{WIP} What Heaven Is, and Isn't
Title: What Heaven Is, and Isn't
Author: schriftstell
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Destiel (Dean/Castiel)
Spoilers: S6, possibly
Warnings: Human!Castiel, fade-to-black sexual content
Word Count: 2978
Summary: Castiel has fallen, become human in every way. Coping with the new human element isn't easy, especially when drunken escapades is on the list of things he probably shouldn't be doing.
Notes: Work in progress. Written for castielsmitesyou on Tumblr. :)
Cas has been human for awhile now. He’s gone through the leaps, bounds, and horrible falls that come with discovering the human condition. Since his Fall, he’s gone through black eyes, bloody noses, a sprained wrist, twisted ankles, scratched knees, and dozens upon dozens of headaches. He’s gotten drunk (completely and totally, but luckily, he’s a quiet drunk) and learned the ropes of flirting (he’s awful at it) with Dean as his teacher. He’s learned about guns, and has stared with alarm at the elephant-in-the-room grenade launcher that the boys have, for some reason or another.
He already knew of the importance of salt, and ‘salt n’ burn’ has become a mantra in his head. It’s been repeated in his impromptu lessons so many times that people say it in his dreams.
That’s the other thing. Dreaming. Sleeping in general. He’s been knocked unconscious before, gone to the point of being in a coma, and he knows exhaustion. However, he never exclusively had a need for sleep before. At first, it was annoying. As an angel, he could go weeks upon weeks and never shut his eyes for more than five minutes. There was never a need for ‘power naps’, and not once did he ‘crash’ like Dean puts it. Those first weeks living and recuperating at Bobby’s, learning that he likes spaghetti and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, were also the first days that he discovered sleep. The feeling of his eyelids growing heavy, and the need to yawn, and to stretch was completely new. He got frustrated at it, demanding to know why his body kept slowing down, even though he wasn’t injured or hadn’t done anything strenuous.
He was nearly furious when his question was answered with a short laugh from Bobby. “Ya need sleep, Cas,” he said, looking almost pleased at the situation. Or, perhaps, just amused that the once near-impenetrable angel now was reduced to having to take cat naps.
And he did. He tried to channel the now far gone Jimmy Novak in learning how to--of all things--sleep. Head on pillow, blankets covering him, and laying stiff as a board, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was only when Sam passed by Cas’ room and noticed the ex-angel appearing possessed in an attempt to sleep did he kindly suggest that Cas should probably relax. After that, Castiel found he kind of liked the idea of sleep. His dreams were always interesting, though sometimes sad. He dreamt of heaven, of his brothers, of his wings and of light that would be impossible to see now with human eyes.
Now he dreams of hunting, of the Winchesters, of guns and wendigos and ghosts and the Impala. He once dreamt that he was having a conversation with the Impala, who had the voice of a very flirtatious female. He woke up confused.
There’s so many other changes. There’s showering, and getting dressed in unfamiliar clothes. Rarely does he get to wear the familiar trench coat. There’s the ever-embarassing chronicles of How Castiel Learned How to Use the Bathroom, which Sam likes to revisit, but Dean prefers to never speak of again.
He also finds hobbies, learning steadily that boredom is very much part of the human element. He enjoys reading, which Sam delights in. He finds that he has a knack for art, and Dean uses this in asking him to draw the different monsters they fight, all to be included in the echo of John Winchester’s journal. However, included in that book are Enochian sigils and spells that Castiel remembers, and both brothers are thankful for that. He finds music he likes, though more often than not, Dean argues and debates that what Cas likes to listen to isn’t real music, but at least they can agree that Kansas isn’t halfway bad, and Foreigner is agreeable.
The issue of food is a repeated subject, as is drinking. Sam enjoys the fact that Cas definitely didn’t catch on to Dean’s eating habits, other than the continual love for red meat (and Sam can respect that sometimes). Diners become a battleground of health issues, especially after Cas buys himself a book on nutrition and health in order to keep up his strength for hunts. He gets after Dean for the amount of food he eats, and the quality, and insists that Dean should look into getting a glucometer to keep his blood sugar in check. He pesters him to choose salads over fries. At one instance, he brought up possibly cutting back on the pie. Dean then made it a rule that those words were never to be spoken in that order again as long as Cas was around them. Cas never speaks of it again, though he does find himself glaring at Dean whenever he orders pie.
Then the drinking. The first time he went drinking with Dean as a human, he felt as though he had been hit by a bus (analogy courtesy of Sam), and woke up with a pounding headache and the conviction that he would never again leave his bed and he would much rather prefer to die and go back to heaven instead of go through that round of torture. Ibuprofen and six glasses of water later, his conviction was shattered when he made it as far as the filthy hotel couch where he laid on his stomach until the afternoon, watching reruns of soap operas until he felt better.
He finds himself on a hunt in Michigan months later, much better with his alcohol tolerance, but still wishing he never had alcohol put in front of him again. Naturally, Dean takes him to a bar in Traverse City on the first night they’re there. It’s a kitsch bar, decorated with nautical items and smelling like pure malt. However, it faces Grand Traverse Bay, and while Sam is out looking up information on a possible “wolf attack” as the residents put it, Dean hauls him to the bar, and they sit at a table in the shape of a ship’s helm, with Dean doing shots of whiskey, and Cas looking mournfully down at a glass of pale-colored beer.
“Shouldn’t we be helping Sam?” Cas asks.
Dean snorts and shrugs. “Nah, he can handle it.”
Cas furrows his brow, frowning at the oddly-pleased man sitting across from him. “It would help finish the hunt sooner, wouldn’t it?”
“Look,” Dean begins, and Cas can already see that familiar haze of inebriation in his eyes. “All you two do is have your nerdy little sleepover parties. You need to get out more, Cas.”
“But we’re outside all the time,” Cas says, deadpan.
Dean sighs, rubbing his forehead. “That’s not what I meant. Jesus, you’re still far from human.” Cas’ frown deepens at that, and when he opens his mouth to retort, Dean silences him by shoving the beer a little closer to Cas. “Just drink it and shut up for a second.”
And he does, almost obediently. He doesn’t protest when Dean keeps ordering more, and Cas becomes more than aware that Dean is full of the intent to get them drunk again, which means one more morning of aspirin-filled regrets.
At the point where the bar seems to tilt on its axis, and the parking lot looks like Lake Michigan already consumed it, Cas knows he’s drunk. However, instead of quietly swaying and shuffling behind Dean while the hunter happily makes his opinion known to the world about how he feels about everyone and everything, Cas proceeds to do the same, laughing loudly and staggering beside Dean, one arm over his shoulder.
They make it to a stretch of beach on the bay, the water pitch black and lapping gently against the sand. Cas lays down on the sand, spread-eagle, staring up at the endless abyss above him, dotted with stars and planets. Dean takes off his boots and socks, rolling his pants up as best he can while drunk, then running out into the water, letting out an uncharacteristic yelp when he finds that it is far colder than he expected. Yet, he stays in it, announcing to the entire Traverse City area that he is a man and that no lake can handle him, whatever that means. Then he swears at the monster, wherever it is, and then swears at Sam for not being here and being a nerd. The rest of it is eventually unintelligible to Cas begins to feel tired, and sleeping seems like an excellent idea.
Until Dean none-too-gracefully falls down beside him, slightly soaked, shivering, but pleased with himself. “That was cool,” he says with a grin. Then, to Castiel’s delayed surprise, he sidles up next to him, nearly hip to hip, the side of Dean’s head touching his.
“Dean?”
Dean doesn’t say anything at first, still grinning, staring up at the stars. “Ya ever miss it?” he slurs.
It takes a moment for Castiel to interpret that, and slowly, he nods, and then the corners of his lips quirk up as well when the nod turns into a shrug. “Sometimes.”
An eyebrow raises slightly, but Dean doesn’t turn away to his lovely view of the universe. “Sometimes?”
“I wasn’t born human, Dean, if you remember,” Cas says, and somehow, that strikes him as somewhat funny to think about, and he snorts. It appears to be infectious, and Dean laughs as well, though his laugh is much louder. He rolls over to face Cas, green eyes just slightly visible in the starlight. Then, he places one hand just under Cas’ jaw, leaning his head forward until their foreheads meet.
“I’m happy, though,” he says, though the words are muddled, tinged with drunkenness, his breath smelling like cheap whiskey. His lips barely brush against Castiel’s, so lightly that it could have been an accident. But it isn’t. Not when Dean suddenly crushes their lips together. It’s clumsy as soon as Castiel gets over his initial shock and reciprocates. Dean isn’t inexperienced, but he is drunk. Cas is the inexperienced one, and it shows. He doesn’t know what to do. His instinct lacks, even though he’s seen the act done over and over again. His hand slides under Dean’s shirt, but doesn’t go any further. Yet, Dean seems to understand this under his haze, and takes as much control as he can.
Somehow, their shirts are removed along with Cas’ boots, and they’re down to jeans, shivering from the wind blowing in off the bay. It’s a terrible idea. Cas knows this. Yet there’s no protest. When his arms raise to curl around the back of Dean’s neck, he knows he’s too far gone, lost in his own haze, this new sort of lust making the alcohol still coursing through his new human system all the more potent. He feels blinded, deafened by the gasps coming from himself and from Dean, who leans in and kisses a trail along his neck down to his chest. It’s new, and it should be frightening, except that Cas has nothing but what he considers to be a childish trust in Dean.
He can feel the sand beneath him, and frigid fingers running up and down his torso, below the hem of his jeans, further and further until his eyes roll back in his head. He thinks Dean laughs, but he can’t tell anymore. Everything comes in a rush, and he feels as though electricity has arced through him, hit every nerve as it rushed in on his neurons, leaping from dendrite to dendrite. It’s alien to him, as it was when he was an angel, as it is now when he’s reduced to a mere mortal, and yet, it has the qualities of everything he knew as heaven. An individual heaven, cast above him in the stars he sees when he looks beyond Dean, when he feels an endless warmth rushing through him. This would be his heaven. Everything about it, even the frigid sand and wind beneath and around him.
---
Cas wakes up to a gray, cold light. It’s familiar, that of the moment just before dawn. The wind is still blowing in off the lake, hissing its way through the trees behind him. When he manages to look up, he sees that they’re rather far away from town. Mostly, it’s trees and beach, with a narrow road hidden somewhere in the forest. He doesn’t remember walking so much, but there is something he does remember.
That’s when he looks to his side, seeing Dean curled on his side, sand in his hair and on his face. He’s wearing nothing but his leather jacket and boxers, and Cas finds himself not so different. However, he was curled against Dean before he sat up, and there’s the telltale stripe of warmth on his side where an arm was. The longer he looks at Dean, the more he comes to realize what they’ve done.
At first, he thinks he regrets it. The hangover he has already doesn’t help, and he’s sure that it was all just the product of some drunken escapade, and that this is just one more thing they’ll never bring themselves to talk about it.
Then, he watches Dean sigh in his sleep, one side of his mouth quirked upward, before he edges toward Cas. The regret passes instantly, even though he makes a very apt prediction that Dean won’t be half as pleased waking up to someone who is definitely not a woman and who is definitely a good friend of his. Yet, Cas can’t find himself getting nervous, although he finds himself pinning at least a little bit of blame on an alcohol-soaked mind. He knows he’s wanted this. He can’t forget what he did as an angel for Dean, and then the Fall itself, practically ripping his Grace out and falling, only to be caught in a way. When he sprained his wrist, it was in an attempt to pull Dean out of harm's way. His trips and falls have all been a part of this net he’s attempted to weave around Dean, even though he knows Dean can take care of himself. Yet, it comes down to love. The love that made him kiss Dean back and led him to give Dean something he could never have given anyone.
Dean wakes up. Slowly, his eyes opening, a groan rising up in his chest. He brushes some of the sand away from his face and out of his hair, and then looks at Cas. He looks, and he looks for a very long time. His eyes are gray-green in the cold light, and they’re wide. Wide enough to indicate to Cas that there’s regret as well, and Castiel’s first instinct is to move away from him, to give him room in case this all comes crashing back to Dean in one fell swoop.
It doesn’t, and for just a moment, Cas wonders if Dean is catatonic.
“Did we...?” Dean begins, but from the look of realization on his face, it’s a question that doesn’t need an answer, so Cas refrains. Dean seems to come to the conclusion by himself, and he looks out over the water. “Oh.”
That’s it. That’s all he says, and Cas can’t interpret it. “Dean?” he chances.
“We should... probably go check on Sammy,” Dean replies, and Cas can hear the avoidance. He doesn’t want to think about it, and part of Cas can’t blame him.
Silently, they gather their clothes, rearranging everything into its proper place. Laces are tied and wrinkles are brushed out. However, their eyes don’t meet, despite Cas repeatedly looking up at Dean, hoping for something other than avoidance.
When they begin walking down the road back into town, Castiel gathers the courage to ask, but when he opens his mouth, Dean silences him with one hand in the air. “No, Cas,” is all he says.
Cas remains quiet until they find their way back to the motel.
---
“Where the hell have you been?” is the first thing that meets them when they get in the door, greeted by a wide-eyed, obviously caffeinated Sam. There’s books strewn everywhere, and Sam has the atmosphere of an angry and suspicious spouse. “I called you like, a million times!”
“Technically, you called twelve times,” Dean corrects.
“Point is, I had no damn idea where you two were!” Sam bites back, exasperated.
Dean shrugs, falling onto his bed with a protesting creak of bed springs. “At the bar, just like I told you.”
“All night?”
“We were in it for the long run,” comes a cheeky reply.
Sam sighs, halfway to throwing his hands up in mock surrender. Then he turns and looks at Castiel, who is standing off to the side, gloriously awkward, and looking rather worse for the wear. Sam frowns at him. “You okay, Cas?”
Before Cas can answer, Dean slides up beside him, grinning as though nothing is wrong and that there’s no such thing as a hangover. “He’s fine, Sammy. Probably just tired, right?”
Cas nods mutely.
---
They finish the job within a day. It’s merely a shapeshifter, messing around with local superstitions by disguising itself as a bloodthirsty werewolf. Although the hunt is a success, Cas injures his wrist a second time, and gets a cut above his right eyebrow that requires stitching. Sitting in the back of the Impala on the drive back downstate (after getting a call on something suspicious going down in Mansfield, Ohio), he looks down at his wrist, covered in bandage wrap courtesy of Sam. He should be thankful, at least, that Sam knows how to set bone and wrap correctly, but all he can feel is his own uselessness. He knew this was how it was going to end up if he became mortal, and so he sighs listlessly, staring out the window at the passing landscape.
Author: schriftstell
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Destiel (Dean/Castiel)
Spoilers: S6, possibly
Warnings: Human!Castiel, fade-to-black sexual content
Word Count: 2978
Summary: Castiel has fallen, become human in every way. Coping with the new human element isn't easy, especially when drunken escapades is on the list of things he probably shouldn't be doing.
Notes: Work in progress. Written for castielsmitesyou on Tumblr. :)
Cas has been human for awhile now. He’s gone through the leaps, bounds, and horrible falls that come with discovering the human condition. Since his Fall, he’s gone through black eyes, bloody noses, a sprained wrist, twisted ankles, scratched knees, and dozens upon dozens of headaches. He’s gotten drunk (completely and totally, but luckily, he’s a quiet drunk) and learned the ropes of flirting (he’s awful at it) with Dean as his teacher. He’s learned about guns, and has stared with alarm at the elephant-in-the-room grenade launcher that the boys have, for some reason or another.
He already knew of the importance of salt, and ‘salt n’ burn’ has become a mantra in his head. It’s been repeated in his impromptu lessons so many times that people say it in his dreams.
That’s the other thing. Dreaming. Sleeping in general. He’s been knocked unconscious before, gone to the point of being in a coma, and he knows exhaustion. However, he never exclusively had a need for sleep before. At first, it was annoying. As an angel, he could go weeks upon weeks and never shut his eyes for more than five minutes. There was never a need for ‘power naps’, and not once did he ‘crash’ like Dean puts it. Those first weeks living and recuperating at Bobby’s, learning that he likes spaghetti and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, were also the first days that he discovered sleep. The feeling of his eyelids growing heavy, and the need to yawn, and to stretch was completely new. He got frustrated at it, demanding to know why his body kept slowing down, even though he wasn’t injured or hadn’t done anything strenuous.
He was nearly furious when his question was answered with a short laugh from Bobby. “Ya need sleep, Cas,” he said, looking almost pleased at the situation. Or, perhaps, just amused that the once near-impenetrable angel now was reduced to having to take cat naps.
And he did. He tried to channel the now far gone Jimmy Novak in learning how to--of all things--sleep. Head on pillow, blankets covering him, and laying stiff as a board, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was only when Sam passed by Cas’ room and noticed the ex-angel appearing possessed in an attempt to sleep did he kindly suggest that Cas should probably relax. After that, Castiel found he kind of liked the idea of sleep. His dreams were always interesting, though sometimes sad. He dreamt of heaven, of his brothers, of his wings and of light that would be impossible to see now with human eyes.
Now he dreams of hunting, of the Winchesters, of guns and wendigos and ghosts and the Impala. He once dreamt that he was having a conversation with the Impala, who had the voice of a very flirtatious female. He woke up confused.
There’s so many other changes. There’s showering, and getting dressed in unfamiliar clothes. Rarely does he get to wear the familiar trench coat. There’s the ever-embarassing chronicles of How Castiel Learned How to Use the Bathroom, which Sam likes to revisit, but Dean prefers to never speak of again.
He also finds hobbies, learning steadily that boredom is very much part of the human element. He enjoys reading, which Sam delights in. He finds that he has a knack for art, and Dean uses this in asking him to draw the different monsters they fight, all to be included in the echo of John Winchester’s journal. However, included in that book are Enochian sigils and spells that Castiel remembers, and both brothers are thankful for that. He finds music he likes, though more often than not, Dean argues and debates that what Cas likes to listen to isn’t real music, but at least they can agree that Kansas isn’t halfway bad, and Foreigner is agreeable.
The issue of food is a repeated subject, as is drinking. Sam enjoys the fact that Cas definitely didn’t catch on to Dean’s eating habits, other than the continual love for red meat (and Sam can respect that sometimes). Diners become a battleground of health issues, especially after Cas buys himself a book on nutrition and health in order to keep up his strength for hunts. He gets after Dean for the amount of food he eats, and the quality, and insists that Dean should look into getting a glucometer to keep his blood sugar in check. He pesters him to choose salads over fries. At one instance, he brought up possibly cutting back on the pie. Dean then made it a rule that those words were never to be spoken in that order again as long as Cas was around them. Cas never speaks of it again, though he does find himself glaring at Dean whenever he orders pie.
Then the drinking. The first time he went drinking with Dean as a human, he felt as though he had been hit by a bus (analogy courtesy of Sam), and woke up with a pounding headache and the conviction that he would never again leave his bed and he would much rather prefer to die and go back to heaven instead of go through that round of torture. Ibuprofen and six glasses of water later, his conviction was shattered when he made it as far as the filthy hotel couch where he laid on his stomach until the afternoon, watching reruns of soap operas until he felt better.
He finds himself on a hunt in Michigan months later, much better with his alcohol tolerance, but still wishing he never had alcohol put in front of him again. Naturally, Dean takes him to a bar in Traverse City on the first night they’re there. It’s a kitsch bar, decorated with nautical items and smelling like pure malt. However, it faces Grand Traverse Bay, and while Sam is out looking up information on a possible “wolf attack” as the residents put it, Dean hauls him to the bar, and they sit at a table in the shape of a ship’s helm, with Dean doing shots of whiskey, and Cas looking mournfully down at a glass of pale-colored beer.
“Shouldn’t we be helping Sam?” Cas asks.
Dean snorts and shrugs. “Nah, he can handle it.”
Cas furrows his brow, frowning at the oddly-pleased man sitting across from him. “It would help finish the hunt sooner, wouldn’t it?”
“Look,” Dean begins, and Cas can already see that familiar haze of inebriation in his eyes. “All you two do is have your nerdy little sleepover parties. You need to get out more, Cas.”
“But we’re outside all the time,” Cas says, deadpan.
Dean sighs, rubbing his forehead. “That’s not what I meant. Jesus, you’re still far from human.” Cas’ frown deepens at that, and when he opens his mouth to retort, Dean silences him by shoving the beer a little closer to Cas. “Just drink it and shut up for a second.”
And he does, almost obediently. He doesn’t protest when Dean keeps ordering more, and Cas becomes more than aware that Dean is full of the intent to get them drunk again, which means one more morning of aspirin-filled regrets.
At the point where the bar seems to tilt on its axis, and the parking lot looks like Lake Michigan already consumed it, Cas knows he’s drunk. However, instead of quietly swaying and shuffling behind Dean while the hunter happily makes his opinion known to the world about how he feels about everyone and everything, Cas proceeds to do the same, laughing loudly and staggering beside Dean, one arm over his shoulder.
They make it to a stretch of beach on the bay, the water pitch black and lapping gently against the sand. Cas lays down on the sand, spread-eagle, staring up at the endless abyss above him, dotted with stars and planets. Dean takes off his boots and socks, rolling his pants up as best he can while drunk, then running out into the water, letting out an uncharacteristic yelp when he finds that it is far colder than he expected. Yet, he stays in it, announcing to the entire Traverse City area that he is a man and that no lake can handle him, whatever that means. Then he swears at the monster, wherever it is, and then swears at Sam for not being here and being a nerd. The rest of it is eventually unintelligible to Cas begins to feel tired, and sleeping seems like an excellent idea.
Until Dean none-too-gracefully falls down beside him, slightly soaked, shivering, but pleased with himself. “That was cool,” he says with a grin. Then, to Castiel’s delayed surprise, he sidles up next to him, nearly hip to hip, the side of Dean’s head touching his.
“Dean?”
Dean doesn’t say anything at first, still grinning, staring up at the stars. “Ya ever miss it?” he slurs.
It takes a moment for Castiel to interpret that, and slowly, he nods, and then the corners of his lips quirk up as well when the nod turns into a shrug. “Sometimes.”
An eyebrow raises slightly, but Dean doesn’t turn away to his lovely view of the universe. “Sometimes?”
“I wasn’t born human, Dean, if you remember,” Cas says, and somehow, that strikes him as somewhat funny to think about, and he snorts. It appears to be infectious, and Dean laughs as well, though his laugh is much louder. He rolls over to face Cas, green eyes just slightly visible in the starlight. Then, he places one hand just under Cas’ jaw, leaning his head forward until their foreheads meet.
“I’m happy, though,” he says, though the words are muddled, tinged with drunkenness, his breath smelling like cheap whiskey. His lips barely brush against Castiel’s, so lightly that it could have been an accident. But it isn’t. Not when Dean suddenly crushes their lips together. It’s clumsy as soon as Castiel gets over his initial shock and reciprocates. Dean isn’t inexperienced, but he is drunk. Cas is the inexperienced one, and it shows. He doesn’t know what to do. His instinct lacks, even though he’s seen the act done over and over again. His hand slides under Dean’s shirt, but doesn’t go any further. Yet, Dean seems to understand this under his haze, and takes as much control as he can.
Somehow, their shirts are removed along with Cas’ boots, and they’re down to jeans, shivering from the wind blowing in off the bay. It’s a terrible idea. Cas knows this. Yet there’s no protest. When his arms raise to curl around the back of Dean’s neck, he knows he’s too far gone, lost in his own haze, this new sort of lust making the alcohol still coursing through his new human system all the more potent. He feels blinded, deafened by the gasps coming from himself and from Dean, who leans in and kisses a trail along his neck down to his chest. It’s new, and it should be frightening, except that Cas has nothing but what he considers to be a childish trust in Dean.
He can feel the sand beneath him, and frigid fingers running up and down his torso, below the hem of his jeans, further and further until his eyes roll back in his head. He thinks Dean laughs, but he can’t tell anymore. Everything comes in a rush, and he feels as though electricity has arced through him, hit every nerve as it rushed in on his neurons, leaping from dendrite to dendrite. It’s alien to him, as it was when he was an angel, as it is now when he’s reduced to a mere mortal, and yet, it has the qualities of everything he knew as heaven. An individual heaven, cast above him in the stars he sees when he looks beyond Dean, when he feels an endless warmth rushing through him. This would be his heaven. Everything about it, even the frigid sand and wind beneath and around him.
---
Cas wakes up to a gray, cold light. It’s familiar, that of the moment just before dawn. The wind is still blowing in off the lake, hissing its way through the trees behind him. When he manages to look up, he sees that they’re rather far away from town. Mostly, it’s trees and beach, with a narrow road hidden somewhere in the forest. He doesn’t remember walking so much, but there is something he does remember.
That’s when he looks to his side, seeing Dean curled on his side, sand in his hair and on his face. He’s wearing nothing but his leather jacket and boxers, and Cas finds himself not so different. However, he was curled against Dean before he sat up, and there’s the telltale stripe of warmth on his side where an arm was. The longer he looks at Dean, the more he comes to realize what they’ve done.
At first, he thinks he regrets it. The hangover he has already doesn’t help, and he’s sure that it was all just the product of some drunken escapade, and that this is just one more thing they’ll never bring themselves to talk about it.
Then, he watches Dean sigh in his sleep, one side of his mouth quirked upward, before he edges toward Cas. The regret passes instantly, even though he makes a very apt prediction that Dean won’t be half as pleased waking up to someone who is definitely not a woman and who is definitely a good friend of his. Yet, Cas can’t find himself getting nervous, although he finds himself pinning at least a little bit of blame on an alcohol-soaked mind. He knows he’s wanted this. He can’t forget what he did as an angel for Dean, and then the Fall itself, practically ripping his Grace out and falling, only to be caught in a way. When he sprained his wrist, it was in an attempt to pull Dean out of harm's way. His trips and falls have all been a part of this net he’s attempted to weave around Dean, even though he knows Dean can take care of himself. Yet, it comes down to love. The love that made him kiss Dean back and led him to give Dean something he could never have given anyone.
Dean wakes up. Slowly, his eyes opening, a groan rising up in his chest. He brushes some of the sand away from his face and out of his hair, and then looks at Cas. He looks, and he looks for a very long time. His eyes are gray-green in the cold light, and they’re wide. Wide enough to indicate to Cas that there’s regret as well, and Castiel’s first instinct is to move away from him, to give him room in case this all comes crashing back to Dean in one fell swoop.
It doesn’t, and for just a moment, Cas wonders if Dean is catatonic.
“Did we...?” Dean begins, but from the look of realization on his face, it’s a question that doesn’t need an answer, so Cas refrains. Dean seems to come to the conclusion by himself, and he looks out over the water. “Oh.”
That’s it. That’s all he says, and Cas can’t interpret it. “Dean?” he chances.
“We should... probably go check on Sammy,” Dean replies, and Cas can hear the avoidance. He doesn’t want to think about it, and part of Cas can’t blame him.
Silently, they gather their clothes, rearranging everything into its proper place. Laces are tied and wrinkles are brushed out. However, their eyes don’t meet, despite Cas repeatedly looking up at Dean, hoping for something other than avoidance.
When they begin walking down the road back into town, Castiel gathers the courage to ask, but when he opens his mouth, Dean silences him with one hand in the air. “No, Cas,” is all he says.
Cas remains quiet until they find their way back to the motel.
---
“Where the hell have you been?” is the first thing that meets them when they get in the door, greeted by a wide-eyed, obviously caffeinated Sam. There’s books strewn everywhere, and Sam has the atmosphere of an angry and suspicious spouse. “I called you like, a million times!”
“Technically, you called twelve times,” Dean corrects.
“Point is, I had no damn idea where you two were!” Sam bites back, exasperated.
Dean shrugs, falling onto his bed with a protesting creak of bed springs. “At the bar, just like I told you.”
“All night?”
“We were in it for the long run,” comes a cheeky reply.
Sam sighs, halfway to throwing his hands up in mock surrender. Then he turns and looks at Castiel, who is standing off to the side, gloriously awkward, and looking rather worse for the wear. Sam frowns at him. “You okay, Cas?”
Before Cas can answer, Dean slides up beside him, grinning as though nothing is wrong and that there’s no such thing as a hangover. “He’s fine, Sammy. Probably just tired, right?”
Cas nods mutely.
---
They finish the job within a day. It’s merely a shapeshifter, messing around with local superstitions by disguising itself as a bloodthirsty werewolf. Although the hunt is a success, Cas injures his wrist a second time, and gets a cut above his right eyebrow that requires stitching. Sitting in the back of the Impala on the drive back downstate (after getting a call on something suspicious going down in Mansfield, Ohio), he looks down at his wrist, covered in bandage wrap courtesy of Sam. He should be thankful, at least, that Sam knows how to set bone and wrap correctly, but all he can feel is his own uselessness. He knew this was how it was going to end up if he became mortal, and so he sighs listlessly, staring out the window at the passing landscape.