Fic: "Not All Dogs Go to Heaven" - Part 2/3 [SPN]

[nanoochka]

TITLE: “Not All Dogs Go to Heaven” - Part 2/3
AUTHOR: nanoochka
CHARACTERS: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Crowley, Gramps Campbell
RATING: Hard R for violence, gore, swearing, and sexual situations
SUMMARY: Two weird cases, two different locations: Sam and Dean are forced to split up when calls from Samuel and Cas divide their attention between Iowa and Michigan, thinking that they might be dealing with two separate cases of Alphas. Although Cas is supposedly there to help, Dean’s lost trust in the angel’s priorities in the past year, and can’t help but feel that he’s running interference as Dean discovers that the rash of brutal animal slayings in the town of Springville are a symptom of something truly perverse.
WORD COUNT: This part: 23,509. Overall: 23,509 (The fuck?)
WARNINGS: Violence against domestic animals, slime
SPOILERS: Post-6x04, but kind of diverges from canon after that. It made more sense when I started writing it.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Supernatural or any of its associated content. No infringement intended. Eat it, Kripke.
PROMPT: Written for spn_reversebang and miki_moo’s art prompt.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: See Part One for full Author's Notes. Fic masterpost here. Art masterpost here

Not All Dogs Go to Heaven - Part 2/3 by nanoochka

Fourteen years ago, Dean made a promise to Bobby that he’d quit smoking, on the principle that it was not only dirty, but kind of irresponsible behaviour for someone whose life work depended upon the ability to run away without pitching over in a fit of coughing. Plus, checking out from lung cancer would be little too Constantine for his tastes. He’s managed to hold to the promise, mostly, but sometimes a special occasion will come along and Dean just has to give in.

As he sees it, a Hellhound chained up in the basement is as good a reason as any to buy a case of beer, a pack of Lucky Strikes and go to town. The first few puffs make his lungs ache, and he coughs like a fourteen-year-old taking his first drag, but the feeling subsides the more he smokes. Lightheaded from the nicotine rush, Dean settles himself against the banister of the front porch and kills half a pack before Castiel comes out to find him. It’s still a few hours until dawn, but he’s been outside for the better part of four hours already, unable to sleep and even less capable of going inside. Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he can hear the Hellhound’s miserable howls from outside the house, too penetrating and wild for him to convince himself that it’s just a normal dog tied up down there.

Saying nothing, Castiel takes a seat next to him on the step, and gazes out at the quiet street for a moment before looking down to study his hands. They’re nice hands, Dean thinks; he’s always loved them, how they can do everything with such certainty when Dean just feels as though he’s fumbling along half the time. Right now, though, it’s that very certainty that has him on edge, angry. He winces when Castiel opens his mouth to speak.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he suggests half-heartedly, as though he knows already that Dean has no intention of doing so.

“I’m not goin’ in that house,” Dean spits, and turns his baleful glare in the angel’s direction. “You never should have brought that thing here, Cas. You know full well what they-” He stops, takes a breath to calm down. “I shouldn’t have to explain this stuff to you.”

“I couldn’t think of a better option,” Cas says quietly. Dean doesn’t think he imagines the attempt Castiel makes to close the minute distance between them, pressing the long, solid length of his thigh lightly against Dean’s. When Dean makes a warning sound, he gives up with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“The fuck you are.” Dean gets to his feet and flicks the cigarette butt into the bushes before he can think better of it and fling it at Cas’s face instead. “Whatever’s going on with you lately, man, I don’t like it. I don’t trust half of what comes out of your mouth, and a part of me even wonders if you haven’t known about this thing all along.” Castiel is silent, which makes a hard kernel of dread drop to the base of Dean’s stomach and sit there, festering. It’s nothing new for Dean to lash out in a thousand unfair directions at once, looking for anything that will draw blood, wound-that’s just his way of getting the most unconditional of fears out in the open without risk of injury. He does it for reassurance, not because he thinks one of them will actually land a palpable hit. Dean swallows. Trying to manage the accusation in his voice, he says, “You did know, didn’t you? That this wasn’t just some werewolf running loose?”

A pause. Then, uncomfortably, “I had my suspicions. Dean, I’m-”

Surprising even himself, Dean whips the beer bottle in his hand so viciously close to Castiel’s head that they both jump when it explodes in a shower of glass shards and foam. His voice is wounded and low to his own ears. “Cas, I swear to god, I you fucking say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time, I’ll either bash your face in with the nearest rock, or die tryin’.” If he doesn’t vomit first, that is. A part of him has always known that Castiel is capable of this kind of gross manipulation-hell, he was on the receiving end a few times, when they first started out-but the reality of it is still pretty sickening when he factors in everything they’ve been through, the number of times they’ve faced certain death together. He notices that Castiel won’t look him in the face, but that’s just fine, since Dean can’t, either.

“I needed help,” Castiel whispers. In a gratifying way, Castiel’s tone is hushed and broken like Dean hasn’t heard it in a long, long time. However much he coaches himself not to, Dean remembers that he used to comfort Cas when he sounded that sad, once, that there used to be a lot more to them than these crushed and damaged silences. “We’re running out of options in Heaven,” he tries. “No matter what I do, the tables aren’t turning in our favour. It’s chaos. I have no tactical gain to work with against those who have chosen to rebel, and any day now I expect the legions of Hell to seize the opportunity and take advantage of my-our-weakness. I thought this might be a way to even the score, somehow, but I can’t do it by myself. There’s no one else. I couldn’t ask Sam; I needed you. And I didn’t think you would come if you knew what awaited us here.”

“Maybe I would have, Cas, if you’d just said that instead of trying to play me like one of your fuckin’ pawns. You’re not-” Dean’s eyes shut in resignation towards what he’s about to say next. “You’re not the only one who can’t say no, here. There isn’t a whole lot I wouldn’t say yes to, if you asked.” He has to swallow again, because his mouth is bone-dry. It’s hard to know where this is coming from, because in the three years he’s known Cas, he’s never come anywhere near this close to expressing something other than thinly-veiled annoyance towards him. “I thought I meant more to you than this, man.”

“You do,” Cas says vehemently, and it’s the most passionate thing he’s said to Dean all night. It chokes something up in Dean’s chest on par with when Cas said to Sam, quietly, “Dean and I share a profound bond.” For some reason it’s the little declarations that always get him-Dean’s not one for grand gestures. The first time Cas kissed him made him feel lightheaded; when Cas turned his back on Heaven for him, he barely even blinked. Thinking about this, Dean almost misses the moment that Cas clambers to his feet and moves closer to where Dean stands, as close as he dares. “When I said you are stronger than your memories of Hell, Dean, I meant it. There was never any doubt in my mind that you could best your fears, and I would not have allowed you to come into harm’s way.”

“No, you’d rather just put me there yourself.” Cas flinches, and Den can’t stop the rueful smile that crosses his face. “Newsflash, Prot, but having my friends manipulate me into doing what they want hurts a hell of a lot, too. Maybe even more. Especially when it comes from you.”

Head bowed, Castiel sighs. “I understand if you feel I have no excuse.” That probably came out a lot less magnanimous than Cas intended, and for some reason Dean lets it slide; apparently he doesn’t have an on/off switch that just lets him tune out his tendency to read Cas better than he can read himself, sometimes. Still, he’s relieved that Cas manages to look regretful when he adds, “I don’t have an excuse, Dean. You have my apologies.”

“I don’t want your fuckin’ apologies,” Dean tells him. “I just wanna know that you’ve got my back.”

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he places a hand solidly on Castiel’s chest, firm above the place he can feel his heart beating a steady, reassuring rhythm. Even through shirt and suit jacket and trench coat and tie, Cas radiates heat like a furnace, warmth seeping from his body into Dean’s chilled fingers. The angel looks at him, well… deeply. No other way to describe it. Dean can actually feel the layers of himself being stripped away to reveal the nervous pink centre he hides pretty well from everyone except maybe Bobby-and Sam, once upon a time-but not least of all Cas; before Castiel can reach up to cover the hand with one of his own, however, Dean pushes him back, insinuating distance that’s painful, but safe.

Cas accepts the gesture with a tiny sigh and a quirk of his lips. “I always do, Dean, even if you believe otherwise. All I can do is endeavour to not make you forget it.” He tilts his head, considering, and considering the look of sadness in his face his voice is rather steady. “Will you leave now?” he asks.

Dean isn’t fooled by the innocent delivery; they both know the question is loaded and, like usual, not in Dean’s favour. He grunts in acknowledgement, though whether it’s of Cas’s upper hand or his own inherent stupidity, he’ll never know. “I’m not gonna leave, Cas.” Hoping to get this over with before he actually finds himself in possession of a vagina, he adds, “What exactly do you think I can help you with? Obviously I’m not strong enough to restrain a Hellhound, if it comes to that, and as much as it pains me to say it, I’d be lucky to go within five feet of that thing and not have another goddamned panic attack.”

The smile Cas gives him is tentative, but Dean can see the relief in his eyes, a quiet warmth he knows isn’t for anyone but him. “That will not be necessary. The Hellhound appears to be in distress at being contained to the basement, but either it is unaware of its own strength, or it does not intend to harm anyone-it seemed to cower away from a stern talking-to, much like any domestic canine. In the morning, however, we will need to find some kind of sustenance for it. Raw meat should do. And then you will have to assist me in summoning Crowley.”

“Crowley?” Dean spits. He didn’t see that one coming, but now that he thinks about it, he can’t see why he wouldn’t have. A douche though he might be, the demon knows more about Hellhounds than anyone else, especially since his big promotion made him the de facto king of the pound, amongst other things. He can’t see why Cas could possibly need his help with that, though, and he makes a face.

Cas interprets the look before Dean can say anything. “I cannot contact Crowley myself,” he explains. “Those who seek power in Heaven are only waiting for me to misstep; forming any kind of allegiance with the King of Hell would be all they needed to depose me.”

“But you aren’t the King of Heaven,” Dean objects, folding his arms. It seems a logical argument to him, but it doesn’t surprise him all that much that Cas has a response already formulated.

“No, I am not,” he agrees. Something flashes in his eyes that could be satisfaction that Dean has come close to figuring it out, or sadness about the situation in general. “You begin to see why my grasp on control is so tenuous; I am holding on by my fingernails, as it were. But it would be much worse if the position were to go to someone who lusted after my Father’s throne. My only remaining advantage is that I do not care for it myself.”

“You need to stop being a bench-warmer for God, Cas,” suggests Dean. Predictably, Cas gives a defeated little shrug but doesn’t say anything. Recognizing a good time to drop the subject, Dean shakes his head and begins to make his way up the porch steps, warily eyeing the front door of the house. He can just imagine what it must smell like inside, suffocatingly of sulphur. He tests the doorknob without opening it. “I’d love to help, but I don’t think I can pick up the phone and ring downstairs by myself-that’s Sam’s territory. ‘Sides, Crowley ain’t what you’d call ‘happy’ with us at the moment.”

Humming thoughtfully, Cas glances into the darkened street before he follows Dean across the porch. With a significant look at Dean’s hand on the doorknob, he covers it with his own, and turns. Surprisingly odourless air wafts out, making Dean’s instinctive recoil altogether pointless. That doesn’t prevent him from hearing the Hellhound’s restless howls and shuffles from the basement, though. Fido is one loud sonuvabitch.

“We can give the matter more thought once you have had some rest,” he says.

“I don’t need to sleep,” counters Dean, meaning, he won’t.

Cas closes the door behind them, but doesn’t lock it; for some reason Dean finds that comforting. “I will call Sam, but he will not be here until midday at the earliest. In the meantime, it would reassure me if you tried.”

In spite of himself, Dean rolls his eyes, but a glimpse of Cas watching him with his back to the door kills whatever sarcastic response he might have thought up. The intensity of Castiel’s eyes reminds him of every bedtime stare-down he’s had with Ben in the last year. Although he should find it unsettling that he can still consider Cas his guardian, instead it feels like the safest and most familiar thought he’s had in weeks. He finds a smile tugging at his lips, something else deep inside Dean promised he was finished with a year ago. “Have I mentioned that you can be a real pain in the ass sometimes?” he asks.

He doesn’t say anything, but he thinks Cas smiles back.

For once, Dean wants to listen to Castiel’s advice and just fall the fuck asleep, but can’t. He doesn’t bother checking his watch anymore, because he knows he’s been awake listening to the Hellhound for hours already, and it’s starting to get light out.

Dean is intimately acquainted with insomnia. If the average American will spend over twenty years of their life asleep, he’ll be lucky if he makes it past a decade. People like to talk about how, after a few nights of not sleeping, life begins to feel like a dreamscape or an out-of-body experience, but Dean disagrees. After a few days, every waking moment becomes a living nightmare. Just about anyone can pass out with enough drugs or alcohol, but it’s never the same as a good night’s sleep; during the year leading up to the apocalypse, Dean tried just about everything, and it didn’t land him anywhere good. If Dean is honest with himself, Castiel got to be a bit of a drug, too. One way or another, he found a way to put Dean at rest.

All things considered, he’s been sleeping pretty well this past year, even without Cas in the picture. Living with Lisa and Ben had a calming effect that probably wasn’t mutual, but managed to make him feel pretty normal all the same. Since that life is now gone, it’s only a matter of time before things go back to the way they were before. The time he spends with Sam on the road-and by extension, the shit they deal with as part of their job-eats away at his ability to get a solid eight hours a night more effectively than if he started mainlining caffeine or taping his eyelids open.

At a particularly penetrating cry from the Hellhound, Dean rolls onto his other side with a grunt and slams his fist into the pillow of his suit jacket, just for something to do. The action doesn’t really make him feel any better, not that he thought it would. Though he can’t fathom why, the damned hound is about a million times louder than a normal dog, even despite its size. The barks and whimpers are clearly of distress, but even aware of this fact, Dean can’t delude himself that they don’t remind him of expired contracts and Hell-they have too much of a distinctive howl, do Hellhounds. For lack of a better word, they sound like death. He moved to the sitting room furthest from the basement in the hope that the hound’s insistent baying would diminish with some extra space between them, but to no avail; it could be wired up to state-of-the-art surround-sound for all that each noise seems to reverberate through brick and plaster and concrete. Castiel has taken off for parts unknown, presumably to collect Sam or to deal with another of Heaven’s endless loose ends, and the house feels unbearably empty while Dean is just lying awake.

Though he didn’t really want Castiel to leave, of course Dean didn’t say so out loud. Thinking back upon the evening’s events, he realizes that he’s been acting like a little bitch all night. It’s not that he doesn’t think Castiel is above reproach-even in one of his more generous moods, Dean would still say that the angel’s been acting like a dick on par with when they first met. The idea that Cas brought him here, knowing full well what would happen when Dean laid eyes on that Hellhound, makes him so angry that language almost fails him. He should have walked away right then and there, instead of-what? Falling for Cas’s abashed routine, his batting eyelashes? Did Dean think that his staying would have any impact upon the angel, that it would somehow convince him to pull his head out of his ass and start treating Dean properly? Fuck that noise, he thinks. Maybe that’s the kind of stunt Sammy would have pulled back in the day, because he was always a bit like an adolescent girl in his belief that a person could change if you wore them down with enough kindness and determination, but now even he knows better. Dean’s known all along that people don’t change, not unless they want to; and angels, supposedly created perfect, have no need for change. God’s too lazy for miracles these days. If anyone’s at fault for expecting Cas to be different, it’s Dean.

He shouldn’t be surprised by the hushed flutter of wings that breaks the silence of the room, but still Dean jumps when Castiel’s voice says, “I know you’re upset, but this way of thinking is both unfair and inaccurate-angels aren’t perfect. You more than anyone should know this.”

Dean rolls over in bed with a muffled curse, finding Cas leaning against the window. He looks pretty composed, hands deep in his pockets as he watches Dean try (and fail) to fall asleep. It actually upsets him less than it used to, seeing Cas unruffled and calm; it doesn’t necessarily imply he feels that way on the inside, whereas Cas even a little shaken-up comes closer to the territory of, ‘Oh god, oh god, we’re all gonna die’.

The insomnia must really be fucking with Dean’s head, if he just conceded a point.

Glancing up to consider the living room window, which is naked except for some shitty blinds that don’t really block out the light, Castiel tilts his head for a moment before he begins to remove his trenchcoat. Beyond comprehension, Dean watches in silence. Castiel manages to hook the coat over the top edge of the window frame with only a minor struggle, spreading it out so that it makes an impromptu curtain. It isn’t much, but it does help to obscure some of the growing daylight, shrouding the room in a dreamy half-darkness.

“Perhaps that will help,” says Cas, and looks back at Dean.

Refusing to acknowledge the gesture or the small, self-satisfied smile on the angel’s face, Dean just snorts and buries his head back in the makeshift pillow, trying to get comfortable on his stomach. It’s not easy to do on a lumpy couch and while still almost fully-clothed in jeans and a t-shirt, but Dean thinks he manages to make it look petulant all the same.

“What are you doing back, Cas?” he mumbles grumpily.

The ensuing pause is so long that Dean begins to assume that Castiel has chosen not to answer. But Cas eventually sighs, and says, “I came to check on you,” in a way that sounds vaguely mystified, like Cas can’t believe he’s here, either.

“You shouldn’t have bothered,” answers Dean with a grunt. “I’m never gonna get to sleep with Sparky keeping up that racket downstairs. Where’s Sam?”

“He and your grandfather elected to drive from Iowa,” Castiel tells him, shrugging. “It is about an eight hour drive from their location, but given Samuel’s tendency to violate state speed limits, I expect they will arrive much sooner than that.”

“And d’you got a weather forecast to go with that?” Dean asks.

“It is sun-”

“Jesus, Cas, no.” He’s at the point of tiredness where he could laugh at anything, even Castiel’s cluelessness, so Dean bites his cheek to hide his smile. A moment later he feels the weight of something warm and heavy settle over the dip of his spine and down to the backs of his knees. The couch sinks under Castiel’s weight. He lifts his head to ask, “What did you just-” but when he cranes his neck, he can see Castiel’s own suit jacket draped over him. “Did you just give me your jacket?”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

“Okay, why?”

From his perch next to him on the cushion, Castiel just cocks his head at Dean. “For some reason humans tend to sleep better beneath a blanket of some kind,” he says slowly, and it’s pretty clear from his tone that he can’t fathom why this is. He gives a tiny shrug, and adds, hesitantly, “But you have never liked to have your shoulders confined while you rest.”

Dean groans at the uncomfortable familiarity of the statement. It warms him through in a way that is so enjoyable, it actually makes him mad. “Don’t fucking say shit like that, Cas,” he warns.

“It’s true. Why shouldn’t I-”

“Because I’m still pissed at you, and making a comment like that is like asking your girlfriend to marry you in the middle of a fight.” He swallows, and dares to meet Castiel’s eyes shining at him in the darkness. “It isn’t fair.”

“You aren’t my girlfriend, and I wouldn’t ask you to marry me in the middle of a fight,” Cas says calmly. “Even my sense of humour is better than that.”

“It really isn’t.” Dean sighs. “My point is, you gotta let me be angry at you sometimes, without trying to make it better.”

“Under those conditions, you’d never stop being angry at me,” Cas reminds him blithely. He pauses, and tentatively reaches out to brush his fingers along the very edge of Dean’s hair. “Perhaps it is not always undeserving, but in this case I would only like for you to rest.”

“Then we’re back at square one, ‘cause I told you that ain’t happening,” Dean responds. His voice is rough and broken as he tries to ignore this sudden tenderness from Cas. A part of him knew, the very second that Cas answered his prayer and came to him and Sam in that hotel room, that they would end up this way, shuffling back towards each other like a couple of ghosts bound to the same spot for all eternity. Clearing his throat, he says, “Thanks for the update, but don’t you have stuff you could be doing in Heaven?”

When Castiel huffs in a certain way, eyes twinkling, Dean has learned to understand that it means something along the lines of, ‘You’re ridiculous, but I adore you anyway,’-he heard it for the first time on a park bench following the breaking of the second Seal, a million years ago. Out loud, he says, “Always. I chose to come to you instead.”

Castiel withdraws his hand from Dean’s hair, but seemingly only so that he can begin removing his tie and shoes. Dean is both surprised, and not, when the angel arranges himself on the couch, lying on his side facing Dean. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze even on the large, plushy sofa, and Dean has to shift around to one side just to keep Cas from rolling backwards off the edge. As he settles, the hand returns, this time to his face, fingers tentatively trailing over his jaw and the corner of his mouth. Even when he shuts his eyes, Dean can’t block out the touch, and can’t unsee the picture of Castiel’s face so close in front of him. They shouldn’t be doing this, not by any means, but Dean has seriously limited reserves of strength when it comes to pushing Castiel away.

Still, he murmurs, “Cas-” warningly, which of course goes unheeded.

“I know you won’t ask for it,” says Cas in an undertone. “You never ask, Dean, but if you had, just once, I would have come much sooner.” He hesitates, and Dean hears his throat click in a swallow that betrays a startling amount of emotion, for such a small gesture. His voice drops to a whisper. “If you’d asked, I wouldn’t have left at all.”

Asking is the first step to losing, Dean thinks, but doesn’t say out loud; instead he allows himself to replay Castiel’s words the way he did so often in fantasy, for months following Cas’s departure, the first little while he spent impotent and uninterested at Lisa’s, living on a promise to his dead brother and not much else. He knew, at the moment that Cas left him alone in that car and flew back to Heaven, that it was because Dean hadn’t asked him to stay. But time moves so differently away from Earth; there was no way of knowing whether it wouldn’t have been too late for Dean to call him back, even a moment later. By then, Cas might have already been deeply embroiled in the war that now consumes so much of his time, his thoughts.

Dean doesn’t know why something so beyond Castiel’s control can drive him to such jealousy, the petty instinct to whine and stamp his feet as though he’d been left behind for another; if anything, he was the one who fucked Cas over for someone else. But once the anger and the shame get a hold of him, he can’t help himself. The only time he can admit his own fault-his complicity in letting Cas out of his life when he should have fought for him to stay-is when he’s alone. These days, that’s all he ever feels.

Cas doesn’t want him to feel alone, and Dean tells himself that’s why he reaches out to grab the angel’s face, pulling their lips together in a desperate kiss. He needs to stop pretending that he doesn’t see all of Castiel’s grand gestures for what they are, or that he doesn’t want them. Being honest, he’s wanted everything of Castiel’s since before he even knew his face, when all he had was a handprint on his shoulder and the knowledge that something out there gave enough of a shit about him to pull him out of Hell.

He hears Castiel inhale sharply at the contact, but he clutches at Dean’s hair with such need that there’s no question of how much they have both missed this. The quiet moan that escapes the angel’s throat drowns out the Hellhound’s cries from the basement, and Dean kisses harder, teeth biting, tongue licking at Castiel’s mouth in an effort to get him to make that sound again and again. Obligingly, Castiel slides his hands down to grip Dean’s waist through his t-shirt, aligning their bodies from hip to thigh, legs tangling. There is something adolescent and sweet about the way their sock-clad feet rub together in their drive to get closer, closer, ever closer, chests pushing against one another so that Dean can feel Castiel’s heart beating counterpoint to his own.

When Castiel hooks his leg around the back of Dean’s and rolls them, settling his weight over Dean’s body like an anchor, Dean goes willingly, gasping his approval against Castiel’s lips as their hips slot together as neatly as puzzle pieces. At the feel of the angel’s fingers back in his hair, angling his head just so, Dean takes the opportunity to slide his hands down Castiel’s back, palms damp against the thin cotton of his Oxford shirt, feeling the give of skin and muscle beneath the fabric. He arches his hips up as Castiel bears down, sighing in pleasure at the friction against his fattening erection, perfect like they just did this yesterday and never had plans to stop.

He knows, rationally, that Lisa should factor into this somewhere-as far as he can remember, their trial separation agreement never accommodated for romps with his angel ex-whatever-but he can’t shake the feeling that Cas isn’t the one intruding, that the past year has just been one long interruption courtesy of a desperate promise to Sam, and Dean’s ability to confuse even the most cut-and-dry aspects of his life. There’s no doubting that he loves Lisa, loves Ben; but he was Castiel’s first.

Dean’s fingers fumble at the buttons of Castiel’s shirt, working them open one by one in between the press of their chests, resisting the urge to simply rip the garment in two. The skin of Cas’s chest, his ribs, his stomach, burns at Dean’s fingertips and makes him want to touch everywhere at once, feel with his whole body. Taking his cues from Dean’s frustrated grunt as he shoves Castiel’s shirt down his arms, Cas moves his hands to the sliver of bare skin between the hem of his t-shirt and his jeans, drawing the fabric up over his belly; they both sigh when their bare stomachs touch, sticking together with sweat and impatience. A little higher, bunching under his armpits, and Dean can feel his nipples rubbing to painful hardness against Castiel’s own. Finally, he lifts his arms and lets Castiel divest him of the shirt altogether. It lands somewhere on the other side of the room, draped over a lamp like in a bad movie sex scene.

Since their mouths have parted anyway, Castiel moves down Dean’s neck to suck and worry at the delicate skin near the ridge of his collarbones and trailing up to the spot behind his ear. He goes a little wild when Dean tips his head back against the arm of the couch allowing Castiel access to the whole long, tanned line of his throat, and his own panting is loud against the lascivious murmurs sweeping past Castiel’s lips when the angel rolls his hips down determinately, foregoing tenderness in favour of sheer more, more and now. Cas always did run a bit hot, but Dean doesn’t care how they do this; he just wants. His thighs open to allow Cas to settle comfortably between them, feet finding purchase against the cushions so that they can thrust against each other at exactly the right angle. It almost doesn’t occur to Dean to work both of their pants open, but when he does, Cas honest-to-god growls at him as clothing becomes scarcer. The layers come away one by one, cloth and skin; each as it is peeled back leaves them closer to having nothing left to hide, or hide behind.

The moment Dean is able to touch Castiel’s cock unhindered, he seizes it, sliding his fingertips against the hot, velvety skin so gently that he feels almost reverent. Back against his mouth, Castiel groans, the sound vanishing everything else but Dean’s awareness of them together, and it spurs him to tighten his grip, pulling Castiel closer to him by his dick while the angel’s hands get both of their pants down to thigh-level, just enough to work with. They’ve done this every which way-fast, slow, fully-clothed, totally naked in body and thought, each experience somehow more intimate than Dean’s ever really felt with another person, not even Lisa or Cassie. He’s spent a lot of time thinking about how much he would like to take his time with Cas, if they ever found themselves falling back into bed; but right now he doesn’t think he can stand to slow this rollercoaster down. The initial bump of their cocks against each other is, in a word, in-fucking-credible, feeling the skin start dry at first, and then go from clammy to slippery as pre-come slicks the way.

“Fuck, yes,” Dean pants, arching his back so that he can feel Castiel’s weight properly. He slides his mouth along the angel’s jaw to kiss and bite at his neck. “Too long, we waited too long.”

“We’re here now,” Cas murmurs, hushing him. Somehow he manages to roll them again, even despite the tangle of clothing and limbs and the very limited couch space, so that their positions are reversed and Dean has most of the control. “Want you on top,” says Cas breathlessly by way of explanation, at Dean’s startled, arched eyebrow.

He can work with that. It gives him more leverage to fist at Castiel’s cock determinately, offsetting the hard grip he knows Cas likes with little flicks of his wrist at the top. His wrist brushes his own erection as he moves, and if he thrusts his hips at just the right angle it feels amazing, but it’s not enough. Releasing Cas’s cock for just a split second, he lifts his pelvis just enough to wrap his palm around both shafts at the same time, establishing a firm, steady rhythm that makes Castiel positively melt beneath him. He drops his mouth to Cas’s shoulder and kisses whatever skin his lips can reach, nudging lower until he is just close enough to lick at Castiel’s nipple, the one with the little birthmark above it that Dean loves more than almost anything. At Cas’s appreciative, encouraging whine, he does it again.

Vision blurring with pleasure as they continue to thrust into the tight circle of his hand, Dean groans in frustration at the moment of realization that being on top is all fine and dandy, except for the fact that he can hear the Hellhound way more clearly from here. There’s not a whole lot that could distract him from racing towards the finish line at this point, except maybe that; he feels his hips begin to stutter and slow as he strains to hear, punishing himself with the knowledge that there’ll still be plenty of fucked-up to go around, the minute his clothes are back on. It’s almost as effective as a cold shower.

Hands on either side of his face pull him away from his own thoughts before he can begin to lose it completely, and he blinks to find Cas staring at him with the typical amount of intensity, even with his mouth swollen and slick, his pupils dilated to moist, black disks. “Dean,” he says gently, “come back to me.” A gentle kiss is placed at the corner of his mouth, soft and encouraging. “We’ve only just got here; it’s too soon to leave.”

Suddenly they’re kissing again, just like that, and Dean’s not stupid enough to fight the insistency of Cas’s mouth, whose tongue slides along the seam of Dean’s lips until they open to deepen the kiss. His hips push up against Dean, reminding him that he still has a job to do, and Cas settles the matter by placing his hands firmly over Dean’s ears, both holding their faces together and blocking out the rest of the Hellhound’s racket downstairs. Dean breathes a grateful, needy sigh of relief, and slips his free arm around Castiel’s waist, his small way of letting the angel know that he isn’t going anywhere.

The friction picks up again as though they hadn’t been interrupted at all, and a moan breaks from Dean’s throat when the spark in his belly catches, dragging him much closer than he thought was possible in such a short span of time. Cas has this effect upon him, but one look at the angel’s face, breaths coming fast and harsh, and Dean knows that he isn’t far behind. The glide of their cocks together is heady, glorious, overwhelming; Dean pumps his fist to urge them both along, spreading pre-cum from tip to length as best he can with Castiel’s legs coming up around his hips, limiting his movements and binding them together as they rut and writhe and moan together on the brink of orgasm. When it hits, Castiel goes completely still, eyes rolling back in his skull, and a moment later Dean follows, voice rising to a shout as his release pumps fire through his veins and shakes him down to his bones. He’s even missed the gross, sticky feeling of their come pooling between them and over his hand, effectively gluing them together-right now, Dean wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Except for his name upon Castiel’s tongue, Dean can’t hear a thing; it’s the most silence he’s had in months, not since the last time they did this and Dean couldn’t help but notice how much quieter the world is with Cas. He makes everything go muted and indistinct, like a giant muffler clapped over a ringing bell.

They kiss until the room goes blurry and tilted, and Cas whispers, “Go to sleep, Dean.”

Dean does.

Much to Dean’s surprise, Castiel is still pressed into his side when he wakes, not sleeping, but resting with his eyes closed so as not to lie around staring at Dean instead. Sunlight pours through the living room window even with Castiel’s trenchcoat attempting to block it out, but if nothing else the Hellhound seems to have quietened somewhat. Dean sighs. There’s a thin film of drool where he fell asleep with his mouth pressed into Castiel’s neck, and he grimaces, feeling like a teenager all over again between this and the fact that he and Cas spent the better part of the morning dry-humping each other on a stranger’s couch. That Cas cleaned them up and whisked away the rest of their clothing surprises him a lot less.

At the feel of Dean stifling a yawn against his shoulder, Castiel slides his eyes open and shifts to give Dean more room, rightly anticipating his need to stretch and whine about every crick, kink and appendage that lost feeling as he slept. Ever the socially-unencumbered one, Cas nuzzles a kiss into Dean’s hair and twines their legs together even more, and does nothing more than smile when Dean bats him away with an unenthusiastic growl.

“You totally planned this,” he accuses lazily, and smiles at the answering rumble of laughter he gets from Castiel’s chest. His mouth tastes like ass and his back is going to complain at him for the rest of the week, but it all feels great. Though meant in jest, the idea that Cas might have purposely set out to tumble Dean out of his clothes warms him a little.

Still, Cas argues, “I did not,” and his voice sounds the tiniest bit feeble, even for someone who sucks at lying. “My intention was to help you sleep, but not necessarily like this.”

“Well, whoops?” At Castiel’s half-hearted glare, Dean snorts and arches his neck to bite at the angel’s chin, earning himself a quiet purr of enjoyment. That sound alone is enough to keep him at it all day; he gave up, a long time ago, on chastising himself for how ridiculously incapable he is of keeping his hands off Cas’s body. “Effective, anyway.”

He takes advantage of the lassitude to climb back on top of the angel, linking their fingers together and stretching Castiel’s arms high above his head over the arm of the couch, pulling his chest and shoulders taut beneath him. Cas does nothing to stop it, luxuriating in the attention as much as the feel of their bodies pressing together, long and warm and sensual. Dean can feel his dick stirring back to life at the thought of what it’d be like to spend all day lounging and laughing and fucking.

“I missed this,” Cas murmurs, echoing Dean’s thoughts. He settles his gaze upon Dean in his quiet, focused way, and his lips tilt in a smile. “I've thought about you so often in the last year.” Dean swallows, and Cas adds, “More than was productive.”

“From what you said before, I thought you didn’t have the ‘luxury’ for stuff like this anymore,” Dean points out. The statement probably sounds like a taunt, but he doesn’t mean it that way; like a lot of things, he sort of takes it on faith that Cas won’t misunderstand.

“I don’t,” answers Castiel. He shrugs, which seems difficult given how Dean is holding his arms. “But I’m trying to diversify my interests.”

This gets a smile out of Dean. “More positions, then,” he interprets. “How much time do we got until Sam gets here?”

Castiel frowns, and considers the question for a moment. Then he says, “Not long. Twenty minutes, perhaps.”

Dean joins him in frowning, and yeah, he won’t lie-it’s really difficult to suppress the brief flash of resentment he feels towards Sam, even if they technically called him. He wonders whether they could get away with calling Sam off, if Dean could suck up his issues with the Hellhound in favour of a bit more time to have his way with Cas right here and now, without disruptions. No doubt that if he tried hard enough, he could flub his way through a summoning spell for Crowley; and maybe twenty minutes would be enough for another quickie, anyway, since it isn’t as though there’s any clothing to lose.

Head cocked, Dean decides that he’s definitely overthinking the issue, and goes in for another, slower kiss. Cas makes a noise of surprise, like he thought for sure that Dean would err on the side of caution-a lot of people have been making that assumption lately, and Dean isn’t sure how he feels about it-but it doesn’t take much persuading for him to begin kissing back, lips plush and ever-so-slightly swollen from before. He kisses like a pornstar, does Cas, all open mouth and sinuous tongue, arching his whole body into Dean’s like he wants to climb inside. It doesn’t take long for Dean to go from casual to all systems go when Cas kisses him like that; fuck, it’s all he can do to keep his brain from leaking out of his ear. Within a minute they’re both making needy, tortured moans into each other’s mouths, and when Cas noses downward, trying to get at the part of Dean’s neck that could send him into a coma when Cas bites it just so, he’s already sending out little ESP messages to the Samuels to turn the boat around and go home. Or at least somewhere else, so that Dean can show Cas, properly, just how missed he’s been.

Dean stops trying to keep track of how long they stay like that, making out like teenagers on the sofa, thrusting together as lazily as they did that one time at Bobby’s where the house was empty and they literally had nothing else to do all day but fuck and eat stale cereal and christen every available surface with their lovemaking. A bit unrealistic, he knows, but he figures Cas will let him know if his brother and grandfather get within danger close range.

Like he sometimes does, Cas chooses to interrupt the moment with a sex-unrelated thought that could just as easily be a comment about the weather as a public service announcement. “Dean,” he says solemnly, and Dean just raises his eyebrows at him. In the right mood, it’s fun to purposely waylay Cas when he gets all intone-y, but this isn’t one of those moods. When Cas starts to say, “If you were-” and then trails off, that pretty much confirms it. Usually that kind of hesitation could imply anything from uncertainty to nervousness to just not knowing the proper colloquialism, but the dark set of his features makes Dean edgy-even more edgy than the fact that they’re no longer kissing-and he decides not to test his luck.

“What?” he prompts instead.

Lowering his eyes, Castiel chews at his lip in an altogether adorable, human way for a moment before trying again. “If you asked-”

Because Dean’s life sometimes resembles a comedy of errors more than anything else, the front door chooses that moment to burst open with nothing more than a slight jiggle of the doorknob as warning. Startled, Cas drops whatever it was he was about to say, and looks up at Dean with wide eyes. Downstairs, the Hellhound picks up the racket again, emitting frantic, warning barks like any good guard dog at the intrusion. The only thing that could possibly make the scene worse would be a baby crying, but luckily, that doesn’t happen.

With a groan, Dean pushes himself up off the couch violently, rasping, “Cas, for fuck’s sake-” as he scrambles to find his jeans on the floor. Anyone who has ever tried to wriggle into jeans with a hard-on will know that it’s pretty much impossible, but at this point it’s better than letting Sam and their grandfather walk in on him and Cas bare-assed and seriously compromised. It wasn’t something he planned on sharing with his family anytime soon, even if it might get Sam off Castiel’s case about only answering Dean’s prayers for a while.

“Get dressed!” he hisses at Cas, but of course the angel does nothing more than slap his palms down on the couch cushion in frustration, and disappear. “I swear to god, Cas-” Dean grumbles at nothing, and barely has his arm through the sleeve of his t-shirt before Sam is wandering into the room, shotgun in hand, Samuel not two steps behind. His jeans, hastily buttoned, are deeply constricting, and he grabs his overshirt off the floor with a prayer that it will hide the most conspicuous proof of his discomfort.

“Dean,” Sam says cautiously, and takes a slow glance around the room that Dean knows includes the discarded underwear and the rumpled couch, which looks exactly like two people just had rough, impromptu sex on it. Luckily, when Cas chose to flee the scene of the crime, he took his clothing with him, but Dean notices in horror that his trenchcoat is still covering the window. Damn angel has been slipping up all over the place. Sam follows his eyes, frowning even more, but lowers the gun. “What the hell are you doing in here? I’ve been calling you for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Did you bring a girl home or something, son?” asks Samuel. His black, furry eyebrows have climbed halfway up his bald head in amusement, and Dean could whip his boxers at the older man in frustration. Samuel definitely knows what was going on thirty seconds before they showed up, and seems a great deal more entertained than perplexed, unlike Sam.

“No, I did not bring a girl home ‘or something’,” Dean growls. “I just turned my phone off and fell asleep. That hasn’t exactly been easy to do, with that goddamned Hellhound barking its face off downstairs.” He gestures in the vicinity of the basement, hoping that it’ll be enough to distract them from the seriously awkward shit they almost walked in on.

Sam watches him with an arch to his eyebrow that Dean doesn’t like, but doesn’t choose to push the issue. Instead he says, “I thought I heard you talking to someone. Where’s Cas?” which isn’t really dropping the issue at all, but at least that question is a little easier to deflect.

“I have no idea” Dean answers honestly, and moves to sit back down on the couch so that he can hide his erection with the tails of his shirt. He is officially fifteen again, stuttering his way through the most embarrassing of confrontations with his father. “He was here a little while ago, but then he flapped off again-probably has some shit to do upstairs, who knows.”

“Well, maybe you should call him back down here,” suggests Samuel. Apparently through with the worst family reunion ever, he shoulders his gun and sighs. “You were vague over the phone. Just what are we expected to be helping you with? We were in the middle of tracking an Alpha.”

“And how’d that go?” asks Dean, folding his arms. Sam already told him over the phone that the whole thing would probably turn out to be a dead end, but the not-so-mature part of Dean enjoys prodding at his grandfather like a little kid taunting a feral raccoon with a stick.

It’s pretty clear that they wouldn’t be here, otherwise, but Samuel doesn’t give him the satisfaction. “We still have a shot of nailing the thing down if we get our asses back in gear soon enough,” he grates out. “So why don’t you show us the Hellhound and we’ll be on our way.”

Dean snorts. “My pleasure.” He stands again, grateful that the sheer weirdness of their conversation is acting as an effective buzzkill, and the thought of going down to the basement to hang out with the Hellhound puts him the rest of the way to soft.

Catching his subtle grimace, Sam takes the hint and leads the way, saving Dean from having to head up the front. It’s more sensitivity than Dean has seen from his brother in a while, but Sam ruins it by asking, “So how have you been dealing with having this thing around? I thought you might find it… difficult.”

“Why should it be difficult?” Samuel scoffs. Dean thought for sure that Sam would have filled their grandfather in on the events of the last several years, including Dean’s sojourn to Hell, but either that isn’t the case, or gramps is just fuzzy on the details. “The hardest part is subduing the damn thing, and it seems like you and this Castiel made out just fine.” Great choice of words. “Everything else will be easy, far as I’m concerned.”

“Yeah, well,” says Dean, “the fact that you can talk about Hellhounds so nonchalantly just goes to show that you’ve never tangled with one before.” At Samuel’s arched eyebrow, Dean shrugs and follows his brother down to the basement. “Some of us ain’t so lucky.”

From the basement stairs, the howls are much louder; Dean didn’t think that was possible, but the creature in question is still moaning as though in pain. Before returning to the house, Dean made a quick stop at an all-night grocery store for as much raw meat as he could handle without looking like a psychopath, so he knows it couldn’t possibly be hungry. The kinds of sounds it’s making, however, are reminiscent of the SPCA television spots that always made Sam cry as a kid. It isn’t as though Cas trussed the thing up in a particularly cruel way-it’s chained up securely, all right, but if one doesn’t count the iron-link chains it’s not much different from how one might restrain any other dog. As far as Dean can figure, it just isn’t used to having its freedom taken away, even if the domestic pet population of Springville is much happier for it.

“Holy shit,” says Sam in surprise, when they reach the bottom of the stairs. The Hellhound immediately takes up barking at him, pulling against its chains and straining to break free, and a part of Dean wonders if it can sense that something’s off about his brother, much like Dean.

“Would you look at that,” whistles Samuel, joining them. It would seem that Dean’s earlier comment wasn’t far off, because he’s the only one lacking in sense enough to move closer, gun holstered as though he hasn’t the slightest idea of what a Hellhound can do to a person’s face. “It doesn’t look at all as they’re described in books,” he observes.

“That’s because it isn’t a normal Hellhound,” Dean explains. To his brother, he gestures vaguely. “You know how huge those Hellhounds were that they came after me,” he says. “Maybe you couldn’t see ‘em at the time, but there was no question that they were seriously big motherfuckers.”

“No, I know,” agrees Sam without hesitation. “I saw plenty of them in Hell, and they made most demons look like chewtoys. I was fortunate enough that none of them ever came after me directly.”

Unlike their grandfather, he stays a respectful distance back, somewhere between Dean and the animal. It’s a weird, protective tableau that Dean’s too grateful for to be emasculated by; whatever’s been going on with Sam lately, he had a front-row seat to the horrors that Dean suffered before being dragged to Hell, to say nothing of Jo. Even if Sam’s sensitivity chip is totally blown, those memories would still be there.

“So what do you think?” prompts Dean. “It’s not just its size that’s got me and Cas wondering-this thing is a freaking puppy. You should have seen the way it mauled Cas back at that other house, it was like watching someone get humped by an off-leash Golden Retriever.”

“It humped Cas?” Sam’s nose wrinkles so much that Dean has to wave the thought away, although he feels a little offended that the idea of humping Cas should be so off-putting to Sam; he could tell some stories.

“No, you freak. It just jumped on him like it wanted to play. I thought I was gonna vomit-Hey!” Dean stops when he, and by extension Sam, notice that their grandfather has come right up to the Hellhound, and is offering his hand for it to smell.

“Samuel, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Shut up, Dean,” he snaps. “We could stand around all day discussing how this thing came to be, but in the meantime, I happen to have dogs-and I’m willing to bet that this here Hellhound has a lot more in common with them than anything else.”

Like it did back at the other house, the hound approaches with trepidation, but accepts the invitation to sniff. It seems a great deal more wary of the elder Campbell than it did of Cas, but in a way Dean supposes that an angel probably smells a lot less foreign and, well-normal-than an average guy, even one resurrected from the dead. Speaking of which, it’s about time Cas got his ass back down here, but Dean has to admit that, after a few seconds have passed, the Hellhound sits back as though satisfied, watching the three of them with nothing more than a slight, nervous whine.

“Atta boy,” says Samuel, and gently reaches out to pat the thing on the head. The whining stops short, and despite the fine layer of slime that comes away on his hand, Samuel shuffles closer and proceeds to scratch behind its ears. To Sam and Dean, he says, “It’s barely more than a puppy; scared, is all. Can one of you grab me some of that meat? This’ll go a hell of a lot easier if it isn’t acting like we’re about to drag it from the back of the truck.”

“Was that an option?” asks Dean, brow furrowing.

He skirts around Samuel and the hound with as wide a berth as possible, still unnerved by the stench and the vivid stain of blood on its maws. There’s still a small amount of raw meat inside the fridge that Cas plugged in-Dean hasn’t set foot in the basement until now-and he pulls it out to toss to his grandfather. The older man just rips open the plastic packaging and sets it down on the floor in front of the hound. Earlier hesitation all gone, it begins wolfing the meat like it hasn’t eaten in days, rather than a few hours. Dean has to hold back his gag reflex.

“That’s charming,” comments Sam, and Dean just shoots him a look of irritation before joining him at the far side of the basement. He makes a face and gets Samuel’s attention with a sharp wave of his hand, and it’s a big relief to Dean that his brother doesn’t want to spend any more time down here than necessary, either. “So what now? I guess we try to summon Crowley?”

“Have you boys attempted this before?” asks Samuel.

“Oh yeah,” Dean snorts. “Us and Crowley go way back. He’s used to us ringing his bell, but I don’t expect him to be too thrilled with us, not after last time.”

“What’d you do?”

“We conjured up his long-dead son and threatened to destroy his remains,” deadpans Sam. “For some reason that pissed him off.” He and Dean share a brief smirk with one another, thinking about the whirlwind trip to Scotland on Bobby’s behalf, but Samuel interrupts them with a sigh of annoyance.

“Well, good thing we expected this to be easy.” Aside from the barren shelves and the ancient fridge, the only other fixture of note in the basement is a large, industrial sink, which Samuel uses to wash his hands of the Hellhound’s filth. “Sam, I expect you know how to go about getting that demon’s ugly mug down here, so fetch what we need from the truck and get started. Dean, I thought you said the angel was supposed to be here?”

Samuel begins pushing his way upstairs, leaving the Hellhound to its well-fed bliss, and Dean guesses that’s their cue to follow. He doesn’t have to be told twice; it’s enough of a miracle that he’s managed to keep it together this long, despite the bubbling anxiety in his stomach that seems to defy all rational logic about the lack of danger he’s in.

“Cas said he couldn’t be involved in summoning the King of Hell to our doorstep,” he offers. “Maybe he’s got to be MIA for this one until the deed’s done.”

“Is it really necessary to summon the King of Hell?” demands Samuel. “Seems a bit overkill, don’t you think? For one measly Hellhound puppy?”

“Crowley’s got a Hellhound that he trained himself,” Sam explains. Dean’s mouth clicks shut, because for once his brother isn’t leaving him to look like the difficult one in front of their grandfather. “He summoned Growly once last year, when we were working together-as far as experts go, he’s the best we’ve got. Cas and Dean have the right idea there.”

“’Growly’?”

“We never said he was original,” Dean snarks. He closes the basement door firmly behind them once everyone has reached the top of the stairs. Miraculously, the Hellhound is totally silent, which makes sense because Dean no longer needs any peace and quiet. “I can try Cas again, but Samuel’s right-let’s get this show on the road, because I’ve seriously had as much of Springville as I can take for one lifetime.”

Part Three