Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, NC-17 PART ONE OF TWO

[shockselectric]

Title: Empire of Dirt
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary: The apocalypse comes and Dean can't stop it. Castiel eventually finds him wandering alone and they set off trying to fix the world and find Sam before Lucifer can ruin everything.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 10,886 / 21,644
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Read in one post at AO3. I planned this out and began writing it in 2009, which is why it ignores bits and pieces of canon. My brain kind of ran away with me ;__; Please feel free to point out any mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Supernatural or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.



Dean was ten when he first visited the Lincoln Memorial.

He remembers standing at Abraham’s feet and looking up in wonderment that anything that big could even exist, let alone be right in front of his eyes. He remembers how he felt sorry for the statue, for it having to stay in one place and watch the same old scenery change with the seasons, while he travelled around the rest of the United States. Even at that age, he’d already been to every state at least once.

Sam had sat on the steps in the entranceway, his coat tucked tightly around him, his scarf pulled over his mouth and chin, allowing only the pink tip of his nose to show above. Sam had been bored and Dean had known because Sam hadn’t quit complaining the whole time they were there; about the cold, about the tourists, about nothing and everything. In the end, Dean had given up; he’d grabbed Sam by the arm and tugged him all the way back to the dingy motel they were staying in two blocks over.

That evening, when their dad came home, flopping into an armchair by the door, Dean couldn’t help but see Lincoln reflected in his father’s movements; the same carelessly splayed legs, the same clenched left hand, the same stony expression, like he’d seen it all a thousand times before and it was all just getting repetitive.

*

It’s twenty-four years later when he visits the statue again, but he’d give everything not to.

Abraham’s head is missing and his right leg has been snapped off at the shin. The wall behind him is scorched black, forming an inky shadow forever lurking behind the marble figure. The original quote above the statue has been cracked into indecipherable pieces, but childishly finger-painted over it in a shade of red that could well be blood is the message: Morning awaits at the end of the world, and the world is all at our feet. It makes Dean’s stomach roll with nausea; he doesn’t know if he’ll live long enough to see this morning, though perhaps he already has.

The ceiling has half caved in, loose chunks of concrete scattered about like die thrown in a game of chance. Two of the columns have fallen in the entranceway, where a past Sam once sat. Dean had to climb over one, fingers scrambling for purchase against the cool limestone, in order to escape the sudden flurry of ash and soot outside.

He pulls the collar of his jacket around his face to cover his nose and mouth, blinking rapidly to clear his burning eyes. He can feel the heat of the fire outside burning its way through houses and long-since abandoned cars, and there’s nothing he can do, except try to keep ahead of it, try to escape its blazing grasp. Not even the reflection pool can help him; it’s dried up, its bottom covered by a layer of autumn red leaves and pages from old flyaway newspapers, from when news actually still circulated.

There’s a flash of movement to his left that catches his attention enough that he reaches for his gun and clicks the safety off in two fluid movements. If it’s a demon, it won’t get him very far, but there’s a small part of him that whispers quietly that one of these days it might be Sam, or maybe even Castiel, however, it’s waning rapidly and he knows he’s running out of time.

His eyes dart about the area, searching for signs of life. He’s mindful of the pieces of ceiling that continue to fall down around him sporadically, and he can’t help but wish it were rain instead. It’s funny that all the world really needs is a good bit of rain. The fires would be put out and the ash in the air that continues to make breathing harder for Dean would settle enough that it wouldn’t be perpetually dark and the sun would be able to shine yellow instead of blood red.

He keeps his back to the wall, cocking his gun as quietly as he can, while he edges towards where the movement came from, moving further into the memorial temple, into the darkness, which, to Dean, is much better than the darkness outside. It’s moments like these that he wishes he still had a flashlight, however he threw his last one out in Detroit when the batteries died, the light fading slowly while he was searching for a place that he had hoped was safer than the open street.

That night, he had ended up sleeping in a bed that must have belonged to a child once because the pattern on the bed sheets was of Buzz Lightyear. The morning after was when he had truly realised the state of humanity because when he had made his way downstairs, stepping carefully over the stairs that no longer existed, he had found a mother, father, and their young boy seated around the kitchen table, slumped over their identical bowls of cereal. While searching for anything still edible, he had found a bottle of bleach sitting empty next to an open, extremely off carton of milk, and he’d shut his eyes when the horror had washed over him; he’d quietly hoped he’d never have to make a decision like that and then had left without a backwards glance.

Back in the present, Dean angrily pushes the memory away, knowing that he needs to focus on what could be lurking nearby. A quick movement to his right makes him spin and pull his gun’s trigger in surprise. A crow caws in fear, flapping its wings until it hits the ceiling above it and finds that it can’t go anywhere else. With a shaky sigh, Dean flicks the safety of his gun back into place and slips the weapon into his belt.

The bird eventually finds its way out, flying back into the hazy sky alone, heading straight up, as though it’s hoping that at some point the smoky layer above the earth will end and it’ll be able to see clearly again. Dean wishes that he had as much conviction because as it is he’s just groping blindly in the dark, but there’s no clear sky for him to aim for, just his own death awaiting him with open arms.

Dean decides to curl up behind Abraham’s statue for the night because it blocks him from immediate view and he likes to think that, even headless, it’s keeping a look out as his own eyes slide shut in utter exhaustion. In his dreams there’s no smoke or fire, just Sam and Castiel traveling with him, both being as stubborn as ever, refusing to give up, and Dean realises that’s his clear sky; that’s his reason to keep going, even though he can’t see an end.

*

A month later finds him in what’s left of New York City. At this point in the fight, he’s already searched half of the east coast for Sam or Castiel or Bobby and he’s found exactly nothing, so his main goal is to carry on. And possibly to stay alive long enough to do so. If he happens to find Lucifer along the way, it’ll be an added bonus.

He hides himself behind a warehouse on the edge of the harbour, overlooking a faint-looking Liberty Island, where the Statue of Liberty no longer stands, just a pedestal and a three hundred and something odd missing copper-woman. She’s probably resting at the bottom of the harbour, welcoming the people who sink lifelessly in the water alongside her with a broken torch and only half a crown.

The water is freezing to the touch, but Dean doesn’t remember the last time he was able to clean himself properly, so he strips and plunges feet first into the murky water. It takes his breath away, but he scrubs at his dirty face with numb fingers until everything aches with a chill. He drags himself out with shaking limbs and swipes away as much of the damp from his skin as he can before climbing back into his torn and soiled clothes. Lucky for him, most of New York is burning, in the same way every other state he passes through is, which makes it easier for him to find a way to warm up.

He finds embers and carries them into the warehouse inside a trashcan, getting a fire going with bits of a New York Times dating from a year past and bits of broken pallets. He drinks water that he’s gathered from various places in an old flask and pulls out a can of pineapple chunks he stole from a house situated just beyond Central Park. He hacks the tin open with a nearby rock and eats hungrily, licking the sugared juices off his fingers with more enthusiasm than he ever thought he would. It’s been a while since he tasted something so delicious and sweet.

Night rolls in heavily, shrouding his hiding place in fog, and he goes to sleep sitting up with the fire dwindling in front of him.

*

Waking up never gets easier; it takes a few moments for him to realise where he is, when he is, and it always hits like a two-ton truck when it all floods back to him.

His breakfast consists of a handful of Skittles and a Hershey’s bar, which he admits is better than what he’s had some mornings. His trashcan-fire has long since burnt itself out, but he’s not as cold as he thought he might be. He drinks heavily from his water bottle and decides he should collect more water to make holy before moving on again, because what else is seawater good for? He slings his duffel bag over his shoulder and makes his way to the water’s edge, feeling strangely vulnerable as he leans over, dipping bottle after bottle under the water to fill them, but there’s nothing he can do, no one to watch his back.

With one hand clinging to dirty wooden planks and the other up to the wrist in numbing coldness, he finds his reflection to be a haunting companion. His cheeks have sunken in from lack of decent nutrition and his face is unshaven in a way that is more hobo than he’d like to admit. The last time he’d shaved, he’d used his hunting knife and he’d practically shredded his face. He’s vowed to wait at least another week before torturing himself again.

He pulls his arm back and screws the cap on the last bottle, slipping it into his bag again, making a mental note to bless it before he leaves so that it’s actually useful. He washes his dusty hands off in the water and is about to sit up again when another reflection ripples up alongside his. In the blink of an eye, he spins and draws his gun out, firing a warning shot before his brain can register anything other than a vague thought of oh hell.

The person behind him stumbles back a step in surprise, but remains standing and it isn’t until Dean’s ears prick up at the sound of rustling coat that he starts to take in the scene. His brow furrows and he bears his teeth savagely as he raises his gun again.

“Which demon are you then?” he hisses, realising too late that if it actually is a demon, his gun won’t do jack to help save him.

“Dean,” the man says, voice rough and familiar, “I am not a demon.”

“That’s exactly what I’d expect to hear from a demon in a meat-suit.”

The man’s face is set like stone and Dean almost shoots again as he reaches into his jacket and pulls something small out of the inner pocket. Dangling from a frayed string is an amulet he once lent to an angel, over a year ago.

“I thought I should return this.”

“Cas?” Dean whispers, his arm suddenly losing power, dropping his gun to his side.

Castiel nods once and that’s all Dean allows him to do before he lets his gun fall to the floor as he grabs fistfuls of Castiel’s coat and pulls him towards himself, winding his arms around Castiel’s back and holding him as though he plans on never letting go.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” Dean says into Castiel’s collar, squeezing just a little tighter than strictly necessary before he pulls back and frowns. “Would’ve been nicer if you’d popped in sometime sooner, though; I’ve been working my ass off here just to stay alive. Where were you, chilling on a cloud with the angel Brady Bunch?”

Castiel doesn’t even blink at Dean’s anger, as though he’s been expecting it all along. He holds out the amulet for Dean to take then slides his hands in his pockets. Dean, who’s rather missed the familiar weight, slips the string around his neck and hides the amulet under his shirt collar.

“What happened? Did you find God?”

Castiel shakes his head negatively. “I realised that finding God wasn’t the most efficient course of action. God will appear when the time comes, and I have enough faith to believe God’s watching over us and it’s still all just part of his plan.”

“So what do we do while we wait for God to show up?” Dean asks, because he doesn’t even know where to begin. “We try to fix this, right? Can this even be fixed?”

Castiel looks at the ground before he looks Dean in the eyes. “I don’t know, but we must continue our search for Lucifer, as the plan states, and we must destroy him.”

Dean turns away, looking down the shoreline towards downtown New York, where smoke billows from half-standing skyscrapers like black ship sails.

“How do we do that? How do you kill an angel of the underworld?” Dean asks incredulously.

Castiel sighs, and to Dean it sounds a lot like he’s just as tired and exhausted as he is himself.

“I don’t know,” he says, and as his words die away, a building in the distance collapses, dragging down a portion of Dean’s hope with it.

*

In Pennsylvania, Dean slaughters a deer and roasts it slowly over a fire for an afternoon. He’s never tasted anything as good and he goes to sleep feeling sated and full for once. Castiel sits next to him and the presence alone helps Dean to drift further into slumber than he has in a long time. The comfort of someone else being there with him takes a weight off his shoulders and the familiar company makes him think of his past life. Wherever Sam is, Dean hopes he has someone, because he thinks that no one should ever go through an apocalypse completely alone. Plus, the lumbering oaf could never survive by himself.

When he wakes at dawn, Castiel is sitting in exactly the same position, watching him with soft eyes as he slowly wakes up, stretching and rubbing his sleep-numbed face.

“Morning, Cas,” he says in between wide yawns.

“I have something for you,” is all Castiel says, and Dean expects him to pass on some words of wisdom or a bible, but instead, he hands a plateful of scrambled eggs over. Dean stares in both shock and adoration at the perfectly cooked meal. “I found a farm that had chickens and borrowed a few eggs; they should not be missed.”

When Dean fails to say anything, Castiel frowns.

“Are you not pleased?”

“Yeah, Cas, this is awesome, but you don’t have to do stuff like this; I’ve got food in my bag.”

“Candy is hardly food, Dean. You need protein to keep up your strength if you are to help restore this world.”

“Thanks, Cas,” he says with more sincerity than he’d originally aimed for, not that he doesn’t appreciate the gesture, just that it’s a little strange after being alone for so long.

He takes the proffered plate more eagerly than is necessarily polite and starts scooping the eggs into his mouth with his fingers. The food tastes a thousand times better than any diner eggs he’s had in the past and he hums appreciatively, waving his eyebrows at Castiel to let him know how much he’s enjoying his breakfast.

Castiel tilts his face away, looking vaguely pleased with himself, and Dean can’t help but grin around his fingers.

“We should head south for the next few days; I’ve heard whisperings about movement in Virginia,” Castiel eventually says, breaking the silence.

Dean nods and finishes his breakfast, realising sourly that nothing good ever lasts, even if, in this case, it is only scrambled eggs; he has a feeling that next time it’ll be something bigger and more important.

*

Dean hates being right sometimes.

It starts when they’re sidetracked on their way out of the state by a mob of demons that ambush them when they pass by an old storage unit. A rusty garage door flips open and five or so men and women flock towards them, their teeth bared and eyes black. Castiel doesn’t even flinch as he raises a hand, as though to say stop, and every single person drops to the floor in a heap before they can take another step.

Dean stares, slightly shocked, at Castiel before moving towards one of the slumped bodies and carefully pressing his middle and index fingers to their throat; there’s no pulse and their wide open eyes are no longer black, just a murky brown colour around unresponsive pupils. He pulls his hand away then runs it gently over their face to slide their eyelids down, closing their eyes for the last time, forever in slumber. He can feel Castiel’s gaze on him as he slowly repeats the motion with every person sprawled on the floor around him, but he doesn’t care. He stands again and moves to Castiel’s side.

“You didn’t have to kill them,” he says coldly.

“What would you rather, Dean; should I have exorcised them and made them more conscious of what they did during their possession? What I did was humane.”

“Humane? What are we talking about: people or animals?” Dean bites back, furiously.

“What’s done is done, Dean; I just saved your life, you should be grateful.”

Dean can’t help but think of the scrambled eggs from a week past. How Castiel can act so human one day and the next act like a true soldier of heaven is beyond Dean’s comprehension. It makes his head hurt just thinking about it, because how can one person be so divided? He looks sideways at Castiel’s stony face and tries to imagine a war going on inside him, but Castiel catches his stare and Dean shoots him a look of disgust before looking away.

Dean glances over his shoulder at the bodies and a hand presses against his elbow, gently urging him away. Dean doesn’t shrug it off as they continue walking; it’s a peculiar sort of comfort, in a way that makes Dean think that Castiel is silently apologising, but deep down Dean knows Castiel is right. It’s kill or be killed these days, he just doesn’t like to admit it.

“We should find a place for you to stay for the night; it won’t be light for much longer.”

The way Castiel words it sounds as though Dean will be spending another night alone and as much as he dislikes it, he doesn’t think he can reasonably ask Castiel to stay and babysit. He’s managed so far, one more night won’t hurt.

“Do you have to leave?” he asks despite his warring mind and Castiel looks at him with an expression he can’t quite read. It feels a little like Castiel might be delving into his thoughts, but he stops caring when Castiel shakes his head negatively.

“I will stay and keep watch. You need to be as rested as you can; we have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”

Dean nods and starts looking around for a safe-looking house with more interest. The calm that comes with knowing he won’t be alone makes him wish that Sam were with him now because then he’d have that feeling all the time, like the old days. He and Sam could fight anything, as long as they knew that at the end of the day they’d be back sleeping across from each other. Dean misses the late night conversation they used to have, where Dean would talk and Sam would listen and he’d eventually look over and find Sam asleep as though bored into unconsciousness, but if that were the case, Sam never once complained. If Dean ever woke in the middle of the night, he’d hear Sam’s gentle breathing, soft and even across the room, and in the end it would lull him back to sleep. He didn’t have that anymore, instead he had creaking, unfamiliar houses and the sounds of wild dogs howling in the streets outside and distant gun shots.

They end up in number forty-six, Crestview lane, which has boarded up windows, as though whoever lived in it before tried to keep the rest of the world out, however the attached garage has crumbled, and from the sidewalk, Dean can see at least two bodies buried in the rubble. Castiel informs him that it’s perfectly safe - he means completely abandoned, devoid of life - and they enter through a front door, which is blood red, literally, as Castiel sets up blood-wards and Dean goes to the kitchen to see if there’s anything worth taking. He finds a pantry full of dried fruit, but not much else.

While light still filters through the windows, Dean starts searching upstairs for blankets and pillows. He finds them tucked into a linen cupboard next to the bathroom and he carries his findings back to the ground floor, where he sets up a bed on the sofa. With a sigh, he flops back onto the cushions, kicking off his boots and removing his jacket, which actually isn’t his, rather something he took from a closet in a house in New Jersey.

Tiredness washes over him now that he’s sitting and he doesn’t even feel like rummaging in his bag for dinner, so instead he swings his legs up onto his makeshift bed and lets his eyes fall closed. After a few moments, he gets an itchy feeling, as though someone’s watching him and he opens his eyes to find Castiel sitting in an armchair across from him, wearing just his slacks, tie, and shirt - the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks like any old human, one that’s seen too much suffering in too little time.

Without saying anything, Dean rolls over, away from Castiel and lets himself drift off again, feeling safer knowing that there’s an angel at his back.

*

It feels like hours later, but judging on the way there’s still a faint tinge of light through the window at the end of the room, it’s probably only been a few minutes. He tries to figure out what woke him, and it isn’t until he really listens that he can hear faint whispering behind him. He rolls over, careful not to slip off the sofa, and finds Castiel hunched over in his seat, his eyes closed and his fingers pressed to his temples. His lips move rapidly, but whatever he’s mumbling is lost on Dean; he can’t even figure out what language it is.

“Cas?” Dean says roughly, his voice sounding as tired as he feels. Castiel twitches suddenly and sits up, opening his eyes and looking at Dean attentively. Dean feels a little awkward for interrupting, but not as much as Castiel looks for accidentally waking him.

“You mind keeping the angel hotline on mute for the night, or at least take it into another room?”

Castiel looks at the floor. “I apologise,” he says bluntly.

“It’s no biggie, just keep it down, okay?”

Castiel nods and Dean sighs, feeling a lot like he’s being a buzzkill. He pulls a pillow further under his head and tucks himself up as he prepares to fall asleep again. He’s just drifting off when Castiel speaks up again.

“Dean?” It’s whispered, like Castiel doesn’t actually want Dean to hear and wake up completely.

“Hmm?” Dean replies, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“I have to leave you for a while tonight.”

This gets Dean’s attention.

“Are you asking for my permission? You’ve never said when you were going to vanish before.”

“I did not want you to wake and wonder where I was if I happened to not be back before the morning.”

“Well, now I know,” Dean mutters, his tiredness getting the best of him, making him snarky.

“Yes, you do,” is all Castiel says before he flutters away, sending a brief wave of warm air over Dean’s body. It might just be his imagination, but Dean’s sure Castiel sounds rather tetchy himself. He hopes that whatever angelic business Castiel has been called away for isn’t too dangerous, because he’d rather his angel return whole.

*

The day after starts as usual: Castiel brings him breakfast - this morning it’s a bowl of fruit loops with milk that Dean thinks Castiel might have milked from a cow himself, it’s just that fresh - and he washes it down with a glass of water. He places his used dish and spoon in the sink, as though someone will come along after him and wash them up; it’s a force of habit, really.

He double-checks his bag, making sure he has everything, before slinging it over his shoulder; he finds Castiel already waiting to go, standing in the front hall looking even more serious than usual.

“Are you going to tell me what last night was about?” Dean asks, but Castiel only glances at him, ignoring the question completely. “Right, silent treatment as usual then? Awesome.”

Dean drops the subject, which is apparently too confidential for his measly human form, and just pulls open the front door.

They leave the safety of the house while there’s still a frost in the air, but stop dead in their tracks after only a few steps. The buildings around them as far as Dean can see in any direction have been flattened to dust. Dean turns to make sure that the house they stayed in is actually still standing, which it is, then looks at Castiel, hoping that he has an answer.
Castiel looks concerned as he raises his right hand and shuts his eyes.

“This is very powerful work, I was not expecting this so soon,” he says, before opening his eyes again and looking at Dean with what would pass as worry, perhaps even sadness. “Get back inside the house.”

“What?” Dean says frowning, “You think I’m going to go hide? How long have you known me? I’ll stay and help with whatever this is.”

“Dean,” Castiel warns, looking over his shoulder as though he can see someone or something getting closer. The hair on the back of Dean’s neck starts prickling, like there’s an immense amount of power building around his body; it feels like the strange calm before the storm really hits, like static in the air, morphing and growing.

“Get in the house,” Castiel says, raising his voice so much that the whistling sound Dean remembers being present when Castiel once used his true voice ripples around the edges, tickling Dean’s ears enough that he has to rub them to stop the itching. Castiel shoves his hands against Dean’s chest, as though to push him a few steps backwards, but Dean doesn’t stumble, he just finds himself back inside the house they just left, looking out the living room window at the street beyond, where Castiel’s standing.

Darkness fills the sky far quicker than any normal weather change could, and Dean can tell that the wind picks up from the way Castiel’s coat ripples around his legs. Small dust devils form out of ash and Dean watches helplessly as they all zoom towards Castiel, crashing into his body and covering him in a thick layer of soot. Dean sees Castiel cough and cover his eyes before more whirlwinds collide with him.

With a loud crack that sounds almost like lightening striking the ground, Castiel lowers his head and raises his hands out to his sides, palms to the sky. In an instant, the ash settles back to the ground and a large, blinding white hole appears in the black clouds directly above Castiel. The hole gets slowly wider, pushing aside the gray and spreading pure light, and Dean’s never seen such power. How Castiel keeps it all bottled inside the vessel, he has no clue.

Behind Castiel’s back, a tall, dark form begins to materialise, and Castiel obviously doesn’t notice it. Making sure Ruby’s knife is still tucked into his belt, he runs for the front door, trying the handle, but finding that it won’t budge; Castiel has trapped him inside the house. With a cry of frustration, he runs back to the living room window and begins banging on it, calling Castiel’s name, and hoping that he’ll turn around. When Castiel fails to notice him, obviously too caught up in the power he’s trying to dispel, Dean looks around the room for objects he can use to smash the window with. He grabs a footstool and throws it with all his might, but it just bounces right off the glass with a dull thud. He spies a fire poker next, which he holds tightly in his hands as he swings and swings and swings into the window, but it just feels like he’s smashing it into six-inch thick plastic and it doesn’t even begin to scratch the pane.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt so hopeless. He drops the poker and pushes his palms against the window frame, resting his forehead on the cool glass.

Castiel, he thinks, just turn around, you stubborn son of a bitch.

As though Dean screams it with all the force in his lungs, Castiel’s head rocks back and he briefly meets Dean’s eyes before he snaps his body around and directs his palms towards the darkness behind him. In the blink of an eye, Castiel crumples to the ground like whatever’s in front of him snaps him like a toothpick. He lands on his knees and shoots his hands out to stop from smashing face-first into the asphalt below.

The white clouds that had been prevailing begin to dissipate as they’re quickly swallowed up by the surrounding darkness and Dean starts thinking that, as powerful as Castiel is, he’s no match for whatever it is that’s attacking them. Dean wonders if it’s Lucifer, but he knows he’d need a vessel and wouldn’t manifest as gray smoke; it’s something dark and dangerous and completely unknown to Dean.

Dean can see Castiel struggling and resisting against the opposing power, but after a few moments, his back arches like he’s been kicked in the stomach, and he falls backwards, his head knocking forcefully into the ground. Dean wants - needs - to go and help Castiel, but there’s nothing he can do. He bangs his fists against the window continuously, checking to see if there are any weak spots, but the action just reddens his palms and bloodies his knuckles. The pain is numbed as he watches in horror as Castiel is drawn into the sky by an invisible force, and Dean can see beyond the mask of indifference Castiel always wears, that there’s a hint of fear in the way his body hangs.

Castiel jerks sharply to the right, snapping his head to the side like he’s been punched in the jaw, and he is suspended silently for a few beats; all Dean can do is watch and continue to bash at the window.

Castiel twists like he’s struggling out of someone’s grasp, but then he stops suddenly and his jaw drops open in a silent scream. There’s an explosion of bright light that burns Dean’s eyes so much that he has to look away, has to turn his face towards the floor because the flash feels like sunlight, warm against his skin, even through the window, and he hates that he enjoys the sensation. It’s been far too long since he last felt sunshine on his body.

The brightness fades and Dean pounds at the glass once more, temporarily blinded by spots before his eyes. He can’t see more than a few feet and has no idea if Castiel’s okay, but his stomach jolts as the window finally breaks, his hands slicing against broken glass, because if the force keeping him safe inside the house is failing, that can’t be good. He uses the nearby fire poker to smash out the rest of the window, until it’s safe for him to climb out and run towards Castiel. He blinks rapidly as he stops at the side of the road and tries to get his vision straight. His eyes focus on a small feather sitting by a storm-drain and he idly wonders if it’s pigeon or dove.

Dread floods his stomach as he spots another bigger feather a few inches away that would be impossible to belong to a bird. Something passes softly against his cheek, like someone running their fingertip down the side of his face and he shakes his head to escape it. A feather drifts down to the floor and it dawns on him that it was that that had touched him. Glancing about, he notices that it’s not the only one falling.

He finally looks up and finds that the sky is no longer dark and he can’t even feel a slight tinge of power in the air. Whatever just attacked Castiel has fled, which is lucky for it, because if Dean found it, he’d destroy it a thousand times over and make sure it never existed. His throat tightens with emotion as he catches sight of hundreds of feathers raining down around him, and he feels sick as he realises that the feathers, up until recently, made up Castiel’s wings, but now they’re as useless as the feathers in a down comforter.

There’s a gentle groan from the other side of the road and he rubs as his eyes as they finally clear and centre on a crumpled form a few feet away.

Castiel lies on the floor, his trench coat spread around him as a cheap imitation of the wings he used to own, with an all-too-human expression on his face. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but Dean doesn’t want him to because he wants anything else than to pity the fallen angel.

*

It’s hard for Dean to adjust to Castiel’s new human form and he has no idea how Castiel even begins to understand everything about the different inner workings. He tries not to, but he can’t help but watch Castiel out of curiosity. In the middle of the night after Castiel’s fall, Dean catches Castiel standing shirtless, with only firelight illuminating his body in a rich orange glow. He has his back to the wall, his neck twisted as he tries to look behind him. In his half-asleep daze, Dean wonders why on earth Castiel is looking at his wings, but then he wakes up a little more as Castiel lets out a gentle hiccup that could well be a sob, and it dawns on him in one swift and shocking instant, like a blow to the head. He feels like he’s imposing on an awful private moment, but no matter how hard he tries afterwards, he can’t fall asleep again. He lies still, listening to Castiel redressing and tries to ignore the distinct sound of sniffing and hands angrily wiping at wet cheeks.

*

It gets harder: there are moments when Dean forgets Castiel’s no longer an angel, and, apparently, so does Castiel. More than once, Dean finds Castiel moving forwards to press two fingers to Dean’s forehead when he suggests they sleep; it makes his stomach drop and he has to look away to stop himself from seeing Castiel’s face fall with realisation.

Castiel snores, which is completely new to Dean, who now has to sleep in the same confines with him at night. Neither he nor Sam have ever been big snorers and the first night he spends together with Castiel as a human, Dean doesn’t sleep a wink, too preoccupied by the noises falling from Castiel’s soft, sleep-parted lips.

Castiel worries Dean most days and Dean can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that their roles switch so quickly and dramatically; he’s now the one watching over Castiel, instead of the other way around.

Some nights Castiel refuses to sleep, using the excuse that he needs to keep lookout, and no matter what Dean says, he doesn’t change his mind. He usually lasts about three days before he crashes into exhaustion and Dean feels he has to watch over him in return, just to make sure he’s okay. It takes Dean two days to convince Castiel that now he’s human he has to eat; Dean only has a couple of Heath bars and a tube of salt and vinegar Pringles, but they make do.

Once Castiel starts, it’s hard to get him to stop, like he’s been starving the entirety of when he was an angel and now he’s making up for lost time. Dean gives him a Kitkat that he was saving for his lunch, and watches him eat each stick delicately before licking his fingers to remove the melted chocolate on them.

Before the sun is even at its highest point, Dean hears Castiel’s stomach growling as they walk down a deserted dirt road that Dean hopes will lead them into a nearby town. An hour or so later, they grab more food and drink from a 7-11 and have a picnic in a nearby park, sitting in the damp grass, eating fistfuls of M&Ms - Dean insists that Castiel doesn’t try the peanut ones in case he’s allergic - and sipping warm Heineken.

Dean knows from experience that Castiel doesn’t hold his alcohol that well, and it’s no surprise when he looks over and finds Castiel sprawled on his back, smiling up at the sky with a rosy tinge on his cheeks. Three or four bottles surround him in odd places, but Dean doesn’t even remember carrying that much drink back with him; Castiel has apparently found a use for his trench coat pockets after all.

“It’s funny,” Castiel starts, sounding too much like the Castiel he met in his future and Dean realises it’s not going to be funny at all. “I was only sent to pull you from hell and tell you that God had plans for you. I was meant to show off my wings - which, apparently, were meant to convince you to see the light -- and point you in the right direction. Now look, I haven’t even got wings anymore and we’re stuck going the wrong way down a one-way street; how about that for God’s plan?” He laughs a bit too loudly, as though trying to cover up his bitterness. “Dean, want to know what that thing was that pushed me from Heaven?”

Dean doesn’t, but he says nothing, just lets Castiel get it out of his system, like a deep cleanse, that’ll maybe help Castiel to accept the human he’s become.

“That was an evil spirit controlled and sent by God; my own father attacked me and made me mortal. What I’ve done is apparently enough to condemn me to death as a human, an imperfect, hopeless human. That’s what they decided at my trial the night before I became this thing, so this is what I do now: I eat nothing but sugar and drink to get drunk, and hope that it’s all enough to make life bearable.”

He lets out a harsh snort and rolls over onto his side, back towards Dean.

Dean doesn’t know what to say, at first, he’s slightly offended at Castiel’s acrimonious turn towards humans, but then he can’t help himself from feeling guilty. If he didn’t exist, Castiel wouldn’t have gone through all the pain and suffering he put up with, all for him. Dean wonders what it was that Castiel did to deserve this punishment, but he doesn’t think that any crime would fit it. He has no clue what trial Castiel ever went to, though he does remember the night Castiel left him alone for a few hours and how bitter he’d sounded before he’d left. He’d been sleeping while Castiel’s fate was debated about amongst angels, righteous-bastard angels, who were no better than demons.

An awkward silence draws out between them and Dean has no clue if he should actually say something or not, but he’s saved the trouble when Castiel begins snoring loudly. Apparently, the sugar and booze he was so angry about just puts the human Castiel to sleep.

“We’re too similar, Cas,” Dean sighs, watching Castiel curl tighter into his sleep, “all we ever do in life is try to live up to other people’s expectations, but most of the time, it’s all a crock of shit, anyway.”

He gently brushes dirt and blades of grass off Castiel’s coat, lingering a little too long on the patches where wings would sprout if Castiel still had them.

*

When Castiel wakes, the sun is just about to set and Dean rummages in his pack for Tylenol and water he knows Castiel will probably want when he comes to completely. Instead, Castiel rolls over onto his hands and knees and throws up into the grass. He wipes his mouth with the backs of his fingers and with shaking hands takes the water Dean holds out for him.

“That wasn’t pleasant,” he grumbles, but Dean guesses he must feel better because he stands and starts to gather up his empty bottles; still doing his part for the environment, Dean thinks.

“Yeah, well, that’s one of the many perks of being a human.”

Castiel offers him a small, tight-lipped smile, as if to say great, but underneath, there’s a sadness that Dean wishes he could take away. He needs Castiel to understand the true plus sides to being human, but he’s not too sure himself what those things are.

*

That night, they raid a Sports Authority, where a past explosion at a gas station opposite has blown out the windows. The road between the two buildings is scorched and darker than the usual asphalt gray, and the mannequins that probably used to model trendy sports equipment in the storefront are charred and fallen like dominoes. Castiel steals a backpack and attaches a sleeping bag to the bottom - something Castiel apparently hasn’t counted on is how cold it is at night, now that he’s human.

Right in the middle of the store, Castiel undresses, as though he has no true understanding of modesty, stripping down to his underwear, then slowly he searches for new clothes. He picks out a pair of loose-fitting jeans, a thermal shirt, and a thin coat, one that has at least seven pockets and a fleecy inside that he can wear under his trenchcoat. He swaps his brogues for a pair of black Nikes and steals enough pairs of socks to last him until the next apocalypse.

Dean gives him one of the few guns he has and hopes like hell that he knows how to use it.

Between the fishing aisle and the hunting section, Dean spots a teenager stalking them from across the store. Even from a distance Dean can see the black eyes and he tells Castiel to go grab himself some energy drinks from the broken refrigerators near the entrance, sending him away from the demon he has no idea exists. He crouches down behind a table covered in different plastic fishing baits and waits.

It isn’t long before the demon throws itself over the top and Dean has to roll away, drawing Ruby’s knife from his belt as he does so. He feels sick as he tackles the kid to the ground and shoves the blade up to the hilt into his chest, and out of respect, he covers the body with a blue poncho that’s meant for some fifty year-old fisherman to wear on a rainy day when the fish just won’t bite. He wipes the knife’s blade off on a pair of sweats hanging on a rack as he heads to the front of the store to find Castiel, but keeps it in his hand because he won’t take any chances.

The coast appears to be clear and Castiel waits for him by the jammed-open automatic doors.

“What was that?” he asks as Dean slips the knife away and steals a Cliff bar from a nearby rack. With his mouthful of food, Dean shrugs as if unfazed, though his heart thumps madly and the taste of bile overpowers the grain across his tongue.

“Some guy wanted to know where the fishing rods were. Don’t worry, he found them.”

Castiel eventually follows after Dean is a good ten steps ahead, seeming to finally understand.

“I’m sure he’s thankful,” he mutters before falling silent. Dean doesn’t reply, has no idea what to say to that.

*

“How do you do it?” Castiel asks him that night while seated around a small fire, roasting bits of pigeon.

Dean sets his half-eaten bird down and licks his fingers. “Do what?”

When Castiel looks up at him, the flames from the fire are reflected in his eyes, flickering like an old television, and it makes Dean think of hell and dying and everything that’s making the world fall apart.

“How do you feel so much? Humans have to feel suffering and pain and loss; how do you survive?”

Dean’s brow furrows because being human is new to Castiel, but he doesn’t know what to tell him because he’s never not been human, he’s dealt with feelings his whole entire life. If Castiel thinks Dean knows some profound secret way to cope with emotions, he’s going to be let down, because all Dean can think about is getting drunk and sleeping with people.

“It’s not all about pain and suffering, Cas, that’s why we have family, even if they can be a pain in the ass sometimes. We have relationships and one-night-stands and alcohol and drugs and every other different type of way to get through the rough patches. Everyone uses a different method, some are more destructive than others, but that’s how we deal with life.”

“How do you do it, Dean? You have no more family around you and there’s hardly anyone left to be together with, so how do you make yourself wake up in the mornings?”

Dean’s slightly angry that Castiel is questioning his reasons for living, pointing out everything he doesn’t have any more; he doesn’t need reminding.

“Hope, Cas, hope.”

It’s a bullshit answer, but he goes back to eating and Castiel goes back to staring at the fire.

“Do you think love is enough?”

Dean starts, but tries not to show it.

“I think it could help,” he says cautiously, because he doesn’t know where this conversation is going.

“Do you think it’s worth losing everything for?”

Dean regards him carefully.

“Sometimes,” he says, and Castiel nods, as though he agrees, but Dean almost scoffs at the idea of Castiel losing everything because of love. Who on earth would Castiel fall in love with, he only knows one or two people - but then it dawns on him, knocks him right in the head like a two-by-four, and Dean looks at Castiel with more clarity than he’s ever had before as everything slides into place.

Castiel has fallen for him, in more than one way.

*

Castiel doesn’t act any differently towards him and Dean almost convinces himself that he’s jumped to conclusions, but then he realises that the only reason Castiel doesn’t change is because everything he’s been doing since day one has been out of love anyway; he has no reason to change. Falling for Dean is the instance that replays in Dean’s mind in a continuous loop, but then he thinks back on the smaller moments, like when Castiel would bring him breakfast to make sure he was eating enough, and when Castiel watched over him while he slept. Even more prominent were all the times Castiel saved his ass from being kicked, or worse, killed.

Dean has been so blind, but to be fair, he’s been a little distracted lately.

*

Dean knows they’re irrevocably lost, he’s positive they’ve passed the same crumbling high-rise at least twice before, but if Castiel notices, he doesn’t say a thing. Eventually, he steps through the broken window of a gas station and finds maps sprawled across the floor like cheap carpet. Many are ripped, others burned at the edges, but there’s one left in the rack looking as pristine as if God put it there himself. Dean tugs it free and folds it out, gently nudging Castiel with his elbow to urge him to take one side while he pulls the other, spreading it between them.

“Right,” Dean starts, glancing about. “Where are we?”

“Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,” Castiel says suddenly and Dean stares as though he’s sprouted a second head. “I’ve been here before, though it didn’t look like this last time.”

“You didn’t think to mention it about three hours ago?”

“You didn’t say you were lost.”

Dean blinks and wonders how they’ve ended up sounding like an old married couple bickering about asking for directions.

“Great,” he says instead, “how do we get out of here?”

Castiel shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

The edge of the map crumples in Dean’s fist and he clenches it tightly, exasperation bubbling below his skin. He takes a calming breath and traces a finger over the paper, eventually finding a road that will take them away from the city and what surprises it may hold.

“What do you think?”

“I can’t see; your finger is in the way.”

He says it so honestly it drives Dean half mad and he lets go of the map, allowing it to swing in Castiel’s lone grasp.

“We’re leaving,” he says, grabbing a bag of sunflower seeds as he passes and tossing a handful of quarters onto the counter by the empty register. Castiel folds the map quietly and slips it into his pocket, catching the packet Dean throws towards him. By the time Dean spits out the last shell, his anger has calmed and there are more open fields than buildings around them, but then Castiel opens his mouth.

“Just say if you need the map. I have it with me.”

Dean picks his teeth to stop from strangling the only person he has for company and takes a deep breath.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says, hiding his expression as he glances over the hedge at an old farmhouse.

Castiel touches his elbow gently, fingers running down the sleeve of his jacket, apparently not catching the frustration in Dean’s tone.

“You’re welcome.”

*

It rains, for the first time in months, a heavy rain where the raindrops are the size of quarters and drench everything in under a few seconds of them starting to fall.

They decide to stay in a small, two-bedroom house until the storm passes and Castiel seats himself in front of the fireplace, hacking up wooden chairs to feed the flames with with an axe he found in the garage. Dean goes outside because he hasn’t seen rain in far too long and he’s willing to admit that he’s actually missed it, missed the way it smells and the way it keeps falling, no matter what. He shuts his eyes and turns his face up to the sky, revelling in the feeling of raindrops splashing gently onto his skin, slicking his hair to his head, and washing his clothes clean, slowly but surely. He lets the rain carry away the grime as he listens to the pitter-patter of water hitting against the roofs of houses and the underbellies of overturned cars.

He imagines the fires, the ones that have been burning for months and filling the sky with smoke and ash, and pictures them all dying out, suffocating into naught but glowing embers, then nothing at all. It dawns on Dean that they should put out buckets while they can to catch the rain because there will never be enough water; sometimes the sugary fizz of Pepsi drives him half crazy with want for something fresh and unsweetened. He runs inside, wiping water from his cheeks and forehead, and rummages through the kitchen for mixing bowls and tupperware containers and pots and measuring cups - anything that will hold any amount of water. With his arms full, he goes back outside and sets his findings in a line, bordering the pathway that leads from the sidewalk to the front door.

He stays outside until most of them are full, then begins to take them in, one by one. It can’t be more than early afternoon, but the dark sky makes it feel as though night has arrived early.

He seats himself on a small green porch swing and rocks backwards and forwards in time to an unidentifiable beat in his head. He knows there are demons and a devil and angels and maybe even a god out beyond the land he can see, but for now, he just wants a break. He wants to sleep soundly for once, rather than wake up every five minutes because he’s waiting for the moment they’re rumbled from their hiding place and demons zap the life out of them. He wants to see Sam again and give Castiel his wings back and stick the world back together again with half a roll of duct tape and a wad of gum, and it all just seems so impossible, but the rain makes him think that he might have a chance to do one of those things before he dies. The rain is new life and a way to wash away the dirt on old life, and it just keeps on falling, as though Mother Nature really does want to help.

After a few more minutes of peace and quiet, the wind picks up and a chill starts to blow through Dean’s bones. He stands, looks into the sky one last time, then heads inside the house.

He finds Castiel sitting on the sofa, reading a book titled Alas, Babylon. The cover is well worn and Castiel seems to be engrossed, enough that Dean doesn’t feel at all ashamed as he sheds his wet shirt, folding it and placing it in front of the fire to dry. He unties his boots, slipping them off along with his socks before unfastening his pants and shucking them down his goose-pimpled legs. He lingers on his boxer-briefs, debating internally whether he should remove those, too; it would make sense, but Dean compromises by kneeling, sitting on his heels, facing towards the flames, and letting them dry while still on his shivering body.

The fire warms him and dries his face and hair in a matter of minutes. He notices an object amongst the flames that doesn’t resemble any part of a wooden chair and realises that Castiel has thrown some books onto the fire to stoke it, as well. Apparently, as Castiel is now reading, he was sidetracked along the way. He grins to himself and tries to look over his shoulder discreetly at Castiel, however, he finds Castiel already staring at him. The book is still upright in Castiel’s long, slender fingers that grip loosely at the edges, but Castiel’s no longer paying it any attention, his focus too busy centred on Dean.

Dean doesn’t know how to react, but doesn’t risk saying anything for fear of it turning to some kind of feelings-talk. He turns back towards the fire and hopes that Castiel will just return to his book.

“Was the rain nice?”

“It was rain,” Dean responds, as though it’s the most obvious thing ever and Castiel should already know it.

“Rain is encouraging; it means that the earth is trying to heal itself. It is the beginning of the end.”

For a second, Dean forgets Castiel is no longer an angel; he just sounds so similar to the old Castiel and his heart jolts in protest at the emotion that washes over him. It finally dawns on him that even though Castiel has fallen, the same spirit and soul exists inside the vessel; the skin and bones are just a front, because Castiel the angel is still very much alive, just lacking a few angelic qualities.

“I guess that’s good news, huh? Better than raining fire, I suppose.”

They both fall silent for a few minutes and Dean can’t even hear the rustling of pages of Castiel’s book, which probably means he’s still not paying it any attention.

In a moment of weakness, or exhaustion, or any other feeble excuse Dean can come up with, he blurts out, “If we make it out of this alive, be sure to remind me to thank the big guy upstairs.

“When we make it out of this alive, Dean,” Castiel replies and it’s said so confidently that Dean feels it seeping under his skin and warming his body, more than any fire ever could. Life will carry on and for the first time in a long while, Dean thinks that together, he and Castiel can help point it in the right direction.

“Sure, Sam,” he retorts, but turns to grin at him as though the ache in his chest isn’t there. Castiel folds over the corner of the page he’s just read and closes the book, setting it on the seat next to him, before rising and moving to kneel beside Dean, close enough that their shoulders brush, warm cotton against heated skin.

Dean shifts, untucking his legs because his feet are starting to fall asleep, and, in what Dean sees as a rather frantic action, Castiel shoots a hand out, wrapping his fingers tightly around Dean’s upper arm.

“Cas,” he starts, more out of shock, “I’m not going anywhere,” and Dean doesn’t know if he means it only for this moment. Dean moves to sit cross-legged instead, but Castiel doesn’t let go.

He glances down briefly at Castiel’s hand and can’t help but wonder how Castiel feels while he’s touching him. Dean remembers when he was fifteen and he had a crush on a girl called Lucy Gardner, and every time their hands brushed together - whether it was when Lucy handed him her spare pencil because he didn’t have anything to write his what I did over summer essay with, or when she touched him on the arm to get his attention - he’d feel as though a thousand, million volts of electricity had rushed through his body and left him flailing to stay conscious. Castiel looks as though nothing has changed though, just has slightly wider eyes, but nothing really telltale.

Without thinking, he moves his hand to rest on Castiel’s knee, casually reassuring him, and this time, Castiel is the one glancing down at Dean’s hand. When Castiel looks back up at him with an expression Dean can’t quite read, he pulls his hand back like Castiel’s leg is burning him; the look morphs as Dean moves away - perhaps into disappointment, perhaps relief - but Castiel just lets go of Dean’s arm in response and Dean thinks he might have possibly just mirrored Castiel’s look at the feeling of loss.

“I dream, Dean,” Castiel says, taking Dean by surprise. Dean hadn’t really thought about it, but he guesses that angels don’t sleep, and thus, never dream. Dean has no clue what it must be like for Castiel to suddenly be pummelled by imaginary moments sent from his subconscious, after living without them for multiple eternities past. “Are they meant to contain only violence and desire?”

It’s not really a conversation Dean wants to be having. It’s like the time he had to give the sex talk to Sam, which involved a banana and some rather awkward hand gestures, but luckily there’s no fruit around and Castiel seems like he just needs an answer to help himself understand his human nature.

“I’m no Sigmund Freud,” Castiel’s blank stare hints that the reference is lost on him, “but some people see dreams as outlets for their unconscious desires. If they hate their boss, they’ll dream about punching the dickhead in the face in front of their co-workers, or if they want to have sex with Angelina Jolie, they do it. Possibly in front of Brad Pitt, but I don’t know what you’re into.”

“Is it okay to dream those dreams?”

“Course, Cas, it’s not like you can help it.”

Castiel looks momentarily ashamed, but he apparently hasn’t quite got the hang of self-restraint, because he turns to look at Dean and says, “I dream about you,” as though it’s not the most awkward thing he’s ever said. He even makes it seem slightly dirty, which shocks Dean, more because Dean is pummelled with images of Castiel sweaty and asleep, dreaming of Dean doing filthy, and only just consensual, things to him. Dean shakes his head slightly and tries not to make eye contact with Castiel for a few moments while he regains composure.

“It happens to the best of us,” he says, trying his hardest to avoid the subject.

“I kiss you, Dean, and I like it.” Castiel goes quiet beside him, before mumbling something so gently that Dean almost misses it completely. “When I wake up, I wish it was all real.”

Dean holds his hands up in front of himself, an exaggerated look of shock on his face.

“Hold up, Speedy Gonzales. How about a date first?”

“It was a dream, Dean. You said we cannot help what we dream about.”

“Course not, but we can definitely control how much we tell each other after, Mr TMI.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t - ”

“Look, forget it, I’ll give you a get-out-of-jail-free card for this time, so tomorrow don’t be telling me you had a dream about jerking Uriel off or one about having a bit of S and M bonding time with Michael.”

Quietly, Castiel reaches over and tosses another log onto the fire, as though taking the time to think and Dean braces himself for the awkwardness he knows is about to slip out of Castiel’s mouth.

“I don’t think about anyone else as I do you, Dean.”

Dean throws his head back in mock-exasperation and clicks his tongue loudly.

“I really need to teach you what’s socially acceptable and what’s not because it’s unreal. You’re almost as bad as Sam around girls.”

Castiel thins his lips, remaining silent, but it’s still so obvious to see that he’s thinking hard about something.

“Who do you dream about?” he eventually asks and Dean hides his wince by ducking his head and laughing.

“That would be in the unacceptable column.”

“But you must dream.”

“Yeah, about ending the apocalypse and sending Lucifer back to hell.”

Castiel tilts his head slightly, but doesn’t say anything, just leaves it at that.

Eventually, Dean’s legs fall completely asleep and he shifts, beginning to stand before Castiel places a steady hand on his arm and says, “You said you wouldn’t go anywhere, Dean,” as though he’s five and Dean’s promised him ice cream.

“Right,” he replies after a pause before letting out a long sigh. He flops back to the floor, pushing his legs out in front of him and wriggling his toes against the wall of heat in front of them. “What were you reading?” he asks to make idle talk.

Castiel tangles his fingers together and doesn’t look away from the fire.

“It was about people in a situation a lot like ours.”

“And? Did it seem like they were going to survive?”

Castiel shrugs and glances over at him.

“I didn’t get that far, but I suppose they had a fighting chance. Everyone does.”

Dean reaches behind and pulls a cushion off the sofa, tucking it behind his head as he lies flat, hands on his stomach.

“At least we’ll go down swinging then,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes and letting the exhaustion wash over him alongside the warmth of the room.

He wonders if the conversation is completely over, but he’s already falling into a doze and Cas is blessedly silent beside him. He’s almost drifting off when he feels soft fabric tickling the outside of his knee and briefly opens his eyes, glancing down and finding Castiel much closer, his pants rubbing against his skin gently. He hums tiredly, but doesn’t complain and Castiel slowly looks over his shoulder at him, as though trying to gauge his reaction.

He shifts one last time, making himself comfortable on the hard floor without moving away from Castiel’s comforting body heat, before he finally falls asleep and leaves Castiel to his awkward thoughts.

*

PART TWO >>