, is he?”
“There are… others. I left instructions, should I fall in battle. Though this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.” Talking about it, Castiel seemed to deflate again, and Dean felt like an ass for bringing it up in the first place. “What did Balthazar say?”
“Oh, just that you have the hots for me.”
Castiel snorted, the sound torn between amusement and exasperation. “Must you cheapen everything?”
“Dude, have you met me?” Dean scoffed, but he sobered up quickly. “Is it true?”
Castiel gave him the why are you such a freaking dumbass look that Dean was absolutely convinced he’d picked up from Sam. Dean found himself flushing under the weight of it.
“You know I don’t deserve it.”
“You deserve everything,” Castiel murmured, suddenly gentle. Coming from anyone else, it would have fallen flat, an empty Hallmark sentiment, but Cas brought an awkward sincerity to every word that passed his lips. Dean had never been able to wrap his head around the way he could flip so easily from the ruthless, acerbic angel-of-the-lord that was Castiel to this warm, soft thing that looked at him with such naked affection. He had no idea how the hell he was supposed to reply to something like that anyway, so he did the next best thing he could think of and kissed Cas again.
A proper kiss this time, slow and deep and thorough, and Castiel’s mouth yielded beneath Dean’s own. Castiel’s lips were dry, but they were soft and full and moved obligingly against Dean’s, pliant and willing to be led. For all of his usual pushy impatience, Castiel now seemed perfectly happy to let Dean direct, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face while the other curled tentatively over his shoulder, making soft, eager noises against him. They were barely even getting started, but still Dean felt the first shimmering heat of arousal beginning to build low down in his belly.
He pulled away when oxygen started to become a concern, gazed down at Castiel; all lust-darkened eyes, mouth red and damp with saliva. I did that, Dean thought, and felt an odd surge of pride.
“What the hell are we doing, huh?” He asked, because he had to be sure.
“I believe we’re kissing,” Castiel replied, as though that was the most normal thing ever. The thing was, it kind of felt that way.
Dean rested their foreheads together, took a moment to just breathe before moving in again. He captured Castiel’s lower lip between both of his own, sucking gently, worrying at the slick swell of flesh with his teeth. Castiel opened up to let him in when Dean licked insistently at the seam of his lips; the wet glide of tongues that followed was enough to pull a quiet moan from Dean’s throat, and an answering one from Castiel’s. Dean tried to kiss Cas the way he liked it himself, showing him how it felt when it was good, demonstrating with actions rather than words that there was more to humanity than pain and death and hopelessness. If the way Castiel sighed and relaxed into him was indication enough, the message was getting through loud and clear.
Dean moved away again when he felt his muscles beginning to cramp, ignoring Cas’ whine of protest to mouth at the underside of his jaw; biting down at first with a gentle pressure, and then harder when it made Castiel shiver and flex his fingers against Dean’s biceps. The knowledge that he was marking Castiel, branding him in the same way that Dean carried the handprint on his shoulder, gave him a weird thrill right through to his core.
Castiel let his head fall back onto the pillow, and Dean took that as invitation to draw a path in saliva down the pale column of his throat, taste the slight concavity just above his collarbone, getting the neckline of his shirt -- Dean’s shirt -- damp with spit. Sweat had gathered in the hollow, and beneath that Castiel’s skin tasted of salt and something clean, like soap or laundry detergent; utterly human.
Castiel’s hands grew bolder, gripping Dean’s waist before pushing under his t-shirt, the material gathering at his wrists as he mapped the expanse of Dean’s back, testing the length of his spine and the span of his scapulae. Then his hands swept around to the front, and Dean muffled a groan in the meeting place of Castiel’s neck and shoulder as cool, strong fingers brushed his nipples, playing over his abdominal muscles with light, inquisitive touches before moving still further south, dipping just beneath the waistband of Dean’s shorts.
Dean responded by sucking on Castiel’s pulse point in what could have been either punishment or reward, feeling the hot rush of blood just beneath the surface, listening to the hushed, exultant murmur that resulted. He found that he just had to taste that mouth again, and followed the sound back to its source, kissing Castiel deep enough to lick his back teeth -- and Castiel responded in kind, coiling his tongue around Dean’s like he’d missed having it there, fingertips digging firmly into taut muscle.
Some part of Dean wondered if they weren’t moving too fast, if this wasn’t all too much too soon. But fuck it, he and Cas had been dancing around each other for years now; if they slowed things down any further, they’d probably start moving backwards. And this felt good, right, inevitable in a way that all those angels and demons with their prophecies and holy scriptures could never have conceived.
Dean settled his weight more fully on top of Castiel, one hand molding to the subtle curve of his hip while the other carded through perpetually unruly hair. He parted Castiel’s legs with one of his own, the sensation of their bare thighs sliding together sending his arousal soaring ever higher. And he wasn’t the only one, he realized when Castiel shifted just so beneath him; Cas was fully hard already, the evidence pressing insistently against Dean’s stomach. Dean moved the hand he had at Castiel’s hip to palm him through his boxers, and Castiel broke the kiss with a choked noise that stuck somewhere in his throat, turning his head away even as he arched unconsciously into the touch.
“Dean,” he gasped helplessly, and he sounded a little lost, overwhelmed.
“I know,” Dean murmured, mostly because he felt much the same way. “S’okay, I’ve got you.”
He undressed Castiel slowly, worshipping every inch of newly-mortal flesh until Cas was practically sobbing with frustration; then Dean guided him all the way up to the edge, and over the other side. Castiel came apart with a sharp cry and Dean’s name on his lips, a brand-new human being experiencing sensation for the first time, and Dean held him through the aftershocks.
“You good?” He asked once Castiel seemed ready to focus again, trying valiantly to ignore the fact that he was practically aching with need by now.
“Better than good,” Castiel affirmed, still looking slightly stunned. “Dean, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, there’s plenty more where that came from,” Dean promised with a smirk, moving back a little way. He intended to take care of himself, but Castiel surprised him again by getting there first. He was undeniably clumsy, but his eagerness to please more than made up for it, and Dean led him through this, too. And for all his experience, Dean didn’t manage to last a whole lot longer than Castiel had.
Afterwards, they lay twined in a sweaty heap, an intricate Celtic knot of limbs that made it almost impossible to tell which appendage belonged to whom. It was strange, because Dean wasn’t usually one for intimacy after sex -- even with Lisa, he’d shied away from it more often than not -- but he found that he couldn’t stop touching Castiel, random caresses to his back and shoulders and ribs, brush of lips over his nose and temple and cheekbone. Castiel seemed to be suffering the same affliction, if the way his hands moved restlessly over Dean’s skin was any indication; but after a while his movements slowed and his breathing evened out as he fell back into sleep, still clearly exhausted. And even though it was gone eight o’clock and he could hear Sam and Bobby moving around downstairs, Dean let him rest.
The tightness in his chest was an entirely new feeling, and Dean realized that this right here was completely unlike that perfect existence he had wanted so desperately with Lisa, forever just out of his reach. This was something real, something he could actually have -- and God help him, Dean was going to make damn sure he held onto it.
+
The road unspooled in a stretch of black pitch beneath the Impala’s wheels, infinite and reaching, another mile seemingly added on for every one swallowed by her engine. There was a time, when he was still full of Grace, that Castiel would not have had the patience for this mode of travel. It still felt restricted, confining, as he had once told Lucifer, but for now he was content enough to curl in the backseat, listen to the low hum of the radio and the gentle back-and-forth bickering between Sam and Dean as the scenery flew past his window.
Castiel had partaken of his first pancakes that morning, when Dean had finally managed to coax him from the warmth and softness of the blankets, and he could still taste the sugar crystals clinging between his teeth, gritty and sweet. He and Dean had sat much closer together than they usually would at the table, close enough that Castiel had been able to feel the heat radiating from Dean’s body even through both sets of clothing.
Though there had been no outward acknowledgement of what had happened between them in front of the others, Sam had smiled at them in a way that Castiel believed could be categorized as ‘knowing’, while Bobby had merely rolled his eyes and proclaimed them ‘idjits’. Both reactions had caused Dean to flush pink in a thoroughly interesting manner; Castiel had found himself quite unable to resist staring, and when Dean noticed this he’d smirked and squeezed Castiel’s knee under the table.
Some time after breakfast, Bobby had talked to another hunter in hushed tones over the phone, brows furrowing under his cap as he’d pored over his beaten old roadmap, marking off locations with thick black crosses.
“Got some major monster activity goin’ on up Arkansas way,” he’d informed them once he’d put the phone down. “Werewolves changing in the middle of the day, random ghoul attacks… coupla things Willie’d never even seen before.”
Castiel remembered the look Dean and Sam had exchanged at this; grim and meaningful, filled with so many complex layers he scarcely knew where to begin deciphering them.
“Eve again?” Sam had asked, sharp as ever.
“I’d bet my cap on it,” Bobby grunted, which for some reason had made Dean snort with nervous laughter.
They’d headed out not long after that, Bobby warning them to “watch your backs, we’ve lost too many good people lately, you hear?” He’d exchanged gruff hugs with both Sam and Dean before they left, and even clapped Castiel briefly on the shoulder, the closest the old man had ever come to demonstrating something other than irritated impatience towards him.
Castiel had hesitated briefly when they’d reached the car, unsure of the extent to which he was welcome, but Dean had merely waved him into the backseat as though there was no other place for him. If Sam had any issues with the arrangement, he hadn’t commented, and the brief, tense smile he’d given Castiel when he folded his long limbs into the passenger seat was genuine enough.
Even with the war over, the world was still so very far from perfect. They still had Eve to contend with, and battling the mother of all monsters would surely be as taxing as their fight against the Devil himself. Even with Raphael dead, it was unlikely that Heaven’s politics would be stable for a long while, and a large part of Castiel still resented that he couldn’t oversee proceedings, keep his brothers and sisters on the correct path. Hell, too, was likely to be in chaos with Lucifer caged and Crowley and Meg both dead.
Even if they made it through all of that unscathed, there were other things to consider. Like the wall in Sam’s head, a precarious dam struggling to hold back the memories that would ruin him. Castiel doubted it would last forever, and when the tide burst through, Sam would likely never recover from it. By extension, neither would Dean.
And then there was the treacherous minefield of humanity that Castiel would once again find himself having to navigate. Losing his Grace all over again was something he had failed to anticipate after his second resurrection, and the loss of it was very much a physical ache -- a sharp, numbing pain somewhere behind his sternum that not even the kindest words or most intimate of touches could soothe. He wondered if it was something that would fade over time until he could scarcely feel it, or if would remain for all of his days -- limited though they were, now -- a constant reminder of what he had once been.
He did not mention this to Dean. The man had enough to contend with without feeling guilty on his behalf, and Castiel would not be a burden.
Besides which, the steel and glass of the Impala provided a small measure of insulation against the outside world, and though Castiel knew the feelings of peace and safety were an illusion that would not last long, it was all too easy in this moment to enjoy the light conversation and easy company. Dean and Sam were still arguing in the front seat, but their words lacked heat, and there was an undercurrent of fondness that had been missing before the return of Sam’s soul.
“…Cas agrees with me, anyway,” Dean was saying, a hint of smugness in his tone. “Right, Cas?”
Castiel had no idea what it was he was supposed to be agreeing to, but it hardly mattered. And when he dutifully replied always, Dean, he made sure his own voice was heavily laden with sarcasm. Sam snickered in a wholly obnoxious manner, and Dean removed one hand from the steering wheel to whack him upside the head.
“Jesus Christ, as if dealing with one prissy little tightwad wasn’t bad enough,” Dean muttered, but when he met Castiel’s gaze in the rearview mirror his eyes were warm, as warm as the sun that filtered golden through the window.
There was no telling what fresh pains the future would bring, but in this moment they were all alive, and Sam was laughing openly now as Dean’s lips curved into a reluctant smile.
And slowly -- very slowly -- Castiel smiled back.
[end.]
Notes: According to the List of Enochian Angels, Baradiel is the angel of hail.
I don’t claim to be an expert on Hindu mythology, but I did my research: the Dakshineswar Kali Temple is a real Hindu temple near Kolkata in India. Bhavatarini is an aspect of Kali with the literal meaning ‘redeemer of the universe’.
(IV.)
It had been so long since the last time Dean had woken up in bed with another living being that he could probably be forgiven had he assumed that he was back at Lisa’s, that the last eight months or so had just been one long psychotic break he was finally waking up from.
Yet strangely enough, that wasn’t where his mind went at all. From the second he opened his eyes, he knew exactly who the warm body next to his own belonged to: Cas, still out like a light, snoring gently in the old Zeppelin t-shirt Dean had forced him into.
Stretching, Dean rolled to face him, studying the planes and angles that made up his face, watching Castiel sleep as Castiel had watched him so many times before. Dean had always maintained that that particular habit was creepy and vaguely stalkerish, but from this side of things he could see that it really wasn’t. At least, it didn’t feel that way. It felt right, somehow; like he could happily lie here listening to Castiel’s soft exhalations for hours if the rest of the world would leave them alone long enough. The thought should have sent him running, but he was feeling weirdly at peace with the world right now, in spite of all the shit that had been going down lately.
Castiel had slept relatively peacefully all night; something for which Dean was both thankful and surprised. The last time they had shared this bed -- the night before Detroit -- Castiel had tossed and turned and whimpered all night, waking at one point with a gasp and a filthy look when Dean awkwardly attempted to calm him. Cas had been human then, too, but that had felt like the inevitable end of them all. This, now, felt more like a new beginning, only Dean wasn’t quite sure what exactly it was the beginning of.
Castiel sleeping looked younger somehow, without the weight of countless millennia behind those eyes, vulnerable and unguarded in a way he never was while awake. Dean took in the straight slope of his nose, the dark stubble shadowing his jaw; absently, he reached out to run his thumb over the ridge of one sharp cheekbone. It occurred to him after a moment to wonder just what the hell he thought he was doing -- but even then, he didn’t stop.
Dean was beginning to feel as though he was on the brink of some long overdue self-realization when a disconcertingly familiar sound filled the room: the fluttering, tearing noise of invisible wings that he usually associated with Castiel’s imminent arrival, but Castiel was right next to him, and no longer an angel.
He was groping for the knife under his pillow -- for all the good it would do him -- when Balthazar materialized at the foot of the bed, wearing that eternally irritating smirk he had so well perfected. His eyebrows arched theatrically at the sight of Dean and Castiel curled under the covers together, and Dean clamped down on the overwhelming urge to smack him one. If only for the sake of his hand.
“Well. This is cozy.”
Dean gritted his teeth. “You got something to say, say it.”
“Fine.” The smug look disappeared from Balthazar’s face in a manner that was both disconcerting and more than a little worrying. “I don’t like you.”
“Okay. That’s, uh… not exactly news, but thanks for the update. We done now?”
Balthazar glared at him in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of Castiel in his pissiest moments, moving closer to the bed in two quick strides.
“You think you know my brother; you don’t,” he snapped, and there was something serious in his tone that Dean hadn’t heard before. “I’ve been fighting at his side since before the concept of humanity had even begun brewing in our Father’s head, and believe me when I say that that kind of bond runs deep. If you need a point of reference, think of the way you feel about Sam -- then imagine if you’d had an eternity to feel it, and you might get somewhere close. Now pay attention, because here comes the important part.”
At this point, Balthazar took a deep breath that Dean was fairly sure was for display purposes only, as though he was bracing himself to say something particularly distasteful. It didn’t leave Dean feeling overly optimistic.
“I don’t like you. But since you’re apparently so slow on the uptake that you make him look sharp --” on the ‘him’, he tilted his chin towards Castiel, still comatose next to Dean. “-- I’m going to give you a few pointers in this specific area. To clarify: my brother is totally gone on you. Frankly, it’s embarrassing. In fact, he adores you to such a ridiculous degree that I can’t help thinking whatever Zachariah did to him back in the day must have knocked something loose in his brain.”
“The hell have you been smoking?” Dean scoffed; a knee-jerk reaction, but as far as protests went it was weak, and he knew it. He wasn’t blind, and no matter what Sam might say he wasn’t so emotionally stunted that he didn’t notice. The way Castiel would look at him sometimes, as though Dean was the only thing that mattered -- hell, as though Dean was the only thing that existed. The tension that always lay suffocating between them whenever they were in the same room together, like two magnets repelling and attracting at the same time, always just one broken thread away from either kissing or killing one another.
Yeah, Dean was aware. And he had wondered, occasionally, how Castiel would respond if Dean were to wrap a hand around that tie and use it to reel him in, what the angel would do if Dean were to put his tongue to that hollow at the base of his throat. He always sort of got the impression that Cas would be cool with it, even after the brothel incident. He thought that maybe if he’d offered to take care of Castiel’s virginity himself that night, rather than trying to pawn him off on some random unsuspecting hooker, things could have gone very differently indeed. But it had always seemed like something impossible, with all the chaos and violence that was constantly rumbling on around the both of them. Maybe that was just more deflection, denial; Dean didn’t know. All he knew was that, after all this time, he was so damn tired of putting obstacles in the way of getting what he wanted.
“You will never be able to understand the enormity of what Castiel has given up for you,” Balthazar was saying now, “but know this: if you ever screw him over, or let him down in any way, it will give me great pleasure to throw you back into the darkest corner of the Pit. Are we clear on that, or shall I draw you up some illustrations to help it sink in?”
Despite the snark, Dean had no doubt that the angel was being one hundred percent serious; the tone of his voice and the expression on his face spoke volumes. Dean nodded minutely, swallowing down the automatic panic response that still came even now whenever he thought of Hell.
“I hear you,” he affirmed. “No need to get out the Crayola.”
As if someone had flipped a switch, the trademark, devil-may-care look of self-satisfied superiority settled back over Balthazar’s features. “Right well, that’s settled, then. I’d best be off: with Raphael and Castiel both effectively out of the picture, Heaven’s going to be in complete meltdown. Again.”
Funny -- Dean hadn’t even considered how Cas being stuck on Earth would affect things on the celestial plane, post-war. He sincerely hoped that Castiel hadn’t actually left Balthazar in charge. He knew they were friends, but that could only be a disaster on roughly the same scale as having Charlie Sheen in the White House.
Balthazar’s gaze shifted to the still-motionless body next to Dean’s, and the look on his face softened somewhat, growing almost fond.
“Give Cas my best, won’t you?” And then he was gone before Dean even had a chance to reply, vanishing with another rustle of feathers.
The room suddenly seemed oppressively silent, save for the rhythmic sound of Castiel’s breathing, and Dean took a moment to consider everything Balthazar had said. If Castiel really did think about him… that way, would that be something Dean wanted? With Cas? After all, it was becoming painfully obvious that Cas himself was never going to do anything about it, so maybe it was time for Dean to grow a backbone and face his feelings head-on, for once.
He remembered all too clearly how he’d felt just last night, the mass of anxiety knotting his intestines when he’d thought Castiel’s third and most likely permanent death was an absolute certainty. Somehow, impossibly, the angel had dodged yet another bullet, and maybe that was a sign -- a sign that Dean should take his chances in the here and now before they were gone for good.
He was saved from any further thought on the matter when Castiel shifted and frowned, mumbling something incoherent before opening hazy blue eyes and squinting around in vague confusion. Dean watched him closely, but when it seemed unlikely that Castiel was going to freak out upon waking up human, he figured it was probably safe to speak.
“How do you feel?”
Castiel didn’t answer for a long moment, stretching his limbs out slowly, almost experimentally, holding a hand out in front of his face and studying it intently. It was as if, Dean mused, he was attempting to catalogue each and every part of his body, assessing the situation to find the most accurate means of answering the question. It was something of a relief to see -- clearly there were some things that would never change, and Castiel’s freakish computer brain was one of them.
“Decidedly human.” Castiel didn’t exactly sound thrilled at the prospect, but he didn’t sound like he was about to go and raid the nearest liquor store either, so Dean was cautiously optimistic. His voice was rough and abused in a way that had Dean thinking back to how he had screamed as the last of his Grace left him the night before, but it still carried that quiet intensity that never failed to command attention. Dean remembered Cas-from-the-future, Jimmy Novak, that Misha guy from the bizarro alternate universe Balthazar had dropped them into -- all of them had spoken in higher-pitched tones, and Dean found himself wondering how long it would be before that coil of power faded from this Castiel’s voice, too.
“I hope you won’t think less of me,” Castiel said quietly. Dean blinked in surprise because, seriously?
“For being human? I think that’d be a little bit hypocritical of me.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Castiel sighed. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and the avoidance was unusual enough that it set Dean on edge. “The things I’ve done in the name of this war… Dean, I just killed my brother.”
“Yeah, well, he had it coming.”
“Dean,” Castiel chastised. “Raphael wasn’t evil. He was just… misguided.”
“He wanted to end the world!”
“He wanted Paradise,” Castiel argued. “I wanted the same thing, once.”
“Yeah, once. And then you realized how wrong it was. You managed to think for yourself; why couldn’t he do the same thing?”
“He didn’t have you,” Castiel said simply. And… no. There was no way he was going to make Dean responsible for his entire rebellion -- again.
“Give yourself some credit, Cas. You made those choices yourself. I just… gave you a push in the right direction.”
Dean expected more argument, so he was pleasantly surprised when he got a faint smile instead, though it was tinged with sadness.
“Perhaps,” Castiel conceded, “but it isn’t just Raphael. It’s all the angels -- my brothers, my sisters; the ones I killed and tortured, and the ones I sent onto the battlefield to die on my behalf. I remember their names, all of them. And now I have to live with that.”
Dean found himself wishing that Castiel would stop talking. Given all the unsavory things he’d done himself, he doubted there was anything Cas could say that would make Dean think less of him; but all the same, there were things he really didn’t need to know. He propped himself up on one elbow, leaned over Castiel until he was forced to meet Dean’s gaze. He had done a similar thing in the Green Room on the eve of Armageddon, so long ago now. Now, like then, Castiel was powerless to resist him for long.
“You’re gonna drive yourself crazy playing these games. Believe me, I’ve been there. I know I’ve been pretty hard on you lately -- and don’t get me wrong, you’ve been a real dick at times -- but you’re not a bad person, Cas. You’re a good person who’s had to do some bad things because of a crappy situation; I get that better than anybody. I mean, there are things I did in Hell that -- even now, I struggle with it. Gotta keep my game face on for Sam, ‘cause that wall of his isn’t gonna last very long if he sees me freaking out all the time, but… The point is, no-one’s gonna judge you for doing what you had to do, least of all me. And I don’t know what you’re planning on doing now that you’re here for good, but… I’d sure appreciate it if you stuck around.”
Castiel held him under that intense scrutiny for a while, as though he was trying to see what the catch was; then he sighed, turning his head away.
“I don’t need your pity, Dean.”
“Fuck pity,” Dean snarled, suddenly angry. “This isn’t about pity, Cas; I want you around. Like I said, you’re a dick, and I don’t think I have to tell you that you drive me up the fucking wall half the time, but I’m well aware that I can be just as bad. You and me, we butt heads more than I’ve ever butted heads with anyone who isn’t Sam -- but the truth is, I think that’s why we work together so well. We don’t take each other’s shit, you know? We call each other out when we’re acting like asshats.”
Castiel continued to look at him disbelievingly, but Dean thought that maybe there was a tiny flicker of hope in there, somewhere. “So all is forgiven, then? Just like that? Dean, I used you.”
“Yeah, and that was one hell of a douche move, don’t get me wrong, but I think you’ve more than made up for it since then. You just saved my ass, if I remember rightly. Sam’s too, God. Thank you for that.”
“If it wasn’t for me, you would never have been endangered in the first place. I thought I was… protecting you, by keeping my distance, but obviously it wasn’t enough.” Castiel’s face twisted into something bitter and painful. “Raphael knew you were my weakness. How could he not?”
“Cas, for fuck’s sake,” Dean grated, cursing stubborn angels everywhere. Castiel stared at him, unreadable as ever -- until suddenly he wasn’t, the poker face crumpling into something more human as he closed his eyes in such an obvious gesture of surrender Dean almost expected him to start waving a white flag.
“I don’t know if I can be what you need me to be,” he said tightly. “I’m not the same as I was before.”
Dean snorted his exasperation. “Yeah, so you lost your wings. So what?”
Castiel’s eyes widened in outraged hurt. “Dean --”
“Just -- shut the fuck up and let me say this, would you?”
Castiel continued to glare but fell mostly silent, and Dean battled with his natural aversion to any discussion involving feelings, wishing momentarily for a strong drink. “Look, from the moment I met you, you’ve been this scary, scary son of a bitch. I mean -- there’s nothing that slows you down, not even for a second. I used to think it was ‘cause you were an angel, but then I actually met the rest of the family. And I gotta tell you, Cas, your brothers? Cowards and douchebags, every last one of ‘em. So you being the way you are has nothing to with whether you’re an angel or a human or something in between; it’s because you’re you. And that’s never gonna change. You’re always gonna be this pissy little bastard who kicks my ass six ways to Sunday and then risks everything to pull it out of the line of fire because, for some reason, you’ve decided I’m worth saving.”
Dean probably could have continued rambling on in this slightly embarrassing manner for a while longer, but he was effectively shut up by Castiel leaning up and pressing his lips to Dean’s own. It was just a chaste thing, barely lasting five seconds, but with it the universe seemed to finally make sense, stars and galaxies swinging into alignment and something Dean hadn’t even noticed he was missing finally falling into place.
“Well, son of a bitch. I guess Balthazar was telling the truth after all,” Dean muttered as they broke apart. Castiel blinked up at him owlishly.
“Balthazar was here?”
“Yeah, just before you woke up. He went to go take care of things upstairs, though. Uh, speaking of which -- that guy isn’t really in charge of Heaven now, is he?”
“There are… others. I left instructions, should I fall in battle. Though this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.” Talking about it, Castiel seemed to deflate again, and Dean felt like an ass for bringing it up in the first place. “What did Balthazar say?”
“Oh, just that you have the hots for me.”
Castiel snorted, the sound torn between amusement and exasperation. “Must you cheapen everything?”
“Dude, have you met me?” Dean scoffed, but he sobered up quickly. “Is it true?”
Castiel gave him the why are you such a freaking dumbass look that Dean was absolutely convinced he’d picked up from Sam. Dean found himself flushing under the weight of it.
“You know I don’t deserve it.”
“You deserve everything,” Castiel murmured, suddenly gentle. Coming from anyone else, it would have fallen flat, an empty Hallmark sentiment, but Cas brought an awkward sincerity to every word that passed his lips. Dean had never been able to wrap his head around the way he could flip so easily from the ruthless, acerbic angel-of-the-lord that was Castiel to this warm, soft thing that looked at him with such naked affection. He had no idea how the hell he was supposed to reply to something like that anyway, so he did the next best thing he could think of and kissed Cas again.
A proper kiss this time, slow and deep and thorough, and Castiel’s mouth yielded beneath Dean’s own. Castiel’s lips were dry, but they were soft and full and moved obligingly against Dean’s, pliant and willing to be led. For all of his usual pushy impatience, Castiel now seemed perfectly happy to let Dean direct, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face while the other curled tentatively over his shoulder, making soft, eager noises against him. They were barely even getting started, but still Dean felt the first shimmering heat of arousal beginning to build low down in his belly.
He pulled away when oxygen started to become a concern, gazed down at Castiel; all lust-darkened eyes, mouth red and damp with saliva. I did that, Dean thought, and felt an odd surge of pride.
“What the hell are we doing, huh?” He asked, because he had to be sure.
“I believe we’re kissing,” Castiel replied, as though that was the most normal thing ever. The thing was, it kind of felt that way.
Dean rested their foreheads together, took a moment to just breathe before moving in again. He captured Castiel’s lower lip between both of his own, sucking gently, worrying at the slick swell of flesh with his teeth. Castiel opened up to let him in when Dean licked insistently at the seam of his lips; the wet glide of tongues that followed was enough to pull a quiet moan from Dean’s throat, and an answering one from Castiel’s. Dean tried to kiss Cas the way he liked it himself, showing him how it felt when it was good, demonstrating with actions rather than words that there was more to humanity than pain and death and hopelessness. If the way Castiel sighed and relaxed into him was indication enough, the message was getting through loud and clear.
Dean moved away again when he felt his muscles beginning to cramp, ignoring Cas’ whine of protest to mouth at the underside of his jaw; biting down at first with a gentle pressure, and then harder when it made Castiel shiver and flex his fingers against Dean’s biceps. The knowledge that he was marking Castiel, branding him in the same way that Dean carried the handprint on his shoulder, gave him a weird thrill right through to his core.
Castiel let his head fall back onto the pillow, and Dean took that as invitation to draw a path in saliva down the pale column of his throat, taste the slight concavity just above his collarbone, getting the neckline of his shirt -- Dean’s shirt -- damp with spit. Sweat had gathered in the hollow, and beneath that Castiel’s skin tasted of salt and something clean, like soap or laundry detergent; utterly human.
Castiel’s hands grew bolder, gripping Dean’s waist before pushing under his t-shirt, the material gathering at his wrists as he mapped the expanse of Dean’s back, testing the length of his spine and the span of his scapulae. Then his hands swept around to the front, and Dean muffled a groan in the meeting place of Castiel’s neck and shoulder as cool, strong fingers brushed his nipples, playing over his abdominal muscles with light, inquisitive touches before moving still further south, dipping just beneath the waistband of Dean’s shorts.
Dean responded by sucking on Castiel’s pulse point in what could have been either punishment or reward, feeling the hot rush of blood just beneath the surface, listening to the hushed, exultant murmur that resulted. He found that he just had to taste that mouth again, and followed the sound back to its source, kissing Castiel deep enough to lick his back teeth -- and Castiel responded in kind, coiling his tongue around Dean’s like he’d missed having it there, fingertips digging firmly into taut muscle.
Some part of Dean wondered if they weren’t moving too fast, if this wasn’t all too much too soon. But fuck it, he and Cas had been dancing around each other for years now; if they slowed things down any further, they’d probably start moving backwards. And this felt good, right, inevitable in a way that all those angels and demons with their prophecies and holy scriptures could never have conceived.
Dean settled his weight more fully on top of Castiel, one hand molding to the subtle curve of his hip while the other carded through perpetually unruly hair. He parted Castiel’s legs with one of his own, the sensation of their bare thighs sliding together sending his arousal soaring ever higher. And he wasn’t the only one, he realized when Castiel shifted just so beneath him; Cas was fully hard already, the evidence pressing insistently against Dean’s stomach. Dean moved the hand he had at Castiel’s hip to palm him through his boxers, and Castiel broke the kiss with a choked noise that stuck somewhere in his throat, turning his head away even as he arched unconsciously into the touch.
“Dean,” he gasped helplessly, and he sounded a little lost, overwhelmed.
“I know,” Dean murmured, mostly because he felt much the same way. “S’okay, I’ve got you.”
He undressed Castiel slowly, worshipping every inch of newly-mortal flesh until Cas was practically sobbing with frustration; then Dean guided him all the way up to the edge, and over the other side. Castiel came apart with a sharp cry and Dean’s name on his lips, a brand-new human being experiencing sensation for the first time, and Dean held him through the aftershocks.
“You good?” He asked once Castiel seemed ready to focus again, trying valiantly to ignore the fact that he was practically aching with need by now.
“Better than good,” Castiel affirmed, still looking slightly stunned. “Dean, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, there’s plenty more where that came from,” Dean promised with a smirk, moving back a little way. He intended to take care of himself, but Castiel surprised him again by getting there first. He was undeniably clumsy, but his eagerness to please more than made up for it, and Dean led him through this, too. And for all his experience, Dean didn’t manage to last a whole lot longer than Castiel had.
Afterwards, they lay twined in a sweaty heap, an intricate Celtic knot of limbs that made it almost impossible to tell which appendage belonged to whom. It was strange, because Dean wasn’t usually one for intimacy after sex -- even with Lisa, he’d shied away from it more often than not -- but he found that he couldn’t stop touching Castiel, random caresses to his back and shoulders and ribs, brush of lips over his nose and temple and cheekbone. Castiel seemed to be suffering the same affliction, if the way his hands moved restlessly over Dean’s skin was any indication; but after a while his movements slowed and his breathing evened out as he fell back into sleep, still clearly exhausted. And even though it was gone eight o’clock and he could hear Sam and Bobby moving around downstairs, Dean let him rest.
The tightness in his chest was an entirely new feeling, and Dean realized that this right here was completely unlike that perfect existence he had wanted so desperately with Lisa, forever just out of his reach. This was something real, something he could actually have -- and God help him, Dean was going to make damn sure he held onto it.
+
The road unspooled in a stretch of black pitch beneath the Impala’s wheels, infinite and reaching, another mile seemingly added on for every one swallowed by her engine. There was a time, when he was still full of Grace, that Castiel would not have had the patience for this mode of travel. It still felt restricted, confining, as he had once told Lucifer, but for now he was content enough to curl in the backseat, listen to the low hum of the radio and the gentle back-and-forth bickering between Sam and Dean as the scenery flew past his window.
Castiel had partaken of his first pancakes that morning, when Dean had finally managed to coax him from the warmth and softness of the blankets, and he could still taste the sugar crystals clinging between his teeth, gritty and sweet. He and Dean had sat much closer together than they usually would at the table, close enough that Castiel had been able to feel the heat radiating from Dean’s body even through both sets of clothing.
Though there had been no outward acknowledgement of what had happened between them in front of the others, Sam had smiled at them in a way that Castiel believed could be categorized as ‘knowing’, while Bobby had merely rolled his eyes and proclaimed them ‘idjits’. Both reactions had caused Dean to flush pink in a thoroughly interesting manner; Castiel had found himself quite unable to resist staring, and when Dean noticed this he’d smirked and squeezed Castiel’s knee under the table.
Some time after breakfast, Bobby had talked to another hunter in hushed tones over the phone, brows furrowing under his cap as he’d pored over his beaten old roadmap, marking off locations with thick black crosses.
“Got some major monster activity goin’ on up Arkansas way,” he’d informed them once he’d put the phone down. “Werewolves changing in the middle of the day, random ghoul attacks… coupla things Willie’d never even seen before.”
Castiel remembered the look Dean and Sam had exchanged at this; grim and meaningful, filled with so many complex layers he scarcely knew where to begin deciphering them.
“Eve again?” Sam had asked, sharp as ever.
“I’d bet my cap on it,” Bobby grunted, which for some reason had made Dean snort with nervous laughter.
They’d headed out not long after that, Bobby warning them to “watch your backs, we’ve lost too many good people lately, you hear?” He’d exchanged gruff hugs with both Sam and Dean before they left, and even clapped Castiel briefly on the shoulder, the closest the old man had ever come to demonstrating something other than irritated impatience towards him.
Castiel had hesitated briefly when they’d reached the car, unsure of the extent to which he was welcome, but Dean had merely waved him into the backseat as though there was no other place for him. If Sam had any issues with the arrangement, he hadn’t commented, and the brief, tense smile he’d given Castiel when he folded his long limbs into the passenger seat was genuine enough.
Even with the war over, the world was still so very far from perfect. They still had Eve to contend with, and battling the mother of all monsters would surely be as taxing as their fight against the Devil himself. Even with Raphael dead, it was unlikely that Heaven’s politics would be stable for a long while, and a large part of Castiel still resented that he couldn’t oversee proceedings, keep his brothers and sisters on the correct path. Hell, too, was likely to be in chaos with Lucifer caged and Crowley and Meg both dead.
Even if they made it through all of that unscathed, there were other things to consider. Like the wall in Sam’s head, a precarious dam struggling to hold back the memories that would ruin him. Castiel doubted it would last forever, and when the tide burst through, Sam would likely never recover from it. By extension, neither would Dean.
And then there was the treacherous minefield of humanity that Castiel would once again find himself having to navigate. Losing his Grace all over again was something he had failed to anticipate after his second resurrection, and the loss of it was very much a physical ache -- a sharp, numbing pain somewhere behind his sternum that not even the kindest words or most intimate of touches could soothe. He wondered if it was something that would fade over time until he could scarcely feel it, or if would remain for all of his days -- limited though they were, now -- a constant reminder of what he had once been.
He did not mention this to Dean. The man had enough to contend with without feeling guilty on his behalf, and Castiel would not be a burden.
Besides which, the steel and glass of the Impala provided a small measure of insulation against the outside world, and though Castiel knew the feelings of peace and safety were an illusion that would not last long, it was all too easy in this moment to enjoy the light conversation and easy company. Dean and Sam were still arguing in the front seat, but their words lacked heat, and there was an undercurrent of fondness that had been missing before the return of Sam’s soul.
“…Cas agrees with me, anyway,” Dean was saying, a hint of smugness in his tone. “Right, Cas?”
Castiel had no idea what it was he was supposed to be agreeing to, but it hardly mattered. And when he dutifully replied always, Dean, he made sure his own voice was heavily laden with sarcasm. Sam snickered in a wholly obnoxious manner, and Dean removed one hand from the steering wheel to whack him upside the head.
“Jesus Christ, as if dealing with one prissy little tightwad wasn’t bad enough,” Dean muttered, but when he met Castiel’s gaze in the rearview mirror his eyes were warm, as warm as the sun that filtered golden through the window.
There was no telling what fresh pains the future would bring, but in this moment they were all alive, and Sam was laughing openly now as Dean’s lips curved into a reluctant smile.
And slowly -- very slowly -- Castiel smiled back.
[end.]
Notes: According to the List of Enochian Angels, Baradiel is the angel of hail.
I don’t claim to be an expert on Hindu mythology, but I did my research: the Dakshineswar Kali Temple is a real Hindu temple near Kolkata in India. Bhavatarini is an aspect of Kali with the literal meaning ‘redeemer of the universe’.