fic: Find Me, Find Me
Title: Find Me, Find Me
Author: uselessplayback
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: none
Warnings: It's porn?
Word Count: 5,430
Summary: Dean takes a vacation unintentionally.
Notes: Written for bauble who wanted porn. It was originally meant to be comment fic, 5000 something words later. . . . . Many thanks to 22by7 for looking this over and telling me which retarded interludes to remove with extreme prejudice.
It’s nearly fall but it feels like mid-summer, the heat and humidity make Dean feel thick and slow, and he can’t work up the motivation to do much more than lounge around. Bobby’s place has no air conditioning after a mishap involving a bottle rocket and some duct tape earlier in the year. It was Dean’s fault but this is the first time he’s really regretted not buying Bobby a new unit.
Not that Bobby is living with the consequences now. He and Sam are in Tennessee for a funeral that Dean decided to give a pass. It had seemed like a good idea at the time; Sam had needed space and Bobby couldn’t drive, so now Dean’s stuck by himself and wondering why he’d thought it was a good idea in the first place.
Bobby’s TV isn’t hooked up to local cable, and it probably wouldn’t recognize color if someone showed it swatches, but Dean makes due, flipping channels lazily until cutting between tearful protestations of love to infomercials about exciting, new kitchen technology stops being funny. If Sam were here maybe it wouldn’t be so bad but he’s not, so Dean’s got no one to annoy.
It’s so hot that even food doesn’t hold its usual appeal and he wanders listlessly in and out of house, not caring that if Bobby were here he’d be complaining that Dean was letting the bugs in. Sam didn’t take his car and Dean knows he could be doing something else right now but it’s hard to work up the motivation with the heat turning his boredom into restless discontent.
At the end of the day, he stumbles up to the room Bobby set aside for him weeks ago; dragging himself up the stairs like it’s a chore. Sam would laugh at him if he saw it. It’s too hot in his room to do more than fall into bed, tossing and turning to find some comfort in sheets not yet warm from his body. He throws them off and pulls them on, too hot and not warm enough, mind thick with exhaustion although he knows he has done nothing to merit weariness. He’s awake for hours watching light from the window shift across the ceiling, so he doesn’t know when he finally falls asleep. Somehow, though, he does.
--
Castiel’s in the doorway when Dean wakes. He’s dwarfed by his own shadow and looking for all the world like a guy who’d wandered into the kitchen and forgotten why he was there, but Dean is half-asleep and doesn’t find it as strange as he normally would.
Dean feels heavy and weightless, half in and out of dreams he doesn’t remember, and Castiel’s shadow bobs and distorts along the wall and against the lines of the dresser, larger than Castiel will ever be in the body he wears. He’s still watching the shadows when the bed dips under Castiel’s weight, still watching distantly when Castiel’s shadow drapes itself over him and Castiel follows.
Castiel’s lips are too soft on his slack mouth, hesitant and curious, and he draws back before Dean can process what’s going on; presses back in a little more firmly before Dean can process that it’s over. Dean had thought he’d been awake but maybe he’s still sleeping after all because he can’t find it in him to push Castiel away.
The sheets bunch and pull under Dean’s head and against his shoulders when Castiel grabs them to get better purchase, pressing in deeper and Dean lets him, eyes half open and watching Castiel’s face lose distinction in a wash of greys and blacks. Castiel seems to have taken it upon himself to work out this kissing thing in a way that’s both intimate and curiously nonsexual and, when Castiel flicks his tongue out to taste Dean’s lips, Dean finds himself responding, lazy and dazed, until Castiel pulls away again.
Dean half expects Castiel to push back in again but he gets up instead and turns to go. The bed is cold and doesn’t feel right under him without Castiel’s weight on it. He lets his eyes close and doesn’t watch Castiel leave and doesn’t open his mouth to ask him not to.
--
In the morning, Dean doesn’t think about Castiel’s mouth or the way his hands hadn’t touched his skin. He doesn’t think about their shadows on the wall or the strange taste that lingers in his mouth no matter what he eats.
During the day Castiel is Castiel and not the curious creature who wandered into his room with inquisitive lips and tongue, and Dean isn’t the man who lay back and let it happen.
He doesn’t think about it and Castiel makes no motion to bring it up, so Dean isn’t sure it happened at all.
Sam calls that afternoon sounding happier than any man on his way to a funeral should be and Dean listens with half an ear while he riffles through the papers on Bobby’s desk without any particular interest. Dean can feel Castiel watching him somewhere in the periphery: patient and quiet. He’s not sure why Castiel is there at all, but he’s not sorry to have him stay.
Castiel comes to Dean’s room that night and pets along his jaw and throat, reads Dean’s face and lips with inquisitive fingers. Dean closes his eyes, wondering when he’d opened them and waits for Castiel to pull away again.
He doesn’t kiss Dean this time and he’s gone before Dean realizes that he wants him to.
--
Sometimes Dean can’t read Castiel at all and he knows it’s not like angels practice some form of cultural stoicism. Most of the angels Dean’s met have been demanding and unsubtle but Castiel vacillates between immediate and distant, and Dean can’t quite get a fix on him. Sometimes he’s not sure he wants to.
Castiel is absent for most of the day or, at least, Dean assumes he must have been because it’s nearly afternoon when Dean decides he’s baked long enough in Bobby’s spare bedroom. Castiel is nowhere to be found when Dean comes downstairs still damp from a tepid shower. His clothes stick to his skin unpleasantly but no amount of toweling will keep the humidity from burrowing under his clothes and clinging to his hair.
Castiel finds him on the porch, staring at his car. He’s been thinking about communing with his motor for over an hour but hasn’t made an effort to get up and do anything about it. He thinks about Sam and Bobby and Tennessee and wonders if the muggy South is as muggy as Bobby’s near north only with more green.
Castiel sits on the porch beside him and says nothing. Dean figures it’s a theme because Castiel hasn’t said much to him at all over the past couple of days. If Castiel were human, he’d wonder if this were some kind of game. Maybe Castiel’s waiting for him to throw the first word into the space between them.
But then Castiel says something inane about finding rabbits behind the house and Dean wonders if he’s the only one who’s being awkward.
--
The third night, Dean sits up and pulls Castiel down into his lap because what’s the point of standing on ceremony? That night Castiel presses into him and Dean holds him up, letting Castiel kiss him with a lazy deliberation made of both arousal and scientific inquiry. Dean lets Castiel tangle his fingers in his hair and push underneath his shirt to touch his fill of skin. He unbuttons Castiel’s shirt to explore with his own fingers and, somewhere, winds up clutching at Castiel’s shoulders while Castiel straddles his lap and presses wet kisses into his neck.
As far as Dean knows, the house is quiet but for the rustle of fabric and the sounds of their breathing.
--
On the fourth night nothing wakes Dean, so he doesn’t realize until morning that Castiel hasn’t visited him at all.
That afternoon, Dean wanders around the salvage yard aimlessly before he realizes he’s looking for something that isn’t there.
The next morning Sam calls to let him know they’ve made the Tennessee border but that’s the only thing he really comes away with from that conversation.
--
The fifth night Dean pretends he’s still asleep when Castiel comes in. It’s weird the way the floorboards never creak when Castiel steps on them. Dean’s spent weeks figuring out where to step but Castiel keeps the floor from singing without even trying.
That night, Castiel sits on the edge of the bed and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair once before leaving. He feels like some thing that had been twisting in his chest has loosened and it’s so weird that it takes him a long time to fall asleep.
--
In the morning Dean sits on Bobby’s porch and looks out through the cars in the scrap yard at the expanse of flat land on the other side. There isn’t a cloud in the sky but the air is thick with humidity; it clings to Dean’s skin, catches in his lungs and blurs the color of the sky into a hazy grey. He feels thick and lazy with it and even the cicadas are making slow noises like they can’t work up the energy to do more.
“This is the kind of day I always thought would be like the end of the world,” Dean tells Castiel from where he’s draped over the stairs, practically wilting.
Castiel stands upright in a haze all his own somewhere apart from the weather and the world and probably even Dean although Dean’s head is almost lolling against Castiel’s thigh. It’s hard to imagine this Castiel he sees during the day as the same creature that visits him at night with his hot mouth and too warm skin. Even in the heat Castiel is made of ice.
“Perhaps today will be,” Castiel says and Dean does let his head fall against Castiel’s thigh, the muscles under his head jumping in surprise are the only sign Castiel gives that he even feels the contact.
“Sure,” Dean says slowly, like it doesn’t matter. It’s hard to think of himself as a guy who does think it matters in the slow, thick air. “Today, tomorrow-who knows? So long as I don’t have to move right now.”
Castiel’s fingers are dry in Dean’s damp hair, disarranging it and putting it back in slow pulls. “No one is making you do anything, Dean,” he says.
Dean snorts. “You’re such a liar.”
“Yes,” Castiel says with amusement but he doesn’t stop stroking Dean’s hair, so Dean closes his eyes.
--
That night Castiel is already half undressed when Dean wakes up and looks almost sheepish when Dean catches him. One arm pulled out of a sleeve and his pants are half undone like he couldn’t decide what to take off first.
Dean sits up and rubs a hand over his face and reaches back to pull his shirt over his head. Castiel is less interested in taking off his clothes, then. He pushes Dean back down on the bed and maps his body with slow fingers, flicking his arm in irritation when his shirt gets in the way of his progress. Dean laughs and tries to help him push it off, but Castiel swats Dean’s hands out of the way.
Dean’s never been able to get Castiel out of all of his clothes. Castiel is always preoccupied with some facet of Dean’s anatomy and it’s so distracting that sometimes Dean forgets that he’s never seen Castiel naked.
Eventually, Castiel sits back to look at him and it’s frustrating because all Dean wants is for Castiel to keep doing what he was doing naked or not. Castiel’s lips are parted, his chest rises and falls on unsteady breaths and Dean feels hugely exposed, hot and cold under Castiel’s gaze. Then Castiel’s eyes flutter closed and Dean drags his eyes down Castiel’s body.
“Oh, fuck.” Dean groans and drops his head back onto the pillow. Castiel is stroking himself slowly and watching Dean hungrily. “Yeah, Cas, that’s-“ hot, Dean wants to say, a good idea but Dean’s words dry up in his mouth because Castiel is leaning over him, hand still moving on his cock even as he bends down to lick wet, messy kisses along Dean’s throat. Dean fists a hand in Castiel’s hair and pulls him up to his mouth.
There’s nothing soft or curious about Castiel’s tongue now; nothing tentative about the hands that yank at Dean’s hair and pin his own to the mattress. Castiel has Dean pinned down with a hand in the center of his chest while Castiel trails open mouthed kisses down Dean’s trembling stomach and he still hasn’t bothered to finish taking off his shirt.
Dean wants to watch him but there’s something about letting Castiel pin him down and move strong, hard and hot against him and Dean can’t lift his head. He’s lost track of the noises in the house, against the panes of glass at his window, but he can hear the sounds that he makes: helpless and desperate especially when Castiel hooks his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s boxers and tugs them down. Dean almost wishes he didn’t have to because when he does, Castiel is barely touching him anymore. His mouth and hands are gone, skimming down his thighs and calves and not where Dean wants them at all. But when he has Dean naked, Castiel runs a hand up the inside of on thigh and spreads Dean’s legs for him and then presses his face into Dean’s belly and just rubbing the side of his face against it.
“Fuck,” Dean pants and fists his hands into the sheets by his head because Castiel won’t let Dean touch him; he keeps pushing Dean’s hands away.
He’d wondered, when Castiel had started coming to him-when Castiel had kissed him almost curiously that first time-what it would be like to do this, but he’d never imagined it would be this intense. He’d never imagined he’d just lie back and let Castiel do whatever he wanted, and he knows he could stop Castiel. He knows it; but he won’t.
He feels the scrape of Castiel’s teeth grazing the flesh along his hipbone and he figures Castiel is distracted enough that he won’t notice if Dean plays with his nipples. Castiel does notice, though, and raises stops sucking bruising kisses into his flesh to watch. Dean is half worried that Castiel will pin his hands again, instead he stretches out over Dean and takes the fingers Dean has been using to touch himself and draws them into his mouth, pulling back a little to drag his teeth gently along the pads of Dean’s fingers.
Castiel’s fingers trail up Dean’s chest, petting along his throat with just enough pressure that Dean has to tilt his head back, and then Castiel’s thumb is tracing Dean’s bottom lip, so Dean opens up, watches Castiel’s blown, dark eyes and sucks it into his mouth. Castiel makes a small, helpless noise and presses his erection into Dean’s hip, grinding down and watching Dean suck at his thumb. Then he lets Dean’s fingers fall from his mouth and cups Dean’s face in his hands, the wet tip of his thumb dragging from Dean’s mouth across his cheek. He leans up and kisses Dean messily, sucking on his tongue in a way that makes Dean feel like he’s done something huge, right and perfect.
When they break for air, Castiel moves back down Dean’s body with renewed fervor: pausing to suck on a nipple, biting at Dean’s chest and mouthing his way down until he’s hovering over Dean’s swollen, leaking cock and just breathing. Dean has to bite down on a knuckle to keep from begging.
Castiel lets out a breath and presses his nose against the base of Dean’s cock and runs is up along the under side and that’s-weird. It’s very weird but Dean can’t bring himself to complain especially when Castiel follows up with his tongue, flicking it out along the swollen head and pressing it into the tip where Dean is leaking. Dean’s sure that he’ll still have the indent from his teeth in his finger tomorrow but, when Castiel finally takes Dean into his mouth, he doesn’t care.
He’d been hoping this would be a relief but it’s not a relief at all. Castiel’s mouth around his cock and the hand he has wrapped around the base are a new kind of torture that have Dean arching off the bed even though he knows he should be still because Castiel can’t have-he hasn’t-
“Cas, Cas,” Dean moans. His traitorous hand has fallen back against the mattress and is clutching helplessly at the pillow. Castiel seems to know what he wants or maybe he just wants to shut him up because he works a hand up Dean’s body and presses his fingers into Dean’s mouth again. Dean approves but, stretched out like he is, it’s a little awkward and Castiel pulls his mouth away. Dean chokes out his unhappiness around Castiel’s fingers.
“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel says, low and rough. He’s watching Dean’s mouth with an almost frightening intensity, like he wishes he was fucking Dean’s mouth with something besides his fingers. Then he removes them too and Dean whines, too strung out to be coherent, until Castiel’s lips close over him again and his breath leaves him in a rush.
Castiel isn’t the best at this; he’s enthusiastic but unpracticed and sometimes when Dean moves too suddenly, Castiel’s teeth catch at his flesh before Castiel corrects himself. It gets easier though and Dean tries to keep himself still while Castiel moves over him, pressing a hand flat against his belly to hold him down while the other makes its way between Dean’s legs. Dean jumps a little when Castiel’s fingers, sloppy with Dean’s spit, skim over the crack of his ass and press against his hole.
“Oh,” Dean pants and Castiel raises his head like he’s asking if this is okay. Dean’s not sure it is but he doesn’t want Castiel to stop either, so he turns his head into the pillow, face burning, and spreads his legs wider.
Dean almost expects Castiel to act right away but he takes his time, pressing teasingly at his entrance before pushing a wet finger inside. Dean pants up at the ceiling and Castiel nuzzles his cock, kisses his balls, and swallows him back down while Dean adjusts to the sensation of being filled.
It’s weird but Castiel is slow and careful while Dean tenses and relaxes around even this small intrusion until Castiel’s knuckles butt up against Dean’s ass. Then Castiel moves, stroking in and out with slow purpose, angling his hand and pushing deep, crooking his finger and-
“Oh, fuck,” Dean breathes. “That’s-“
Dean whines when Castiel withdraws his finger again but then it’s back with a friend and Dean can’t help pushing into it against the stretch and burn because he wants Castiel to do that again. He wonders how he must look, shameless and thrusting himself onto Castiel’s fingers inside him, and Castiel hums with some kind of approval around his cock and Dean cries out.
“Cas, oh, Cas. You can-“ Dean licks his lips and arches up, panting and digging his fingers into the sheets. “Oh, you can fuck me if you want.”
It was probably a bad idea to say this because Castiel tries to answer him while he’s still sucking and the vibration sends Dean right over, fisting the sheets and choking back a startled cry while Castiel tries to swallow around him.
Dean doesn’t process much after that until Castiel has him pinned down and is kissing him messily; it’s all Dean can do to respond.
“Can I-“ Castiel asks when they break for air and Dean has no idea what he’s talking about for a minute. “You said I could-can I?”
Oh.
“Yeah,” Dean says, shutting his eyes. “Yeah, Cas. Anything.”
--
He wonders if Castiel will leave like he has all the other nights but Castiel doesn’t. He shifts Dean around on the bed until he’s satisfied and sort of slumps half on top of him. Dean laughs.
“You’re kind of pushy, aren’t you, Cas?”
Castiel cracks an eye open to study him, closes it again and pushes his face into Dean’s shoulder, dragging the tangled sheets over them almost as an afterthought.
Dean laughs again and wonders if he should lay down some ground rules about cuddling but he’s too pathetically grateful that Castiel is staying for it to hold any weight. It’s easier than it’s been all week to fall asleep this time.
--
Dean wakes to the feel of Castiel’s fingers sliding into his ass and has to press his face into the pillow and moan. He’s half-hard from sleep already but the insistent push of Castiel’s fingers is waking everything up with bright shocks of pleasure and hints of soreness. Castiel mouths at the back of his neck with lazy enthusiasm that Dean is more than happy to indulge.
Dean’s making frantic noises into the pillow, fingers clenching and unclenching convulsively while Castiel works him open again. Castiel pets a hand down Dean’s back and murmurs quiet things into his ear.
It’s different this time, Castiel fucks him slowly with deep, careful strokes and twists of his hips until Dean is ready to scream for him to move faster. The sheets are hot and sticky underneath him and Castiel’s body is hot where it’s pressed everywhere else. He’s so frustrated with the maddeningly steady pace that his orgasm catches him by surprise. Castiel hums a sound into Dean’s neck that sounds like approval and pulls out to turn him over.
Dean’s happy with this arrangement because he can grab at Castiel’s hips and back to urge him on. He’s even happier when Castiel drives back in and kisses him sloppily.
He’s still kind of dazed and sensitive but the way Castiel slides his arms under Dean’s back to pull him in tight is nice and the way Castiel pants helplessly into his neck while Dean mutters encouragement is even better.
“Come on, Cas,” Dean murmurs when Castiel’s rhythm falters. He’s petting shaky hands along Castiel’s back. “’S okay, come on.” And Castiel pulls Dean into his lap, clutching him so hard that Dean’s sure he’ll have bruises on his shoulders, and thrusts in deep, breath catching on a moan when he comes.
They stay like that for a while waiting for Castiel to get his breath back until it starts to get a little awkward and Dean pulls off, wincing a little, to lie back on the bed, pulling Castiel with him. He’s sticky and gross but he doesn’t care, especially when Castiel drapes himself over Dean's back and makes quiet, contented sounds into his ear.
--
“It has been nearly ten hours since you last ate,” Castiel murmurs quietly.
Dean doesn’t really process the words at first because he’s falling asleep and this is funny too because he seems to see more of Cas when he should be sleeping. Castiel is propped up against the wall and stroking Dean’s hair in a distracted, arrhythmic petting motion that Dean hasn’t decided if he likes yet. And it’s a strange kind of thing to say to a guy you’re in bed with but Dean should be used to random topics of conversations by now.
“You could always go get me a sandwich,” Dean says into Castiel’s thigh and then thinks about it. “Dude, do you seriously keep track of how often I eat?”
“Well, yes,” Castiel says almost sheepishly. He probably hadn’t realized how weird it is. “Not intentionally. You’re very fond of food.”
Dean snorts. “Food is a wonderful thing, Cas. Eating is a wonderful thing.”
“You do it with such enthusiasm.”
“Mmm, I’m hungry now,” Dean says. “Go get me something, I don’t feel like moving.”
Dean can practically hear Castiel roll his eyes. “Dean,” he says warningly.
“Steak sounds good,” Dean says, eyes drifting closed, “I could go for a steak. Maybe with one of those huge baked potatoes with cheese and bacon. And pie-apple maybe, or chocolate cake with whipped cream.”
“I doubt I’ll find anything in the kitchen to appease this craving of yours, Dean.” Castiel says with amusement.
“It’s a fantasy,” Dean tells him, waving a hand. “’S not supposed to be logical.”
“I see,” Castiel says. “And to drink?”
“I don’t know,” Dean says slowly, drifting off as he speaks. “Maybe beer. The drink’s not as important anyway.”
“Would you-“ Castiel starts. “Should I go-“
“No,” Dean says. He’s heavy and warm and he doesn’t want Castiel to go anywhere. “’S good. I’ll eat later.”
“Alright,” Castiel says, stroking Dean’s hair. It’s not so bad, Dean thinks. Maybe Castiel’s found some rhythm after all. Then Dean’s asleep and, if he dreams of food, it’s only because he went to bed hungry.
--
They spend that day and the next either sleeping or fucking with breaks in between to clean up and eat. Well, Dean eats and Castiel watches like he’s taking notes on the feeding habits of humans in his head. Dean’s stopped trying to distinguish between one day and another-between day and night-because they’ve all started to run together in a haze of heat and unreality where absolutely nothing extraordinary happens.
Sometime in the middle of all of it, when Dean is too fucked out to move even his hands, he asks Cas in a slurred, half-there voice if he thinks this is a dream and he’ll be waking up soon.
“I couldn’t say,” Castiel tells him, his hand a warm weight resting just under Dean’s sternum. “If it were, would my perception of events really matter?”
“I guess not,” Dean says.
Sam calls that night to let Dean know he and Bobby will be starting home the next day and Dean knows, dream or not, that he’ll have to wake up soon anyway.
--
“We could go do something,” Dean says to the ceiling. He’s sprawled out on Bobby’s couch, flipping through channels on the TV. Castiel let him mess around for a few minutes before insisting that Dean pause at least fifteen seconds between stations because it was highly unlikely Dean was able to process the information he was cycling through at that rate.
That’s the point, Cas, Dean had said.
“What do you propose we do?” Castiel asked, looking up from one of Bobby’s books.
“I don’t know, go somewhere else to eat. See a movie. Drive around,” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Something.”
“You are restless.”
“I could blow you,” Dean mutters.
Dean’s got a lot of ideas but almost all of them have something to do with sex. He’s thought about having Cas fuck him up against the kitchen counter or on the porch out in the open where anyone could see because his vacation isn’t up yet and there’s no one around to tell him it’s a bad idea, but Sam and Bobby should be back sometime that night or the next night, so it is a bad idea.
“You did that this morning,” Castiel reminds him. He sounds amused and kind of smug and Dean feels a little guilty about getting so irritated.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just-they’ll be back soon and then play time will be over,” Dean says. “And movie theatres have air conditioning.”
Castiel huffs out a laugh. He looks more relaxed than he ever has, loose and open and something verging on happy that Dean doesn’t want to think about because he knows it isn’t going to last.
“C’mere,” he says, making room on the couch and Castiel wanders over obligingly, presses in close. He’s too warm but it’s alright.
“You don’t really want to go anywhere,” Castiel says after a moment. The television throws the room into brightness and shadow in flickering sequences that have a pattern in some dimension but Dean can’t make any sense of them.
“No, not really,” Dean says and closes his eyes.
Sam and Bobby return that afternoon.
--
Dean finds Castiel by an old well with a rusted crank that hangs dejectedly in the air as if the last person to draw water from it had lost interest half way and left it waiting for someone to come along and finish the turn. He figured no one would now.
When Castiel disappears, Bobby likes to joke that Castiel is making time on the roof with the birds but Dean knows better. Castiel is never in the same spot when Dean goes looking for him. Sometimes he’ll find the angel among the wrecks of cars looking at the scrap as if it it’s the most tragic thing he’s ever seen; the great metal husks shed all over the ground like the discarded skins of impossible creatures who’d gone on to become larger and better than themselves. Sometimes he’ll find Castiel standing out under the ragged trees at the edge of the grounds studying their shapes, the way they twist over in some agony of growth and still reach for the sky.
Castiel could go anywhere in the world but these days he stays close when he disappears. Bobby has a lot of land, more than Dean could ever say he’d lay claim to in his life, but in comparison to the things he knows Castiel could linger over and explore it seems tiny. It’s like Castiel is trying to commit every inch to memory or divine meaning from the way Bobby’s weeds grow out of the fissures near the house. Maybe he’s just waiting around for Dean to find him.
Castiel leans carefully on edge of the well, coat fanned out against the cracked grey stone, hands braced along the edge. He looks up when Dean approaches but doesn’t say anything. Dean isn’t really in the mood to talk either, so he joins Cas on the lip of the well, pressed against the line of Castiel’s arm. He’s probably sitting on Castiel’s coat, but he doesn’t feel like moving and Cas doesn’t complain so he stays where he is.
There isn’t much to look at, just the house in the distance and its towering scrap metal walls. Nearby is a felled tree; the wood of its wide trunk marred by a spreading grey softening its center. He’s seen it before at old farmsteads. Some guy probably threw up wire around it when it was a sapling that grew into the wood as the tree aged. They can go for years, he knows, before the metal poisoning chokes the life from the tree, spreading through its insides.
Dean rubs a hand over his face because, god, that’s morbid.
“You haven’t been sleeping well,” Castiel says from beside him. Dean’s hand drops from his face into his lap with a loud, hollow smack that seems to bridge the distance between him and the house even though he knows there’s no way it’s carried that far.
“Kinda hard to lately,” Dean mutters. He’s so tired and it would be so easy to lean just a little further into Castiel, soak in the warmth he could feel even though the layers of their clothing, but he’s still too strung out to relax and he and Cas don’t do that much lately.
“I wouldn’t know,” Castiel says quietly in that way he has of making everything into a grim pronouncement.
“That’s because you don’t sleep,” Dean says turning to look at him. He can feel one side of his mouth trying to lift up in a half hearted smile.
“I did once,” Castiel says and Dean snorts.
“Right, because lying on your back and channeling and an I-beam is sleeping.”
“I made an effort.”
“Yeah,” Dean says softly, looking away again, “you did.”
Bobby’s house in the distance is a smudge of dark on grainy brown because he isn’t really looking at it or anything else. Somewhere a bird calls but nothing replies and the air is still when the echoes fade. Dean leans into Cas because he’s warm and because he doesn’t say anything about life or death and choices.
“If you are cold, perhaps we should go inside,” Castiel says, his breath ruffling Dean’s hair.
“Nah,” Dean tells him. “Not yet.”
-end-
Author: uselessplayback
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: none
Warnings: It's porn?
Word Count: 5,430
Summary: Dean takes a vacation unintentionally.
Notes: Written for bauble who wanted porn. It was originally meant to be comment fic, 5000 something words later. . . . . Many thanks to 22by7 for looking this over and telling me which retarded interludes to remove with extreme prejudice.
It’s nearly fall but it feels like mid-summer, the heat and humidity make Dean feel thick and slow, and he can’t work up the motivation to do much more than lounge around. Bobby’s place has no air conditioning after a mishap involving a bottle rocket and some duct tape earlier in the year. It was Dean’s fault but this is the first time he’s really regretted not buying Bobby a new unit.
Not that Bobby is living with the consequences now. He and Sam are in Tennessee for a funeral that Dean decided to give a pass. It had seemed like a good idea at the time; Sam had needed space and Bobby couldn’t drive, so now Dean’s stuck by himself and wondering why he’d thought it was a good idea in the first place.
Bobby’s TV isn’t hooked up to local cable, and it probably wouldn’t recognize color if someone showed it swatches, but Dean makes due, flipping channels lazily until cutting between tearful protestations of love to infomercials about exciting, new kitchen technology stops being funny. If Sam were here maybe it wouldn’t be so bad but he’s not, so Dean’s got no one to annoy.
It’s so hot that even food doesn’t hold its usual appeal and he wanders listlessly in and out of house, not caring that if Bobby were here he’d be complaining that Dean was letting the bugs in. Sam didn’t take his car and Dean knows he could be doing something else right now but it’s hard to work up the motivation with the heat turning his boredom into restless discontent.
At the end of the day, he stumbles up to the room Bobby set aside for him weeks ago; dragging himself up the stairs like it’s a chore. Sam would laugh at him if he saw it. It’s too hot in his room to do more than fall into bed, tossing and turning to find some comfort in sheets not yet warm from his body. He throws them off and pulls them on, too hot and not warm enough, mind thick with exhaustion although he knows he has done nothing to merit weariness. He’s awake for hours watching light from the window shift across the ceiling, so he doesn’t know when he finally falls asleep. Somehow, though, he does.
--
Castiel’s in the doorway when Dean wakes. He’s dwarfed by his own shadow and looking for all the world like a guy who’d wandered into the kitchen and forgotten why he was there, but Dean is half-asleep and doesn’t find it as strange as he normally would.
Dean feels heavy and weightless, half in and out of dreams he doesn’t remember, and Castiel’s shadow bobs and distorts along the wall and against the lines of the dresser, larger than Castiel will ever be in the body he wears. He’s still watching the shadows when the bed dips under Castiel’s weight, still watching distantly when Castiel’s shadow drapes itself over him and Castiel follows.
Castiel’s lips are too soft on his slack mouth, hesitant and curious, and he draws back before Dean can process what’s going on; presses back in a little more firmly before Dean can process that it’s over. Dean had thought he’d been awake but maybe he’s still sleeping after all because he can’t find it in him to push Castiel away.
The sheets bunch and pull under Dean’s head and against his shoulders when Castiel grabs them to get better purchase, pressing in deeper and Dean lets him, eyes half open and watching Castiel’s face lose distinction in a wash of greys and blacks. Castiel seems to have taken it upon himself to work out this kissing thing in a way that’s both intimate and curiously nonsexual and, when Castiel flicks his tongue out to taste Dean’s lips, Dean finds himself responding, lazy and dazed, until Castiel pulls away again.
Dean half expects Castiel to push back in again but he gets up instead and turns to go. The bed is cold and doesn’t feel right under him without Castiel’s weight on it. He lets his eyes close and doesn’t watch Castiel leave and doesn’t open his mouth to ask him not to.
--
In the morning, Dean doesn’t think about Castiel’s mouth or the way his hands hadn’t touched his skin. He doesn’t think about their shadows on the wall or the strange taste that lingers in his mouth no matter what he eats.
During the day Castiel is Castiel and not the curious creature who wandered into his room with inquisitive lips and tongue, and Dean isn’t the man who lay back and let it happen.
He doesn’t think about it and Castiel makes no motion to bring it up, so Dean isn’t sure it happened at all.
Sam calls that afternoon sounding happier than any man on his way to a funeral should be and Dean listens with half an ear while he riffles through the papers on Bobby’s desk without any particular interest. Dean can feel Castiel watching him somewhere in the periphery: patient and quiet. He’s not sure why Castiel is there at all, but he’s not sorry to have him stay.
Castiel comes to Dean’s room that night and pets along his jaw and throat, reads Dean’s face and lips with inquisitive fingers. Dean closes his eyes, wondering when he’d opened them and waits for Castiel to pull away again.
He doesn’t kiss Dean this time and he’s gone before Dean realizes that he wants him to.
--
Sometimes Dean can’t read Castiel at all and he knows it’s not like angels practice some form of cultural stoicism. Most of the angels Dean’s met have been demanding and unsubtle but Castiel vacillates between immediate and distant, and Dean can’t quite get a fix on him. Sometimes he’s not sure he wants to.
Castiel is absent for most of the day or, at least, Dean assumes he must have been because it’s nearly afternoon when Dean decides he’s baked long enough in Bobby’s spare bedroom. Castiel is nowhere to be found when Dean comes downstairs still damp from a tepid shower. His clothes stick to his skin unpleasantly but no amount of toweling will keep the humidity from burrowing under his clothes and clinging to his hair.
Castiel finds him on the porch, staring at his car. He’s been thinking about communing with his motor for over an hour but hasn’t made an effort to get up and do anything about it. He thinks about Sam and Bobby and Tennessee and wonders if the muggy South is as muggy as Bobby’s near north only with more green.
Castiel sits on the porch beside him and says nothing. Dean figures it’s a theme because Castiel hasn’t said much to him at all over the past couple of days. If Castiel were human, he’d wonder if this were some kind of game. Maybe Castiel’s waiting for him to throw the first word into the space between them.
But then Castiel says something inane about finding rabbits behind the house and Dean wonders if he’s the only one who’s being awkward.
--
The third night, Dean sits up and pulls Castiel down into his lap because what’s the point of standing on ceremony? That night Castiel presses into him and Dean holds him up, letting Castiel kiss him with a lazy deliberation made of both arousal and scientific inquiry. Dean lets Castiel tangle his fingers in his hair and push underneath his shirt to touch his fill of skin. He unbuttons Castiel’s shirt to explore with his own fingers and, somewhere, winds up clutching at Castiel’s shoulders while Castiel straddles his lap and presses wet kisses into his neck.
As far as Dean knows, the house is quiet but for the rustle of fabric and the sounds of their breathing.
--
On the fourth night nothing wakes Dean, so he doesn’t realize until morning that Castiel hasn’t visited him at all.
That afternoon, Dean wanders around the salvage yard aimlessly before he realizes he’s looking for something that isn’t there.
The next morning Sam calls to let him know they’ve made the Tennessee border but that’s the only thing he really comes away with from that conversation.
--
The fifth night Dean pretends he’s still asleep when Castiel comes in. It’s weird the way the floorboards never creak when Castiel steps on them. Dean’s spent weeks figuring out where to step but Castiel keeps the floor from singing without even trying.
That night, Castiel sits on the edge of the bed and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair once before leaving. He feels like some thing that had been twisting in his chest has loosened and it’s so weird that it takes him a long time to fall asleep.
--
In the morning Dean sits on Bobby’s porch and looks out through the cars in the scrap yard at the expanse of flat land on the other side. There isn’t a cloud in the sky but the air is thick with humidity; it clings to Dean’s skin, catches in his lungs and blurs the color of the sky into a hazy grey. He feels thick and lazy with it and even the cicadas are making slow noises like they can’t work up the energy to do more.
“This is the kind of day I always thought would be like the end of the world,” Dean tells Castiel from where he’s draped over the stairs, practically wilting.
Castiel stands upright in a haze all his own somewhere apart from the weather and the world and probably even Dean although Dean’s head is almost lolling against Castiel’s thigh. It’s hard to imagine this Castiel he sees during the day as the same creature that visits him at night with his hot mouth and too warm skin. Even in the heat Castiel is made of ice.
“Perhaps today will be,” Castiel says and Dean does let his head fall against Castiel’s thigh, the muscles under his head jumping in surprise are the only sign Castiel gives that he even feels the contact.
“Sure,” Dean says slowly, like it doesn’t matter. It’s hard to think of himself as a guy who does think it matters in the slow, thick air. “Today, tomorrow-who knows? So long as I don’t have to move right now.”
Castiel’s fingers are dry in Dean’s damp hair, disarranging it and putting it back in slow pulls. “No one is making you do anything, Dean,” he says.
Dean snorts. “You’re such a liar.”
“Yes,” Castiel says with amusement but he doesn’t stop stroking Dean’s hair, so Dean closes his eyes.
--
That night Castiel is already half undressed when Dean wakes up and looks almost sheepish when Dean catches him. One arm pulled out of a sleeve and his pants are half undone like he couldn’t decide what to take off first.
Dean sits up and rubs a hand over his face and reaches back to pull his shirt over his head. Castiel is less interested in taking off his clothes, then. He pushes Dean back down on the bed and maps his body with slow fingers, flicking his arm in irritation when his shirt gets in the way of his progress. Dean laughs and tries to help him push it off, but Castiel swats Dean’s hands out of the way.
Dean’s never been able to get Castiel out of all of his clothes. Castiel is always preoccupied with some facet of Dean’s anatomy and it’s so distracting that sometimes Dean forgets that he’s never seen Castiel naked.
Eventually, Castiel sits back to look at him and it’s frustrating because all Dean wants is for Castiel to keep doing what he was doing naked or not. Castiel’s lips are parted, his chest rises and falls on unsteady breaths and Dean feels hugely exposed, hot and cold under Castiel’s gaze. Then Castiel’s eyes flutter closed and Dean drags his eyes down Castiel’s body.
“Oh, fuck.” Dean groans and drops his head back onto the pillow. Castiel is stroking himself slowly and watching Dean hungrily. “Yeah, Cas, that’s-“ hot, Dean wants to say, a good idea but Dean’s words dry up in his mouth because Castiel is leaning over him, hand still moving on his cock even as he bends down to lick wet, messy kisses along Dean’s throat. Dean fists a hand in Castiel’s hair and pulls him up to his mouth.
There’s nothing soft or curious about Castiel’s tongue now; nothing tentative about the hands that yank at Dean’s hair and pin his own to the mattress. Castiel has Dean pinned down with a hand in the center of his chest while Castiel trails open mouthed kisses down Dean’s trembling stomach and he still hasn’t bothered to finish taking off his shirt.
Dean wants to watch him but there’s something about letting Castiel pin him down and move strong, hard and hot against him and Dean can’t lift his head. He’s lost track of the noises in the house, against the panes of glass at his window, but he can hear the sounds that he makes: helpless and desperate especially when Castiel hooks his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s boxers and tugs them down. Dean almost wishes he didn’t have to because when he does, Castiel is barely touching him anymore. His mouth and hands are gone, skimming down his thighs and calves and not where Dean wants them at all. But when he has Dean naked, Castiel runs a hand up the inside of on thigh and spreads Dean’s legs for him and then presses his face into Dean’s belly and just rubbing the side of his face against it.
“Fuck,” Dean pants and fists his hands into the sheets by his head because Castiel won’t let Dean touch him; he keeps pushing Dean’s hands away.
He’d wondered, when Castiel had started coming to him-when Castiel had kissed him almost curiously that first time-what it would be like to do this, but he’d never imagined it would be this intense. He’d never imagined he’d just lie back and let Castiel do whatever he wanted, and he knows he could stop Castiel. He knows it; but he won’t.
He feels the scrape of Castiel’s teeth grazing the flesh along his hipbone and he figures Castiel is distracted enough that he won’t notice if Dean plays with his nipples. Castiel does notice, though, and raises stops sucking bruising kisses into his flesh to watch. Dean is half worried that Castiel will pin his hands again, instead he stretches out over Dean and takes the fingers Dean has been using to touch himself and draws them into his mouth, pulling back a little to drag his teeth gently along the pads of Dean’s fingers.
Castiel’s fingers trail up Dean’s chest, petting along his throat with just enough pressure that Dean has to tilt his head back, and then Castiel’s thumb is tracing Dean’s bottom lip, so Dean opens up, watches Castiel’s blown, dark eyes and sucks it into his mouth. Castiel makes a small, helpless noise and presses his erection into Dean’s hip, grinding down and watching Dean suck at his thumb. Then he lets Dean’s fingers fall from his mouth and cups Dean’s face in his hands, the wet tip of his thumb dragging from Dean’s mouth across his cheek. He leans up and kisses Dean messily, sucking on his tongue in a way that makes Dean feel like he’s done something huge, right and perfect.
When they break for air, Castiel moves back down Dean’s body with renewed fervor: pausing to suck on a nipple, biting at Dean’s chest and mouthing his way down until he’s hovering over Dean’s swollen, leaking cock and just breathing. Dean has to bite down on a knuckle to keep from begging.
Castiel lets out a breath and presses his nose against the base of Dean’s cock and runs is up along the under side and that’s-weird. It’s very weird but Dean can’t bring himself to complain especially when Castiel follows up with his tongue, flicking it out along the swollen head and pressing it into the tip where Dean is leaking. Dean’s sure that he’ll still have the indent from his teeth in his finger tomorrow but, when Castiel finally takes Dean into his mouth, he doesn’t care.
He’d been hoping this would be a relief but it’s not a relief at all. Castiel’s mouth around his cock and the hand he has wrapped around the base are a new kind of torture that have Dean arching off the bed even though he knows he should be still because Castiel can’t have-he hasn’t-
“Cas, Cas,” Dean moans. His traitorous hand has fallen back against the mattress and is clutching helplessly at the pillow. Castiel seems to know what he wants or maybe he just wants to shut him up because he works a hand up Dean’s body and presses his fingers into Dean’s mouth again. Dean approves but, stretched out like he is, it’s a little awkward and Castiel pulls his mouth away. Dean chokes out his unhappiness around Castiel’s fingers.
“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel says, low and rough. He’s watching Dean’s mouth with an almost frightening intensity, like he wishes he was fucking Dean’s mouth with something besides his fingers. Then he removes them too and Dean whines, too strung out to be coherent, until Castiel’s lips close over him again and his breath leaves him in a rush.
Castiel isn’t the best at this; he’s enthusiastic but unpracticed and sometimes when Dean moves too suddenly, Castiel’s teeth catch at his flesh before Castiel corrects himself. It gets easier though and Dean tries to keep himself still while Castiel moves over him, pressing a hand flat against his belly to hold him down while the other makes its way between Dean’s legs. Dean jumps a little when Castiel’s fingers, sloppy with Dean’s spit, skim over the crack of his ass and press against his hole.
“Oh,” Dean pants and Castiel raises his head like he’s asking if this is okay. Dean’s not sure it is but he doesn’t want Castiel to stop either, so he turns his head into the pillow, face burning, and spreads his legs wider.
Dean almost expects Castiel to act right away but he takes his time, pressing teasingly at his entrance before pushing a wet finger inside. Dean pants up at the ceiling and Castiel nuzzles his cock, kisses his balls, and swallows him back down while Dean adjusts to the sensation of being filled.
It’s weird but Castiel is slow and careful while Dean tenses and relaxes around even this small intrusion until Castiel’s knuckles butt up against Dean’s ass. Then Castiel moves, stroking in and out with slow purpose, angling his hand and pushing deep, crooking his finger and-
“Oh, fuck,” Dean breathes. “That’s-“
Dean whines when Castiel withdraws his finger again but then it’s back with a friend and Dean can’t help pushing into it against the stretch and burn because he wants Castiel to do that again. He wonders how he must look, shameless and thrusting himself onto Castiel’s fingers inside him, and Castiel hums with some kind of approval around his cock and Dean cries out.
“Cas, oh, Cas. You can-“ Dean licks his lips and arches up, panting and digging his fingers into the sheets. “Oh, you can fuck me if you want.”
It was probably a bad idea to say this because Castiel tries to answer him while he’s still sucking and the vibration sends Dean right over, fisting the sheets and choking back a startled cry while Castiel tries to swallow around him.
Dean doesn’t process much after that until Castiel has him pinned down and is kissing him messily; it’s all Dean can do to respond.
“Can I-“ Castiel asks when they break for air and Dean has no idea what he’s talking about for a minute. “You said I could-can I?”
Oh.
“Yeah,” Dean says, shutting his eyes. “Yeah, Cas. Anything.”
--
He wonders if Castiel will leave like he has all the other nights but Castiel doesn’t. He shifts Dean around on the bed until he’s satisfied and sort of slumps half on top of him. Dean laughs.
“You’re kind of pushy, aren’t you, Cas?”
Castiel cracks an eye open to study him, closes it again and pushes his face into Dean’s shoulder, dragging the tangled sheets over them almost as an afterthought.
Dean laughs again and wonders if he should lay down some ground rules about cuddling but he’s too pathetically grateful that Castiel is staying for it to hold any weight. It’s easier than it’s been all week to fall asleep this time.
--
Dean wakes to the feel of Castiel’s fingers sliding into his ass and has to press his face into the pillow and moan. He’s half-hard from sleep already but the insistent push of Castiel’s fingers is waking everything up with bright shocks of pleasure and hints of soreness. Castiel mouths at the back of his neck with lazy enthusiasm that Dean is more than happy to indulge.
Dean’s making frantic noises into the pillow, fingers clenching and unclenching convulsively while Castiel works him open again. Castiel pets a hand down Dean’s back and murmurs quiet things into his ear.
It’s different this time, Castiel fucks him slowly with deep, careful strokes and twists of his hips until Dean is ready to scream for him to move faster. The sheets are hot and sticky underneath him and Castiel’s body is hot where it’s pressed everywhere else. He’s so frustrated with the maddeningly steady pace that his orgasm catches him by surprise. Castiel hums a sound into Dean’s neck that sounds like approval and pulls out to turn him over.
Dean’s happy with this arrangement because he can grab at Castiel’s hips and back to urge him on. He’s even happier when Castiel drives back in and kisses him sloppily.
He’s still kind of dazed and sensitive but the way Castiel slides his arms under Dean’s back to pull him in tight is nice and the way Castiel pants helplessly into his neck while Dean mutters encouragement is even better.
“Come on, Cas,” Dean murmurs when Castiel’s rhythm falters. He’s petting shaky hands along Castiel’s back. “’S okay, come on.” And Castiel pulls Dean into his lap, clutching him so hard that Dean’s sure he’ll have bruises on his shoulders, and thrusts in deep, breath catching on a moan when he comes.
They stay like that for a while waiting for Castiel to get his breath back until it starts to get a little awkward and Dean pulls off, wincing a little, to lie back on the bed, pulling Castiel with him. He’s sticky and gross but he doesn’t care, especially when Castiel drapes himself over Dean's back and makes quiet, contented sounds into his ear.
--
“It has been nearly ten hours since you last ate,” Castiel murmurs quietly.
Dean doesn’t really process the words at first because he’s falling asleep and this is funny too because he seems to see more of Cas when he should be sleeping. Castiel is propped up against the wall and stroking Dean’s hair in a distracted, arrhythmic petting motion that Dean hasn’t decided if he likes yet. And it’s a strange kind of thing to say to a guy you’re in bed with but Dean should be used to random topics of conversations by now.
“You could always go get me a sandwich,” Dean says into Castiel’s thigh and then thinks about it. “Dude, do you seriously keep track of how often I eat?”
“Well, yes,” Castiel says almost sheepishly. He probably hadn’t realized how weird it is. “Not intentionally. You’re very fond of food.”
Dean snorts. “Food is a wonderful thing, Cas. Eating is a wonderful thing.”
“You do it with such enthusiasm.”
“Mmm, I’m hungry now,” Dean says. “Go get me something, I don’t feel like moving.”
Dean can practically hear Castiel roll his eyes. “Dean,” he says warningly.
“Steak sounds good,” Dean says, eyes drifting closed, “I could go for a steak. Maybe with one of those huge baked potatoes with cheese and bacon. And pie-apple maybe, or chocolate cake with whipped cream.”
“I doubt I’ll find anything in the kitchen to appease this craving of yours, Dean.” Castiel says with amusement.
“It’s a fantasy,” Dean tells him, waving a hand. “’S not supposed to be logical.”
“I see,” Castiel says. “And to drink?”
“I don’t know,” Dean says slowly, drifting off as he speaks. “Maybe beer. The drink’s not as important anyway.”
“Would you-“ Castiel starts. “Should I go-“
“No,” Dean says. He’s heavy and warm and he doesn’t want Castiel to go anywhere. “’S good. I’ll eat later.”
“Alright,” Castiel says, stroking Dean’s hair. It’s not so bad, Dean thinks. Maybe Castiel’s found some rhythm after all. Then Dean’s asleep and, if he dreams of food, it’s only because he went to bed hungry.
--
They spend that day and the next either sleeping or fucking with breaks in between to clean up and eat. Well, Dean eats and Castiel watches like he’s taking notes on the feeding habits of humans in his head. Dean’s stopped trying to distinguish between one day and another-between day and night-because they’ve all started to run together in a haze of heat and unreality where absolutely nothing extraordinary happens.
Sometime in the middle of all of it, when Dean is too fucked out to move even his hands, he asks Cas in a slurred, half-there voice if he thinks this is a dream and he’ll be waking up soon.
“I couldn’t say,” Castiel tells him, his hand a warm weight resting just under Dean’s sternum. “If it were, would my perception of events really matter?”
“I guess not,” Dean says.
Sam calls that night to let Dean know he and Bobby will be starting home the next day and Dean knows, dream or not, that he’ll have to wake up soon anyway.
--
“We could go do something,” Dean says to the ceiling. He’s sprawled out on Bobby’s couch, flipping through channels on the TV. Castiel let him mess around for a few minutes before insisting that Dean pause at least fifteen seconds between stations because it was highly unlikely Dean was able to process the information he was cycling through at that rate.
That’s the point, Cas, Dean had said.
“What do you propose we do?” Castiel asked, looking up from one of Bobby’s books.
“I don’t know, go somewhere else to eat. See a movie. Drive around,” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Something.”
“You are restless.”
“I could blow you,” Dean mutters.
Dean’s got a lot of ideas but almost all of them have something to do with sex. He’s thought about having Cas fuck him up against the kitchen counter or on the porch out in the open where anyone could see because his vacation isn’t up yet and there’s no one around to tell him it’s a bad idea, but Sam and Bobby should be back sometime that night or the next night, so it is a bad idea.
“You did that this morning,” Castiel reminds him. He sounds amused and kind of smug and Dean feels a little guilty about getting so irritated.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just-they’ll be back soon and then play time will be over,” Dean says. “And movie theatres have air conditioning.”
Castiel huffs out a laugh. He looks more relaxed than he ever has, loose and open and something verging on happy that Dean doesn’t want to think about because he knows it isn’t going to last.
“C’mere,” he says, making room on the couch and Castiel wanders over obligingly, presses in close. He’s too warm but it’s alright.
“You don’t really want to go anywhere,” Castiel says after a moment. The television throws the room into brightness and shadow in flickering sequences that have a pattern in some dimension but Dean can’t make any sense of them.
“No, not really,” Dean says and closes his eyes.
Sam and Bobby return that afternoon.
--
Dean finds Castiel by an old well with a rusted crank that hangs dejectedly in the air as if the last person to draw water from it had lost interest half way and left it waiting for someone to come along and finish the turn. He figured no one would now.
When Castiel disappears, Bobby likes to joke that Castiel is making time on the roof with the birds but Dean knows better. Castiel is never in the same spot when Dean goes looking for him. Sometimes he’ll find the angel among the wrecks of cars looking at the scrap as if it it’s the most tragic thing he’s ever seen; the great metal husks shed all over the ground like the discarded skins of impossible creatures who’d gone on to become larger and better than themselves. Sometimes he’ll find Castiel standing out under the ragged trees at the edge of the grounds studying their shapes, the way they twist over in some agony of growth and still reach for the sky.
Castiel could go anywhere in the world but these days he stays close when he disappears. Bobby has a lot of land, more than Dean could ever say he’d lay claim to in his life, but in comparison to the things he knows Castiel could linger over and explore it seems tiny. It’s like Castiel is trying to commit every inch to memory or divine meaning from the way Bobby’s weeds grow out of the fissures near the house. Maybe he’s just waiting around for Dean to find him.
Castiel leans carefully on edge of the well, coat fanned out against the cracked grey stone, hands braced along the edge. He looks up when Dean approaches but doesn’t say anything. Dean isn’t really in the mood to talk either, so he joins Cas on the lip of the well, pressed against the line of Castiel’s arm. He’s probably sitting on Castiel’s coat, but he doesn’t feel like moving and Cas doesn’t complain so he stays where he is.
There isn’t much to look at, just the house in the distance and its towering scrap metal walls. Nearby is a felled tree; the wood of its wide trunk marred by a spreading grey softening its center. He’s seen it before at old farmsteads. Some guy probably threw up wire around it when it was a sapling that grew into the wood as the tree aged. They can go for years, he knows, before the metal poisoning chokes the life from the tree, spreading through its insides.
Dean rubs a hand over his face because, god, that’s morbid.
“You haven’t been sleeping well,” Castiel says from beside him. Dean’s hand drops from his face into his lap with a loud, hollow smack that seems to bridge the distance between him and the house even though he knows there’s no way it’s carried that far.
“Kinda hard to lately,” Dean mutters. He’s so tired and it would be so easy to lean just a little further into Castiel, soak in the warmth he could feel even though the layers of their clothing, but he’s still too strung out to relax and he and Cas don’t do that much lately.
“I wouldn’t know,” Castiel says quietly in that way he has of making everything into a grim pronouncement.
“That’s because you don’t sleep,” Dean says turning to look at him. He can feel one side of his mouth trying to lift up in a half hearted smile.
“I did once,” Castiel says and Dean snorts.
“Right, because lying on your back and channeling and an I-beam is sleeping.”
“I made an effort.”
“Yeah,” Dean says softly, looking away again, “you did.”
Bobby’s house in the distance is a smudge of dark on grainy brown because he isn’t really looking at it or anything else. Somewhere a bird calls but nothing replies and the air is still when the echoes fade. Dean leans into Cas because he’s warm and because he doesn’t say anything about life or death and choices.
“If you are cold, perhaps we should go inside,” Castiel says, his breath ruffling Dean’s hair.
“Nah,” Dean tells him. “Not yet.”
-end-