[fic] the second circle

[electricskeptic]

Title: The Second Circle
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Spoilers: General S6
Warnings: Explicit sexuality, elements of dub-con (sex pollen)
Word Count: 5100
Summary: There’s nothing kinky or glamorous about this; it’s poison, working its way through his system slowly and methodically, and he has maybe fifty minutes left before it kills him.

Notes: This is intended to take place sometime between 6.12 and 6.15. Written for the ‘sex pollen’ square on my hc_bingo card. Title is a reference to Dante’s Inferno, in which the lustful are condemned to the second circle of hell.

The Second Circle

It’s a desperate itch beneath his skin, something acidic and volatile circumnavigating his veins. He can feel the thin, white-hot tendrils of liquid fire radiating out from the succubus bite on his shoulder, and it has him weak and dizzy, leaning on his brother for support. His skin is prickly and too tight for his body, oversensitive; his clothes like sandpaper chafing bare flesh and his nerve endings going up like a fucking flash fire where Sam grips him as they stumble over the threshold of this week’s second-rate motel room.

He collapses onto the bed pretty much as soon as Sam lets go of him, biting back a groan as he lands hard on the mattress. He watches Sam flap about in front of him, running his hands through his hair and blushing in obvious mortification. Then he stops, because every fiber of his being is screaming at him to just reach out and take, and it makes him fucking sick because Jesus Christ, that’s his brother, but the curse is eating away his higher brain functions at a rapid rate of knots and leaving behind nothing but this primal sense of need and urgency.

“Okay, we need to figure out what to do here,” Sam mutters ineffectually, looking pointedly away from Dean’s crotch area, where his dick is embarrassingly, painfully hard inside his jeans. He’d really kind of hoped Sam hadn’t noticed that.

“No, what you need to do is get the fuck away from me.”

Sam huffs, “Dean, of all the times you could pick to get some modesty, do you really think that now is the best --”

“Sam,” Dean forces out through gritted teeth, “if you don’t move right the fuck now, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do.”

Sam blanches so rapidly it might be amusing under other circumstances, leaping away from Dean like he’s been burned. He doesn’t leave the room, though; just hovers over by the door, six-and-a-half feet of awkwardness topped off with a bad haircut. It’s an improvement, but not much of one, and Dean clenches his fists so hard he can feel the skin of his palms split beneath his nails.

“Look, it’s fine,” Sam tries again, even though it’s very much not fine, and they both know it. “We’ll just get you a hooker or something.”

“From where, Sam? This is the cleanest town in the entire goddamn Midwest!”

It is, too; a town full of Jimmy Novak types, pure and shiny and morally upright, good little Christian folk. So perfect it’s actually a little creepy, which had made it all the more obvious something was amiss when the succubus started rampaging all over town and everyone decided to have giant, bisexual orgies in broad daylight. Now the locals are all back to normal and the thing is dead, but not before it had managed to leave Dean with a parting gift in the most inconvenient place imaginable. He’d thought the whole thing was hilarious back when Sam had first told him about the case, but now that he’s on this end of the fence it’s a little difficult to see the funny side. The tiny portion of his brain still capable of rational thought wonders vaguely if that’s karma.

“Fine, so we’ll call someone!” Sam exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Oh, yeah, like who? Tell me one person we know who’ll be willing to drop everything and get here within the hour so I can fuck them senseless to avoid a painful, messy death!”

Dean winces at how his voice rises at the end there, knows he sounds as though he’s on the verge of hysteria, but he thinks it’s justifiable given the circumstances. He thinks briefly of Lisa, but she’s miles away and she wouldn’t see him even if he asked. And even if things hadn’t gone to shit between them Dean wouldn’t go to her like this: not when he’s not entirely himself, when he knows there’s a chance he could lose control and hurt her. He’s entirely unwilling to put her at risk again, especially after the whole vampire fiasco. Whether he likes it or not, she’s better off without him.

Sam’s got that worrying, all-too familiar look in his eye that suggests he’s just had a brainwave, and before Dean can ask he’s disappearing out the door, the tail-end of a half-shouted don’t go anywhere! trailing in his wake.

“Where the fuck would I go?” Dean grouses, voice thin and reedy with a desire that isn’t his own. Unable to stand it any longer, he fumbles clumsily with his belt buckle for a moment before sliding his hand inside his boxers and curling it around his cock. He’s dripping with precome already, and harder than he thinks he’s ever been in his life, but the touch of his own hand does nothing to relieve the ache. He needs the slide of someone else’s skin against his own, needs to bury himself completely inside another warm body, to be swallowed whole.

Even as he thinks it, a ripple of agony spreads across his lower abdomen, muscles contracting and releasing spasmodically, pain that has him crying out even as his arousal soars another impossible notch higher. There’s nothing kinky or glamorous about this; it’s poison, working its way through his system slowly and methodically, and he has maybe fifty minutes left before it kills him, one of the most humiliating fates known to any hunter.

Dean barely even hears the soft rustle of feathers over his own ragged breathing, but it’s a sound he’d recognize anywhere, and it sends his heart plummeting down to somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. He can’t quite stop touching himself, though, can’t even spare the energy to be embarrassed about Castiel catching him with his pants down, so to speak. He just needs to come, now, or he’s liable to explode.

Probably literally. Dean’s never known anyone who died from a succubus bite, but Bobby has some horror stories and it definitely doesn’t sound like a pleasant way to go.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel intones, like this is all totally normal, and the sensual whisky-rasp of his voice is enough to send another bead of precome pulsing from the tip of Dean’s cock. Dean doesn’t dare look at him. He bites his lip, hard, and it takes an inhuman amount of effort to stop himself from leaping off the bed and dry-humping Castiel where he stands.

“Whatever it is, Cas, can’t it wait?” He manages to gasp, feeling sweat break out at the back of his neck as he continues to tug ineffectually at his dick. “I’m a little preoccupied right now.”

“I’m aware of your… predicament,” Castiel says stiffly. Dean chances a glance at him and sees that there’s a faint tinge of pink stealing into his cheeks and his eyes keep flickering periodically away from Dean, as though he can’t quite decide whether its acceptable to look directly at him in his current state. There’s a familiar, determined set to his jaw, though; one that makes Dean feel distinctly nervous. “Sam called me for assistance.”

“Did he now?” Dean sneers. Then his brain catches up to what Castiel just said, and he almost slaps himself upside the head for being so fucking stupid, hand slowing its frantic up-and-down rhythm. “Wait, you mean you can fix me?”

“Not exactly. I’m sorry, Dean, but this is old magic. There’s not much I can do.”

“What the fuck use are you, then?!” Dean almost shouts. He knows it’s harsh and uncalled for, and he’ll apologize later, but right now he can’t really afford to worry about sparing Castiel’s feelings. A fresh wave of torture rips up his spine, leaving him light-headed and vaguely nauseous, and he wonders absently how long he has left. The sweat is pouring off of him now, his t-shirt soaked through and sticking to his skin.

“No offence, Cas, but unless you’re gonna have sex with me I really don’t see --”

“It‘s the most logical solution, is it not?”

“Which part of this situation did you have down as logical?” Dean chokes out weakly, even as his heart speeds up and his dick leaps enthusiastically at the idea. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before, the two of them together -- impossible not to think about it really, with the way Castiel looks at him, the way he always stands too close and does stupid shit like getting himself killed for Dean. But there’s a world of difference between thinking and doing, and Dean had promised himself he’d never go there. Partly because Castiel is an angel, but mostly because he’s Dean’s friend before anything else, and their relationship is already plenty difficult enough without sex adding another layer of complicated on top of things.

Castiel edges closer, and there’s something wary in the way he moves, like how one might approach a feral dog. He perches on the end of the bed and it’s too close, much too close, because Dean just wants to touch, wants to get his hands all over Castiel and mess him up, drag him down into the dirt and teach him every depravity humanity has to offer. He needs it, more than he thinks he’s ever needed anything in his life.

“Assuming my knowledge of such things is correct, you have between one hour and ninety minutes to achieve orgasm from the time the succubus venom enters your system, or you die. You have my permission, and you can’t hurt me. Unless you have another suggestion?”

Dean would find the thinly-veiled snark irritating, were it not for the fact that he barely even registers what Castiel is saying, focused instead on how his lips shape the words, curving around vowels and consonants. He wants them on him, wants to feel the plush softness of that mouth pressed against his own, suckling at his neck, wrapped around his dick. Fuck. He closes his eyes briefly and fists himself once again, swiping his thumb over the weeping head. He isn’t even surprised this time when it does absolutely fuck-all to alleviate the throbbing urgency. He’s surprised he even has any blood left in his brain, at this point.

“You still a virgin?” He hears himself ask. Doesn’t even know why, except that maybe he won’t be such a terrible person for doing this if Castiel has at least some experience.

“Obviously.” Castiel rolls his eyes, a gesture Dean recognizes because he’s seen it in the freaking mirror. “I’ve been fighting a war for the last eighteen months; I haven’t exactly had the time.”

Dean doesn’t bother pointing out that Castiel is making time now, even though he’s currently on the losing side of that very same war. He figures it’s one of those awkward things they Don’t Talk About, like how Castiel does pretty much everything Dean asks of him even when he thinks it’s a tremendously bad idea, and how Dean trusts Castiel completely in spite of his being a vague, cryptic son of a bitch in return.

“Cas, I can’t,” he says instead, fucking miserable. “You have to go now, please. I just can’t, okay?”

“You can, and you will,” Castiel replies, more firmly now, and Dean has to suppress a whimper as he feels cool, strong fingers wrap around his own, even that light contact too much for his vastly oversensitized skin. “Dean, please let me help. This is killing you.”

Dean opens his mouth, more protests ready to form on his tongue. He should say no again -- Castiel would never force him if he flat-out refused, Dean knows -- but Castiel is sitting right there, with his ruffled hair and pink lips and big blue eyes, real and solid and close enough that Dean can feel his body heat. Castiel releases his hand, and Dean thinks for a split-second that maybe he’s given up, but then the angel slides out of his trenchcoat and suit jacket, tugging at the knot of his tie. And, well. Dean’s only human, and a pretty weak excuse for one at that.

The last cord of restraint snaps within him, and it feels like freedom. Before he even realizes he’s going to do it, he’s surging forwards, hauling Castiel towards him and getting a lapful of angel. Castiel seems momentarily surprised, caught off balance, but he rallies quickly and then he’s falling into Dean like he was built for no other purpose than this, hands and mouth fucking everywhere, and Dean could cry from the sheer bliss of it.

It turns out Castiel is a damn good kisser, though Dean had already suspected as much after seeing him lay one on Meg that time. It still manages to surprise him, though, the feel of Castiel’s mouth sliding wet and wide over his own, tongue moving sensuously against Dean’s with confident, assured strokes. Castiel kisses like he’s holding nothing back, no hesitation or inhibitions, like he’s pouring his fucking heart and soul into it. Whatever’s left of Dean’s conscience by this point wants to warn him to be careful with that, because he might be physically indestructible but there are so many other ways to bleed.

He doesn’t say anything, though -- can’t say anything, preoccupied as he is with pulling Castiel’s tie off the rest of the way, struggling to wrestle his shirt open in an attempt to get to naked flesh. He gives up trying to unbutton the damn thing when his fingers keep slipping on the tiny plastic discs and just tears it wide open, buttons scattering in every direction. Castiel makes a vaguely affronted noise but he obviously isn’t that upset about it, because he keeps right on kissing Dean like his fucking life depends on it (and, hell, Dean’s life does depend on it).

Dean slides his hands beneath the open white folds of Castiel’s shirt and touches perfect warm skin, slipping smooth and butter-soft beneath his fingers. Castiel runs hot, seeming to put out more heat than the average person would, and Dean can’t tell if that’s an angel thing or if it’s he’s just feeling it more in his current cursed state. He doesn’t much care, either, not when Castiel is still all over him and every cell in his body is screaming at him to get even closer, as close as it’s physically possible to be to another person without actually climbing inside them.

He breaks the kiss only when his jaw begins to ache and his lungs start burning from lack of oxygen, but even then he doesn’t move very far, a single, glistening strand of saliva stretching between their parted lips as they separate. Dean takes the opportunity to drag his sodden t-shirt over his head, and the cool air is a brief distraction before Castiel’s hands are on him again, gliding through the fine layer of sweat that seems to coat his entire body, sending strobes of electric want direct to Dean’s brain.

It’s incendiary, is what it is, threatening to burn him up and consume him entirely, and Dean mouths at Castiel’s jawline, teeth grazing over stubble, desperate for something he can’t put into words. God, but Castiel even smells delicious, something clean and vaguely inhuman that clings to his skin, and Dean buries his face in the curve of his neck to get more of it, tongue sliding wetly over the slip of skin just behind Castiel’s ear. Castiel rocks up into him with a gasp, and Dean is surprised but immensely gratified to feel the hard line of an erection pressing against his stomach, just shy of where Dean really wants it. If nothing else, he’s grateful that Castiel is getting at least some enjoyment out of this whole clusterfuck, so maybe he won’t have to feel like a creepy rapist when all is said and done.

He’s struggling to undo Castiel’s pants when he’s consumed by another surge of agony, on the cusp of unbearable this time, every muscle in his body locking up tight and seizing at the same time, swimming vision letting him know he’s on the verge of passing out. By the time it subsides and he regains some control of his body, he’s flat on his back and gasping in great lungfuls of air, shaking like loose jelly. Castiel glares down at him like this whole fucking affair is his fault, somehow managing to convey both irritation and concern with his gaze in spite of his lust-swollen pupils almost eclipsing the barely-there corona of blue.

“This has been allowed to progress much too far,” he chastises, slipping into lecturer mode in a way that seems ludicrous, given the situation. “You should have called me sooner.”

“Well, forgive me if this wasn’t exactly the first solution that sprang to mind,” Dean manages to wheeze through the haze of pain and arousal. For a second, he thinks he sees a flicker of hurt in Castiel’s expression, but it’s gone so quickly that he chalks it up to imagination. Then Castiel is pulling back, away from him, sliding off the bed to stand, and Dean hears himself make a frankly embarrassing sound of protest, half-following in his stupor until he sees that Castiel is going for the button on his slacks and his brain just fucking short-circuits, some central processor up there frying altogether from visual overload.

“God, Cas, I need -- I need…” he stammers incoherently, unable to help himself now because he literally cannot wait another fucking second.

He doesn’t really register Castiel climbing back on the bed, stripping him the rest of the way; the next thing he knows, they’re both naked and Castiel is a hot weight straddling his hips, spitting into his palm and slicking up Dean’s cock. There’s nothing particularly sexy about the way he does it -- his movements are efficient, precise, but somehow that makes it all unbelievably hotter. And, fuck, but Castiel taking the initiative, taking control of the situation like this, is way more of a turn-on than it has any right to be, delicious in its unexpectedness.

Dean lets out a decidedly unmanly whimper at the touch of a hand that isn’t his own, hips rocking upwards instinctively into the loose circle of Castiel’s fist. It’s good, but it still isn’t anything like enough, and his brain finally catches up to the proceedings when Castiel raises up onto his knees above Dean’s body, realizing what he’s about to do.

“Cas, wait,” he forces out in spite of himself, fingers tight around Castiel’s hip, torn between stopping him and urging him on. “You haven’t… it’ll hurt.” Dean hasn’t had sex this way in a long time, but he remembers that it generally requires preparation and stretching, and whatever small amount of saliva Castiel has provided isn’t going to be nearly enough lubrication for this to go smoothly.

“There isn’t time,” Castiel snaps, shaking his head, and without pausing to discuss it further he sinks down onto Dean in one slow, torturous slide. Dean sobs out in rapture as he feels the head of his cock breach Castiel’s entrance; God, but Castiel is so tight around him, like a fucking vice, gripping and squeezing him from all sides. It’s not nearly wet enough, just this side of painful, but it’s heat and it’s pressure and Dean thinks it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever felt. He doesn’t miss Castiel’s wince, reddened lower lip caught between his teeth, but he can’t stop himself from thrusting upwards into that perfect dark space, even as he murmurs apologies and soothing nonsense into the stale air between them. Even as he knows that he’ll hate himself for it, later.

“Fuck, Cas, you feel so good,” Dean groans as he feels himself slide all the way home, knowing he sounds like he should be starring in a low-budget porno and completely unable to help himself.

Castiel just grits his teeth, pulls off again and slams back down almost immediately, not giving either of them any time to adjust. The rhythm is punishing, relentless, and it’s all Dean can do just to hang on for the ride, fingers digging into Castiel’s hips so hard he can already see the purplish bruises forming beneath them. That he knows the marks won’t last doesn’t make him feel any better about it. He tries to get deeper, to hit that spot inside of Castiel that’ll transform those pained grimaces into something else entirely, but it’s impossible with this position. He draws Castiel down to him and rolls them over, so that the angel is flat on his back with Dean held above him on shaking arms, fucking in earnest now, hard, animalistic thrusts that slam Castiel into the flimsy headboard again and again. Dean knows when he’s struck gold because Castiel arches beneath him on a ragged cry, fingers twisting in the bedsheets, head thrown back, pretty pink flush spreading down his neck and chest.

Dean moans at the sight, drops down to sink his teeth into the meat of Castiel’s shoulder. If it was anyone else, he’d be worried about crushing them, but Castiel bears his weight easily, wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist to keep him even closer. Dean can feel Castiel’s cock rubbing against his belly where it’s trapped between their bodies, leaving slick trails against his skin, and it’s hotter than he ever imagined it would be, his own dick jumping in response. He’s getting close now, prickles of heat chasing the length of his spine, the pit of his stomach growing tight and shivery; the first promises of release visible on the horizon, and he’s so fucking thankful for it he could cry.

“Cas, I’m -- fuck -- I’m close,” he slurs in warning, punctuates it with a flick of his tongue across Castiel’s collarbone, a bite to his ear. He pulls back a little way and sees that Castiel’s face is open and unguarded like it never has been before, some soft, unnameable expression possessing his features that makes Dean think and wonder and hope that maybe they’ll do this again sometime, when his life isn’t on the line. Just because they can.

“Good. That’s good, Dean. Let it happen,” Castiel murmurs encouragingly, like Dean’s the fucking virgin here, and it hits him harder than ever before that this isn’t just unspeakably good sex; this is Castiel saving him again, the way he always does. Even though Dean never asked for it, never deserved it, never even wanted it until Castiel appeared on the scene, and he realizes with a sudden clarity that leaves him breathless that this is where he was always, always meant to be.

He snaps his hips forward three more times in rapid succession, and his orgasm hits him like a gut-punch, balls drawing up tight and cock pulsing hard before he’s emptying himself inside of Castiel, burying his face in the curve of a shoulder with a hoarse, indecipherable yell that’s wrenched right from the center of his being. Somewhere outside the ecstatic white noise of his own climax, he’s dimly aware of Castiel crying out and tensing beneath him before coming untouched, spurting thick and hot over both of them. Dean groans weakly at the sensation of Castiel clenching and convulsing around him, his cock giving one last, exhausted twitch before he collapses, feeling wrung-out and utterly sated and like he could sleep for a fucking week.

He disengages and rolls off to the side when he feels as though he can move again without passing out; he’s wholly unsurprised to find Castiel staring at him, but the angel’s expression is inscrutable and it makes Dean uneasy, sets him on edge. Castiel is covered in bite-marks and hickeys and bruises where Dean’s held on too tight, splattered with come, hair damp with sweat -- Dean didn’t even know Castiel could sweat -- and Dean’s suddenly overcome with a hot, crawling shame as the full reality of what’s just happened hits him for the first time now that his mind is no longer clouded by supernaturally-induced lust.

“I -- Cas, fuck, I’m sorry,” he tries, inadequate though he knows it is. Then: “Are you okay?”

And wonder of wonders, Castiel actually smiles. Not much, just a slight tilting up of his lips at the corners; but his eyes shine with it, and coming from Cas, that’s like a full-on Cheshire cat grin.

“I’m fine, Dean,” he says, uncharacteristically gentle. “And you don’t need to apologize; it was hardly a chore. I wanted… for a long time.”

Dean strains his ears for the sound of a pin dropping, because he’s sure that he could hear it in the silence that follows. “You never said anything,” he says finally, voice faint, heart beating triple-time in his throat.

“I hardly thought my attentions would be welcomed,” Castiel returns snidely, but he looks away from Dean like he’s let slip something he shouldn’t have; something Dean was never meant to know. “I apologize if you think I was taking advantage, but know that my only intention in fornicating with you was to save your life.”

“You do that a lot,” Dean points out, mostly for want of anything better to say. Also, they’re going to have to have a long talk about appropriate vocabulary one day, because who the hell says fornicating anymore? “Thought you weren’t supposed to perch on my shoulder.”

Castiel’s expression immediately shifts into that exasperated-fond look he often gets when dealing with Dean. Dean likes it a lot more than he lets on. “When was the last time I did what I’m supposed to, Dean?”

Dean has no answer for that, though he knows the correct one is before you met me. Instead he closes the distance between them and kisses Castiel again, gentle this time, an apology for where he was rough and demanding before. Castiel yields against him like he’s been waiting his whole fucking life for this, opens up so easy when Dean’s tongue traces the seam of his lips, uttering a sigh of absolute contentment that Dean really just wants to hear as often as possible.

Dean’s so spent he doubts he could get it up again for at least another twelve hours even if he wanted to, but right now he thinks that this could be enough for him; he could just lie here in this crappy motel bed with broken springs digging into his back, trading sloppy, fucked-out kisses with this stupid angel, and he’d be happy. Like every good thing that’s ever happened in his life, though, it’s over far too quickly. Castiel tenses in his arms and pulls away -- not just physically but emotionally too, retreating into himself so obviously it’s as though shutters have been pulled down behind his eyes. He’s got his head canted to one side like he’s listening for something, faraway expression on his face, and Dean knows well enough by now what that means.

“Let me guess: duty calls, huh?” He mutters, and it comes out less biting than expects, more bone-weary than anything else. Castiel glances at him, and at least he looks as though he feels bad about it.

“Unfortunately, yes. I’ve already been away for too long.”

Not an apology, but then Dean didn’t expect one. Apparently done talking, Castiel slides out of the bed with more grace than Dean’s capable of right now, and in the next instant he’s clean and shiny and dressed again, looking as pristine as ever. Which is to say, he looks like a dilapidated mess -- tie facing the wrong way, trenchcoat hanging off his shoulders, hair doing its usual gravity-defying thing -- but his shirt is fixed and the bruises on his neck have gone, and Dean’s willing to bet he isn’t still covered in come under all those layers, unless Castiel is way more kinky than Dean gave him credit for.

Feeling suddenly, ridiculously self-conscious, Dean hauls his own boxers and jeans back on, vaguely aware in the back of his mind that Sam could return at any moment. His legs are still weak and shaky when he stands, and whether it’s to do with the after-effects of the succubus venom or the mind-blowing sex he just had, he honestly has no idea. When he looks at Castiel, he sees that the angel is biting his lip in a disconcertingly human manner, as though he’s trying to work up the nerve to say something.

“If the choice was mine to make,” he spits out finally, sounding wretched, “there is nowhere I would rather be than by your side. You must know that.”

It’s note exactly a profession of love, but Dean figures it’s as close as either one of them is ever going to get to saying it out loud. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, uncomfortable as ever to find himself in the middle of what is clearly a discussion about Feelings. Any other time, he’d laugh it off, make some stupid remark that would have Castiel flapping away in a huff, but this seems different. For whatever reason, this moment is fragile, pure, and he finds himself entirely unwilling to fuck it up.

“Just. Try not to die, okay?”

Perhaps not the most eloquent of responses, but the sentiment stands. Castiel smiles just a little, a tentative, hopeless thing, and inclines his head.

“Likewise.”

“Well then,” Dean attempts a friendly clap on the shoulder but lingers far too long, feeling the warmth of skin bleeding through three layers of fabric. Skin he’s touched, tasted. “Go get ‘em, flyboy. I’ll be here.”

Unexpectedly, Castiel leans in and brushes their lips together once more; just a soft, sweet thing, almost chaste, but Dean closes his eyes and succumbs to it completely, not knowing when he’ll next be able to have this. If he’ll ever be able to have this again. He feels like some goddamn army wife, waiting around uselessly while Castiel goes to fight epic battles on unknown frontiers, not a thing he can do to help. Things have been rocky as hell between them lately, sniping at each other over every little thing, and Dean honestly doesn’t know how what happened here will change them in the long run; if it’ll change anything at all. If nothing else, he’s thankful at least that it’s given him this moment to hold onto.

There’s a sudden rush of cool air against his face, something like feathers brushing his skin as the warmth of Castiel’s lips and body pressed against his own melts away, and he knows that when he opens his eyes, Castiel will be gone, and Dean will be alone once more.

[end.]