Love Comes Tumbling (D/C; NC-17)
PWP for hils, who wanted scalp massage in the bathtub, with Cas bottoming from the top. Follows on from Worth.
Spoilers Up to 6.18/Frontierland
Wordcount 4,491
Dean can see it from where he’s sitting at Bobby’s desk, a red smear that drools stickily down Bobby’s refrigerator door, and fuck knows it shouldn’t be making him feel like he might hurl, because he’s seen worse, saw Castiel explode into nothing more than bloody particles at Stull. But it is, because things are different with them now and it means this hit way too close, and because he’s seen what those swords can do, from inches away; used one of them himself to light Zachariah up from the inside and nuke the bastard to kingdom come.
“Dean. I said, bookends.”
Dean snaps back to his brother’s loud whisper and a boot nudging his socked foot. Sam is looking up from his laptop, nodding over past him, towards the couch.
“Bookends.”
Dean twists, studies them both, Bobby sprawled and out of it, one boot propped up on a low table and the other flopped heavily across Castiel’s thigh, the angel slumping messily, head bowed so that all Dean can see is tousled hair. His suit is more crumpled than usual and his tie is askew, his trench coat pulled off and placed carefully over Bobby at some point when no one was looking.
“Do you think he’s alright?”
Dean flicks his eyes back but he ignores the question, stabs a finger in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you think that ward has to be blood? Maybe we can Sharpie it on there, clean that up.”
Sam’s gaze is a mix of knowing and sympathetic, just like his tone. “It has to be blood… I already checked.” He furrows his brow speculatively. “Where do you think those things have to make landfall to - you know.”
Dean shrugs. “Fucked if I know. Rules seem to be changing all the damn time.” He makes himself sound blasé, like he hasn’t given a second thought to the fact the day might come when he calls for Castiel but the beat of wings doesn’t sound, and never does again. It makes him feel hollow and nauseous, and he knows he fakes his offhandedness badly. “Heart, I guess. That’s where Cas always seems to aim for. Brain too.” He smiles grimly. “Worked on Zachariah.”
Sam nods slowly. “He hasn’t slept since before Stull,” he offers. “It’s just - weird. I guess. Seeing him sacked out like that.”
Dean’s eyes drift again, to where Castiel’s suit jacket part-covers the dried brown stain on the angel’s shirt. “He’ll be fine,” he says shortly. “He said he just needs to rest.”
He thinks he already knows what this is, Sam mother hen-ing him, them, him and Cas, since this thing they have is such an open secret now Dean wonders if even Bobby might be in on it. He thinks he may as well do some fishing to find out, and, “I guess he’ll be crashing here for a while,” he starts. “You think Bobby, uh. That he…” He trails off, taps his fingers on the desk, part expectant, part nervous.
“I think Bobby knows that any one of us could buy the farm at any moment,” Sam replies noncommittally. “I think what makes us happy makes Bobby happy.” He stares back at Dean then, his gaze steady. “And I think I’ll stay down here tonight. Watch over the old guy. There could be side effects.”
Sam’s eyes are warm and deep, and Dean knows that what makes him happy makes Sam happy too, he has Castiel’s word on it, and his assurance that Sam thinks they transcend gender. And this is face-to-face tacit approval, not that it would have made much difference if his brother had ever tried to talk him out of it, because the connection he has to the angel is innate now, part of his nature. Castiel has seeped into him at a cellular level, his hold so tight and fierce, so utterly complete, that Dean thinks maybe the angel soldered them together with hellfire and grace down in the Pit, that maybe part of Castiel ran molten and melted into his soul and Castiel took a part of him to fill the space it left behind.
“How the fuck did this even happen to me?” he marvels out loud. “I have no idea how, or when it started. I don’t even really know if I meant it to happen.”
Sam’s reply is hesitant. “Sometimes you just get swept into something even though you don’t really mean to. You might not even really want it… and some part of you might even know it’s the worst thing you could ever do.” He stops, seems to be waiting to see if Dean cuts him off before he swallows and continues, his eyes watchful. “But it’s like you’re caught in a rip tide and however hard you swim against the current, you just get swept out to sea. And it gets so even if a part of you doesn’t want it, a part of you does. A part of you needs it.”
Sam glances down and away as he finishes, and Dean knows damn well what his brother is talking about. Ruby is something they’ve skirted around at a cautious distance, but he can’t help himself now and it slips out, even if he tries to make it unchallenging, tries to blunt the vicious edge of the words so it’s a question and not an accusation. “Do you miss her?”
Sam looks up again. “Not any more,” he says carefully, and genuinely as far as Dean can tell. He pauses then, rolls his shoulders, like an apology. “I wouldn’t have made it without her.”
Dean knows he tenses, knows he fists his hands almost reflexively, knows his stare turns glacial as the moment drags out between them. But then, unbidden, his own words at Rufus Turner’s graveside echo inside his head. Life is short, and he doesn’t want to spend it wringing his hands over things he can’t change. He feels himself relax, let go of it, and the strained silence changes into something oddly peaceful, as if the conversation, stilted as it was, finally laid her ghost to rest. She doesn’t matter any more, it’s done, they’re good. And so Dean nods it away, finds his eyes drawn back to the couch, where Castiel’s eyes are still tight-closed against the world.
Sam leans back in his seat, taps his index finger rhythmically on the desk, and when Dean looks back he can see his brother is studying the slumbering angel. “Bobby said he was afraid,” Sam muses.
Dean scowls. “Well, his own second-in-command had just tried to vaporize him.”
Sam’s expression goes thoughtful. “Bobby said he wouldn’t call anyone else to help. It must be like that whole Uriel thing for him… he doesn’t know who he can trust up there. It’s piss-poor timing when you think about it.” He purses his lips in distaste. “You think he can trust Balthazar?”
Dean bristles, because even the name sets off a prickle of irritation that’s bordering on wild hate, if he’s honest. “After that deal with the boat? About as much as you can trust a great white to babysit a duckling.” He stifles a yawn as he stands, stretches, and hovers sort of aimlessly for a minute while he works out a way of diplomatically telling his brother he’s about to take an angel of the Lord into his bed in the hope of being ridden hard and put away wet. “Time to hit the sack,” he announces, and clears his throat. “I, uh. Think I’ll get him upstairs. He’ll be more comfortable.”
Sam smirks faintly. “I’ll bet he will.”
Dean rolls his eyes, feels his cheeks heat up just a tad, and he covers up with a practiced leer. “He’s a fuckin’ tiger in the sack, Sammy. He does this thing with his tongue, where he twirls it-”
“Jesus, Dean,” his brother yelps, his hand rising self-defensively. “No. Just - no.”
Dean winks as he turns and pads over to the couch. Castiel rouses to a thumb and finger clicked loudly next to his ear, and looks up at him with faded, wintry eyes. “You feeling any better?” Dean asks. He eyes the angel critically, assessing the gray face, the shadows bruising his eyes, his obvious exhaustion.
Castiel glowers. “No,” he says acidly. “Although perhaps I would if I could get some sleep.”
Dean reaches out a hand. “Come on.” He jerks his head over at the door. “Upstairs. Teeth, story, bedtime. And none of your crap.”
Upstairs, Dean pushes Castiel ahead of him into Bobby’s front bedroom. The angel takes slow, mechanical steps, sits down heavily on the bed and flops back flat. He sucks in breath as he does, presses a hand carefully to his ribcage.
Dean stops in his tracks by the door into the bathroom. “Isn’t that healing?” he queries sharply.
Castiel’s reply is faint. “I’m drained. It’s taking longer than usual. I had to be careful with Bobby… just the bare minimum. Enough to get you back.”
Dean recalls the old man’s impressed description of the shitstorm. “It’s like, what? Sticking your finger in the power socket? Bobby said you went nuclear.”
The angel waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Grace. It flares with the power of souls.”
Dean contemplates that for a moment. “Death said something about souls,” he muses. “Something about them being strong. And valuable. He said it was all about the-”
“Of course, now I’ve touched Bobby’s soul I’m profoundly bonded to him,” Castiel cuts in matter-of-factly. “Perhaps we should ask him to join us.”
Dean is thrown off-track, goggles for a few seconds, before shaking some sense back into himself. He strides over and crawls up the bed, hands and knees either side of the angel. “You’re kidding?”
Castiel is deadpan. “Am I?”
There aren’t any words suitable for the mental image making the beast with three backs in Dean’s brain right now, so he licks his lips, tilts his head as he bends at the elbows, leans in and brushes his mouth against Castiel’s, tracing his tongue along the seam, sandwiching the angel’s lower lip in between his own until it falls open and he teases his way inside.
It’s gentle, and Castiel closes his eyes, sighs around Dean’s tongue. “My mark is on your soul, Dean,” he concedes. “Not Bobby’s.”
“Damn right,” Dean retorts snippily, smirking as he pulls back. “I don’t share.”
He rolls away and off the bed, pads back to the bathroom, flips the light switch and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s filthy with the arid dust of nineteenth-century Wyoming, knows he stinks of sweat and horseshit. And what the fuck, there’s an ancient, oversized bathtub Bobby’s been hiding up here, and Dean acts on impulse, bending to press the stopper in, and swiveling the faucet. He rummages through the bathroom cabinet as the tub starts to fill, finds a grimy half-bottle of random orange liquid that smells sickly sweet but bubbles satisfyingly when he sloshes it under the stream of water.
Castiel is still sprawled on the bed when Dean emerges, and he kneels to pull off the angel’s shoes. The fabric of Castiel’s pants is worn at the knee, the creases long gone, and the bottom seam is frayed. Dean kneels there between his the angel’s spread legs, plants a hand on one of his thighs, and rubs the muscle. “You need new threads, buddy,” he says quietly.
Castiel huffs. “They aren’t exactly top priority at the moment.” He pushes up onto his elbows and blinks at Dean. “It was a very old suit,” he says, soft and suddenly wistful. “But it was his best one. It had - meaning for him. He married his childhood sweetheart wearing this suit. It was his churchgoing suit, and he put it on to speak to me. I watched him…” He floats a hand up to his neck, towards the ever-open top button of his shirt, touches his fingers to the knot of his tie. “He couldn’t see me, but I watched him straighten his tie before he called me.” He stops, closes his eyes for a moment. “It’s ironic, don’t you think? That he prayed for this. And he lost everything to me.” He opens his eyes again then, fixes Dean with a gaze that’s more alert. “Do you think I’m forgiven, Dean? Absolved of all my sins?”
Dean is at a loss for a moment, because it’s so random and because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard his friend sound so resigned, so defeated. “The big cahuna brought you back, didn’t he?” he offers finally. “That has to count for something. And your - Rachel?”
Castiel nods, barely, and Dean sees his jaw tighten, sees a muscle tic in his cheek.
“That wasn’t your fault, Cas.” He hikes his eyebrows up in emphasis. “Okay? She turned on her own side. Your God won’t hold it against you if you’re fighting the good fight.”
Smiling weakly, Castiel sits up straighter, reaches out and places the palm of his hand against Dean’s face. His eyes are suddenly naked as he considers Dean, and Dean feels that twisting, churning feeling he always gets in his chest when Castiel gives him that look he doesn’t deserve, the look that tells him he’s everything. He can’t let the moment last, because words are lining up at the back of his throat, things that can’t be unsaid waiting to pour out, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready even if he knows damn well they’re both aware of what this unspoken thing between them really is. He swallows thickly, pulls away and pushes up, starts tugging his shirt off over his head. “In the tub,” he deflects, and his voice is dry. “I think we both need it.”
Castiel head-tilts him dubiously. “But I don’t need-”
Dean rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Just humor me.”
The water is hot and soothing, smells pretty good considering the stuff in the bottle was so old it probably belonged to Bobby’s wife. Castiel is a warm, hard weight on Dean’s torso, his head lolling on Dean’s shoulder. “See?” Dean declares, and he ladles bubbles up and over Castiel’s hair until it’s soaked flat against his skull. “It helps you relax.”
He spans Castiel’s brow with his hand, rubs his temples with a thumb and forefinger, describing circles on the skin. Castiel’s jaw goes slack, his mouth hanging slightly open, and Dean smirks at the low moan of satisfaction the angel makes as he works his way up the hairline, tangling his fingers in the thick, dark strands, working them up the frontal bone to the top of Castiel’s skull, where he massages around the center seam. “Remember all that crap you droned on about endorphins?” he murmurs, as he feels Castiel relax and slump heavier along his body. “Seems like you could do with some yourself.”
He leans his head back against the wall, eyes drifting shut on a memory as his hand moves languidly on Castiel’s scalp for long, dragged-out minutes. “I can remember my mom washing Sam’s hair after she brought him home,” he recalls softly, and he pauses his fingers where he remembers watching his infant brother’s pulse beat. “She said he had this soft spot right here, and we had to be real careful. I used to watch it move. Fuckin’ creepy. I was sure he was a jack-in-the-box, and something was about to pop out of his head.” He smiles at the image. “He used to scream like a fuckin’ banshee in the bath.”
He lays the flat of his hand to the side of Castiel’s head, rubs the base of his fingers there, feeling the skin roll around on the bone and Castiel blows out a long breath. The angel has his hand sliding up and down Dean’s leg just above his knee, and Dean can feel his cock twitching against the base of Castiel’s back, where it rests on his groin. He circles his hips, grunts at the friction as he traces his fingers down past Castiel’s ear, rubs hard at the dip where the angel’s skull slants in to meet his neck. Water is trickling down the side of Castiel’s face, and Dean leans to lick it away.
Castiel’s eye cracks open right then. “God is perfect in his sense of justice, Dean,” he murmurs distractedly. “Nothing escapes His notice and His patience isn’t without limit. It can be exhausted. At which point He holds us accountable and levies judgment.”
Dean can feel Castiel’s eyelashes flutter soft against the tip of his tongue. He scowls. “You sound like the Reverend Ike.” He has his hand on Castiel’s shoulder now, where the muscles are bunched so hard and tight there’s hardly any give as he pinches and kneads. “Jesus, Cas. Relax. Let it go.”
He presses hard with his knuckles against flesh that resists him, stubborn under the pressure, finally gives up and slides his hand down across the bony ridge of his friend’s collarbone to his chest. He rolls Castiel’s nipple idly between his fingers until it stiffens and stands proud, examines the slippery skin of Castiel’s belly, plucks at the thatch of coarse hair at his crotch, and meanders on through it to wrap his hand around Castiel’s cock, where it swells alert and enthusiastic. Castiel groans, and Dean licks the shell of his ear. “Anyway, isn’t there a get-out-of-jail-free card if you say you’re sorry?” he whispers, as he starts the slow, tantalizing stroke and pump, up and down.
Castiel starts flexing his lower body, grinding back against Dean’s own rapidly growing hard-on, trapped between them. He threads the fingers of his right hand through Dean’s as they move up and down, a steady, deliberate pace, grips Dean’s thigh so hard with the other hand that Dean winces, even while he leans in to meet Castiel when he twists his head around. Their lips crash together hungrily, Castiel’s tongue forcing Dean’s mouth open and sliding in to curl against his palate, and it’s like a switch flips in the angel. He lets out a low, broken moan, and there’s something frenzied and desperate about him as he pulls his hand away from where it covers Dean’s, clutches at the back of Dean’s neck to pull him even closer, and deepens the kiss, making it bruisingly hard, biting at Dean’s lower lip so that Dean tastes copper.
The press of Castiel against him as he writhes has Dean overwhelmed and swept along on the crest of it, this chaotic passion he didn’t really expect, and he reaches down and around without even thinking, following his basic instinct. He rubs his middle finger on the smooth skin behind Castiel’s balls, circles the puckered rosette of muscle before he starts to nudge in gently, breaching the rim, a slow in-out, back-forth, slipping further with each incursion. “Cas,” he breathes into the angel’s mouth, his voice hazy with delight, because he’s knuckle-deep and he’s never gotten this far, it’s always been Castiel completely consuming him and undoing him, taking him apart, and Dean is wondering if this means that Castiel is finally his, if it means he might even get to keep him forever.
The spell is abruptly broken as he utters the name, and Castiel gasps, snatches hold of Dean’s arm around the wrist, stops him right there. His breath is heaving out fast and shallow, his eyes are huge and dark, and as he stares at Dean, both of them frozen in the moment, Dean has a flash of utter clarity when nothing else matters but this and what he feels. And he blurts it out, a description of that feeling, thatneed, before he can self-edit. “I love you.” His voice cracks on the word, and he has to swallow down past a throat that suddenly swells thick. “I love you,” he says again, and it amazes him that he can even manage the words. He laughs, part glee and part jittering nerves. “You fuckin’ idiot,” he adds then, stunned at his own daring, and he doesn’t know if he’s addressing himself or not.
Castiel gazes at him, and he closes his eyes, exhales long and deep. “I know,” he says quietly.
For a minute Dean is puzzled and unsure, because Castiel sounds oddly regretful, like he’s acknowledging Dean’s declaration reluctantly. And then the angel spins gracefully around, in a flurry of scented water that laps at Dean’s chest and spills over the lip of the tub, and before Dean can even process what’s happening Castiel is seating himself on Dean’s erection, in one long, controlled glide. His eyes lock on Dean’s, unblinking, as Dean cries out at the shock and almost-pain of the snug heat that splits apart around the head of his cock. The pressure squeezing him is so intense that he can already feel tingling in his balls, and he thinks he might shoot his load right then and there.
Castiel leans in to swallow Dean’s incoherent, babbled-out pleasure and panic, hushes Dean as he sits still, straddling Dean’s lap while he adjusts. He sprinkles light, chaste kisses on Dean’s cheeks, lips gentle, teasing, scraping the skin with the blunt edge of his teeth as he works his way down to Dean’s mouth. He rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder, drawn to his mark, slides the other up to cup Dean’s cheek, angles his head to suit, the pad of his thumb a delicate caress along the line of Dean’s cheekbone. His kisses are deeper now, thoughtful, and so considerate they might even be chivalrous.
Dean shifts his brain back into gear and steers clumsily around the fact that he’s inside Castiel, at fuckin’ last, that he’s going to spill inside him, mark his territory. He makes his own mouth soft and tender in response, darting his tongue in shyly to touch the tip of Castiel’s, mapping the terrain of Castiel’s back with his hands, tracking up and down the vertebrae, his stuttered-out gasps of bliss muffled by Castiel’s lips as his cock throbs and pulses against a pillow of soft inner flesh.
Castiel’s eyes are closed, his lashes thick black crescents on his cheeks as he kisses Dean. His lips are slow and lazy, like they have all the time in the world for this, and he’s making quiet, content humming sounds that have Dean feeling tight in his heart. The angel starts the barest rocking motion, his hips shifting languidly back and forth as he rides Dean, and Dean chokes out a whimper as jolts of electricity spark and strobe though his cock. He claws his way down to Castiel’s butt, spanning his fingers out and into the crease, so he can touch where their bodies join, and he can feel the root of his penis where it buries itself deep inside the angel, feel his balls, distended and aching for release.
Castiel grunts decisively, speeds up, circling now, working himself insistently on Dean’s length. He arches his back, tilts his chin to bare his throat to Dean, and Dean pulls himself up, chases Castiel, nuzzles underneath his jaw. He mouths his way down, bends to meet the wet skin of Castiel’s chest, biting into it hard enough to feel indentations when he soothes the mark with his tongue, all the while conscious of plunging into searing tightness. He moves his hands to the sharp jut of the angel’s hips as Castiel starts to flex his thighs, lifting himself up and sliding back down now, frowning slightly, utterly focused, his eyes dark with lust and his lips slightly parted.
Dean’s heart is thudding like it’s driving along the rumble strip, and he feels dizzy and weak with the ebb and flow of the clench, cling and clutch that chafes the head of his cock. He knows it won’t take long, feels like he might explode any second, and he starts thrusting up as Castiel bears down, falling in with the steady rhythm for endless moments until his ass slips down the tub and Castiel keens out a raw, startled noise at the change of angle. It’s all Dean needs to know he’s damn well hitting the right spot and he concentrates on butting his cock right there, right where he knows it detonates those starbursts of euphoria, squinting down through the water and wishing he could see Castiel impaling himself there, see himself driving in. He flicks at the bubbles, catches his hand on Castiel’s own cock, rigid and an angry, painful-looking red where it breaks the surface, and gets with the program, grasping it tight and fisting it. Castiel rasps a growl as Dean starts to pump harder and faster, slaps a hand to the back of Dean’s head, and pulls him into the wet skin of his chest again, at the same time as he grinds his pelvis on Dean’s.
Dean strains out his own animal noises, latches on to a nipple and suckles, rakes the nub of skin between his teeth, and hears Castiel sob out a wrecked, ecstatic sound. He looks up, and the angel’s eyes are wide, simultaneously confused and astonished as he starts to shudder, his body jerking spasmodically, gasps punching out of him now. Dean feels his own cock squeezed tight as Castiel’s release spills out and curls across his fingers, and he groans and lets go, heat streaking up his shaft as Castiel contracts and flutters inside, milking Dean until he has no more left to give and the friction eases to a slick slide.
Castiel slumps forward, trembling, his brow on Dean’s shoulder, breath heaving out, and Dean plants sloppy, reverent kisses up the side of his neck before he throws it out there again, tentative. “I love you. Cas. I love you.”
He feels Castiel’s hand at his nape, pulling him closer, feels Castiel’s lips gentle against his skin. “In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things,” the angel whispers after a beat. “And I’m sorry.”
Dean wraps his arms around Castiel, pulls him flush to his chest. “He can hear you, Cas,” he mutters tiredly. “He can hear you.”
Spoilers Up to 6.18/Frontierland
Wordcount 4,491
Dean can see it from where he’s sitting at Bobby’s desk, a red smear that drools stickily down Bobby’s refrigerator door, and fuck knows it shouldn’t be making him feel like he might hurl, because he’s seen worse, saw Castiel explode into nothing more than bloody particles at Stull. But it is, because things are different with them now and it means this hit way too close, and because he’s seen what those swords can do, from inches away; used one of them himself to light Zachariah up from the inside and nuke the bastard to kingdom come.
“Dean. I said, bookends.”
Dean snaps back to his brother’s loud whisper and a boot nudging his socked foot. Sam is looking up from his laptop, nodding over past him, towards the couch.
“Bookends.”
Dean twists, studies them both, Bobby sprawled and out of it, one boot propped up on a low table and the other flopped heavily across Castiel’s thigh, the angel slumping messily, head bowed so that all Dean can see is tousled hair. His suit is more crumpled than usual and his tie is askew, his trench coat pulled off and placed carefully over Bobby at some point when no one was looking.
“Do you think he’s alright?”
Dean flicks his eyes back but he ignores the question, stabs a finger in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you think that ward has to be blood? Maybe we can Sharpie it on there, clean that up.”
Sam’s gaze is a mix of knowing and sympathetic, just like his tone. “It has to be blood… I already checked.” He furrows his brow speculatively. “Where do you think those things have to make landfall to - you know.”
Dean shrugs. “Fucked if I know. Rules seem to be changing all the damn time.” He makes himself sound blasé, like he hasn’t given a second thought to the fact the day might come when he calls for Castiel but the beat of wings doesn’t sound, and never does again. It makes him feel hollow and nauseous, and he knows he fakes his offhandedness badly. “Heart, I guess. That’s where Cas always seems to aim for. Brain too.” He smiles grimly. “Worked on Zachariah.”
Sam nods slowly. “He hasn’t slept since before Stull,” he offers. “It’s just - weird. I guess. Seeing him sacked out like that.”
Dean’s eyes drift again, to where Castiel’s suit jacket part-covers the dried brown stain on the angel’s shirt. “He’ll be fine,” he says shortly. “He said he just needs to rest.”
He thinks he already knows what this is, Sam mother hen-ing him, them, him and Cas, since this thing they have is such an open secret now Dean wonders if even Bobby might be in on it. He thinks he may as well do some fishing to find out, and, “I guess he’ll be crashing here for a while,” he starts. “You think Bobby, uh. That he…” He trails off, taps his fingers on the desk, part expectant, part nervous.
“I think Bobby knows that any one of us could buy the farm at any moment,” Sam replies noncommittally. “I think what makes us happy makes Bobby happy.” He stares back at Dean then, his gaze steady. “And I think I’ll stay down here tonight. Watch over the old guy. There could be side effects.”
Sam’s eyes are warm and deep, and Dean knows that what makes him happy makes Sam happy too, he has Castiel’s word on it, and his assurance that Sam thinks they transcend gender. And this is face-to-face tacit approval, not that it would have made much difference if his brother had ever tried to talk him out of it, because the connection he has to the angel is innate now, part of his nature. Castiel has seeped into him at a cellular level, his hold so tight and fierce, so utterly complete, that Dean thinks maybe the angel soldered them together with hellfire and grace down in the Pit, that maybe part of Castiel ran molten and melted into his soul and Castiel took a part of him to fill the space it left behind.
“How the fuck did this even happen to me?” he marvels out loud. “I have no idea how, or when it started. I don’t even really know if I meant it to happen.”
Sam’s reply is hesitant. “Sometimes you just get swept into something even though you don’t really mean to. You might not even really want it… and some part of you might even know it’s the worst thing you could ever do.” He stops, seems to be waiting to see if Dean cuts him off before he swallows and continues, his eyes watchful. “But it’s like you’re caught in a rip tide and however hard you swim against the current, you just get swept out to sea. And it gets so even if a part of you doesn’t want it, a part of you does. A part of you needs it.”
Sam glances down and away as he finishes, and Dean knows damn well what his brother is talking about. Ruby is something they’ve skirted around at a cautious distance, but he can’t help himself now and it slips out, even if he tries to make it unchallenging, tries to blunt the vicious edge of the words so it’s a question and not an accusation. “Do you miss her?”
Sam looks up again. “Not any more,” he says carefully, and genuinely as far as Dean can tell. He pauses then, rolls his shoulders, like an apology. “I wouldn’t have made it without her.”
Dean knows he tenses, knows he fists his hands almost reflexively, knows his stare turns glacial as the moment drags out between them. But then, unbidden, his own words at Rufus Turner’s graveside echo inside his head. Life is short, and he doesn’t want to spend it wringing his hands over things he can’t change. He feels himself relax, let go of it, and the strained silence changes into something oddly peaceful, as if the conversation, stilted as it was, finally laid her ghost to rest. She doesn’t matter any more, it’s done, they’re good. And so Dean nods it away, finds his eyes drawn back to the couch, where Castiel’s eyes are still tight-closed against the world.
Sam leans back in his seat, taps his index finger rhythmically on the desk, and when Dean looks back he can see his brother is studying the slumbering angel. “Bobby said he was afraid,” Sam muses.
Dean scowls. “Well, his own second-in-command had just tried to vaporize him.”
Sam’s expression goes thoughtful. “Bobby said he wouldn’t call anyone else to help. It must be like that whole Uriel thing for him… he doesn’t know who he can trust up there. It’s piss-poor timing when you think about it.” He purses his lips in distaste. “You think he can trust Balthazar?”
Dean bristles, because even the name sets off a prickle of irritation that’s bordering on wild hate, if he’s honest. “After that deal with the boat? About as much as you can trust a great white to babysit a duckling.” He stifles a yawn as he stands, stretches, and hovers sort of aimlessly for a minute while he works out a way of diplomatically telling his brother he’s about to take an angel of the Lord into his bed in the hope of being ridden hard and put away wet. “Time to hit the sack,” he announces, and clears his throat. “I, uh. Think I’ll get him upstairs. He’ll be more comfortable.”
Sam smirks faintly. “I’ll bet he will.”
Dean rolls his eyes, feels his cheeks heat up just a tad, and he covers up with a practiced leer. “He’s a fuckin’ tiger in the sack, Sammy. He does this thing with his tongue, where he twirls it-”
“Jesus, Dean,” his brother yelps, his hand rising self-defensively. “No. Just - no.”
Dean winks as he turns and pads over to the couch. Castiel rouses to a thumb and finger clicked loudly next to his ear, and looks up at him with faded, wintry eyes. “You feeling any better?” Dean asks. He eyes the angel critically, assessing the gray face, the shadows bruising his eyes, his obvious exhaustion.
Castiel glowers. “No,” he says acidly. “Although perhaps I would if I could get some sleep.”
Dean reaches out a hand. “Come on.” He jerks his head over at the door. “Upstairs. Teeth, story, bedtime. And none of your crap.”
Upstairs, Dean pushes Castiel ahead of him into Bobby’s front bedroom. The angel takes slow, mechanical steps, sits down heavily on the bed and flops back flat. He sucks in breath as he does, presses a hand carefully to his ribcage.
Dean stops in his tracks by the door into the bathroom. “Isn’t that healing?” he queries sharply.
Castiel’s reply is faint. “I’m drained. It’s taking longer than usual. I had to be careful with Bobby… just the bare minimum. Enough to get you back.”
Dean recalls the old man’s impressed description of the shitstorm. “It’s like, what? Sticking your finger in the power socket? Bobby said you went nuclear.”
The angel waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Grace. It flares with the power of souls.”
Dean contemplates that for a moment. “Death said something about souls,” he muses. “Something about them being strong. And valuable. He said it was all about the-”
“Of course, now I’ve touched Bobby’s soul I’m profoundly bonded to him,” Castiel cuts in matter-of-factly. “Perhaps we should ask him to join us.”
Dean is thrown off-track, goggles for a few seconds, before shaking some sense back into himself. He strides over and crawls up the bed, hands and knees either side of the angel. “You’re kidding?”
Castiel is deadpan. “Am I?”
There aren’t any words suitable for the mental image making the beast with three backs in Dean’s brain right now, so he licks his lips, tilts his head as he bends at the elbows, leans in and brushes his mouth against Castiel’s, tracing his tongue along the seam, sandwiching the angel’s lower lip in between his own until it falls open and he teases his way inside.
It’s gentle, and Castiel closes his eyes, sighs around Dean’s tongue. “My mark is on your soul, Dean,” he concedes. “Not Bobby’s.”
“Damn right,” Dean retorts snippily, smirking as he pulls back. “I don’t share.”
He rolls away and off the bed, pads back to the bathroom, flips the light switch and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s filthy with the arid dust of nineteenth-century Wyoming, knows he stinks of sweat and horseshit. And what the fuck, there’s an ancient, oversized bathtub Bobby’s been hiding up here, and Dean acts on impulse, bending to press the stopper in, and swiveling the faucet. He rummages through the bathroom cabinet as the tub starts to fill, finds a grimy half-bottle of random orange liquid that smells sickly sweet but bubbles satisfyingly when he sloshes it under the stream of water.
Castiel is still sprawled on the bed when Dean emerges, and he kneels to pull off the angel’s shoes. The fabric of Castiel’s pants is worn at the knee, the creases long gone, and the bottom seam is frayed. Dean kneels there between his the angel’s spread legs, plants a hand on one of his thighs, and rubs the muscle. “You need new threads, buddy,” he says quietly.
Castiel huffs. “They aren’t exactly top priority at the moment.” He pushes up onto his elbows and blinks at Dean. “It was a very old suit,” he says, soft and suddenly wistful. “But it was his best one. It had - meaning for him. He married his childhood sweetheart wearing this suit. It was his churchgoing suit, and he put it on to speak to me. I watched him…” He floats a hand up to his neck, towards the ever-open top button of his shirt, touches his fingers to the knot of his tie. “He couldn’t see me, but I watched him straighten his tie before he called me.” He stops, closes his eyes for a moment. “It’s ironic, don’t you think? That he prayed for this. And he lost everything to me.” He opens his eyes again then, fixes Dean with a gaze that’s more alert. “Do you think I’m forgiven, Dean? Absolved of all my sins?”
Dean is at a loss for a moment, because it’s so random and because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard his friend sound so resigned, so defeated. “The big cahuna brought you back, didn’t he?” he offers finally. “That has to count for something. And your - Rachel?”
Castiel nods, barely, and Dean sees his jaw tighten, sees a muscle tic in his cheek.
“That wasn’t your fault, Cas.” He hikes his eyebrows up in emphasis. “Okay? She turned on her own side. Your God won’t hold it against you if you’re fighting the good fight.”
Smiling weakly, Castiel sits up straighter, reaches out and places the palm of his hand against Dean’s face. His eyes are suddenly naked as he considers Dean, and Dean feels that twisting, churning feeling he always gets in his chest when Castiel gives him that look he doesn’t deserve, the look that tells him he’s everything. He can’t let the moment last, because words are lining up at the back of his throat, things that can’t be unsaid waiting to pour out, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready even if he knows damn well they’re both aware of what this unspoken thing between them really is. He swallows thickly, pulls away and pushes up, starts tugging his shirt off over his head. “In the tub,” he deflects, and his voice is dry. “I think we both need it.”
Castiel head-tilts him dubiously. “But I don’t need-”
Dean rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Just humor me.”
The water is hot and soothing, smells pretty good considering the stuff in the bottle was so old it probably belonged to Bobby’s wife. Castiel is a warm, hard weight on Dean’s torso, his head lolling on Dean’s shoulder. “See?” Dean declares, and he ladles bubbles up and over Castiel’s hair until it’s soaked flat against his skull. “It helps you relax.”
He spans Castiel’s brow with his hand, rubs his temples with a thumb and forefinger, describing circles on the skin. Castiel’s jaw goes slack, his mouth hanging slightly open, and Dean smirks at the low moan of satisfaction the angel makes as he works his way up the hairline, tangling his fingers in the thick, dark strands, working them up the frontal bone to the top of Castiel’s skull, where he massages around the center seam. “Remember all that crap you droned on about endorphins?” he murmurs, as he feels Castiel relax and slump heavier along his body. “Seems like you could do with some yourself.”
He leans his head back against the wall, eyes drifting shut on a memory as his hand moves languidly on Castiel’s scalp for long, dragged-out minutes. “I can remember my mom washing Sam’s hair after she brought him home,” he recalls softly, and he pauses his fingers where he remembers watching his infant brother’s pulse beat. “She said he had this soft spot right here, and we had to be real careful. I used to watch it move. Fuckin’ creepy. I was sure he was a jack-in-the-box, and something was about to pop out of his head.” He smiles at the image. “He used to scream like a fuckin’ banshee in the bath.”
He lays the flat of his hand to the side of Castiel’s head, rubs the base of his fingers there, feeling the skin roll around on the bone and Castiel blows out a long breath. The angel has his hand sliding up and down Dean’s leg just above his knee, and Dean can feel his cock twitching against the base of Castiel’s back, where it rests on his groin. He circles his hips, grunts at the friction as he traces his fingers down past Castiel’s ear, rubs hard at the dip where the angel’s skull slants in to meet his neck. Water is trickling down the side of Castiel’s face, and Dean leans to lick it away.
Castiel’s eye cracks open right then. “God is perfect in his sense of justice, Dean,” he murmurs distractedly. “Nothing escapes His notice and His patience isn’t without limit. It can be exhausted. At which point He holds us accountable and levies judgment.”
Dean can feel Castiel’s eyelashes flutter soft against the tip of his tongue. He scowls. “You sound like the Reverend Ike.” He has his hand on Castiel’s shoulder now, where the muscles are bunched so hard and tight there’s hardly any give as he pinches and kneads. “Jesus, Cas. Relax. Let it go.”
He presses hard with his knuckles against flesh that resists him, stubborn under the pressure, finally gives up and slides his hand down across the bony ridge of his friend’s collarbone to his chest. He rolls Castiel’s nipple idly between his fingers until it stiffens and stands proud, examines the slippery skin of Castiel’s belly, plucks at the thatch of coarse hair at his crotch, and meanders on through it to wrap his hand around Castiel’s cock, where it swells alert and enthusiastic. Castiel groans, and Dean licks the shell of his ear. “Anyway, isn’t there a get-out-of-jail-free card if you say you’re sorry?” he whispers, as he starts the slow, tantalizing stroke and pump, up and down.
Castiel starts flexing his lower body, grinding back against Dean’s own rapidly growing hard-on, trapped between them. He threads the fingers of his right hand through Dean’s as they move up and down, a steady, deliberate pace, grips Dean’s thigh so hard with the other hand that Dean winces, even while he leans in to meet Castiel when he twists his head around. Their lips crash together hungrily, Castiel’s tongue forcing Dean’s mouth open and sliding in to curl against his palate, and it’s like a switch flips in the angel. He lets out a low, broken moan, and there’s something frenzied and desperate about him as he pulls his hand away from where it covers Dean’s, clutches at the back of Dean’s neck to pull him even closer, and deepens the kiss, making it bruisingly hard, biting at Dean’s lower lip so that Dean tastes copper.
The press of Castiel against him as he writhes has Dean overwhelmed and swept along on the crest of it, this chaotic passion he didn’t really expect, and he reaches down and around without even thinking, following his basic instinct. He rubs his middle finger on the smooth skin behind Castiel’s balls, circles the puckered rosette of muscle before he starts to nudge in gently, breaching the rim, a slow in-out, back-forth, slipping further with each incursion. “Cas,” he breathes into the angel’s mouth, his voice hazy with delight, because he’s knuckle-deep and he’s never gotten this far, it’s always been Castiel completely consuming him and undoing him, taking him apart, and Dean is wondering if this means that Castiel is finally his, if it means he might even get to keep him forever.
The spell is abruptly broken as he utters the name, and Castiel gasps, snatches hold of Dean’s arm around the wrist, stops him right there. His breath is heaving out fast and shallow, his eyes are huge and dark, and as he stares at Dean, both of them frozen in the moment, Dean has a flash of utter clarity when nothing else matters but this and what he feels. And he blurts it out, a description of that feeling, thatneed, before he can self-edit. “I love you.” His voice cracks on the word, and he has to swallow down past a throat that suddenly swells thick. “I love you,” he says again, and it amazes him that he can even manage the words. He laughs, part glee and part jittering nerves. “You fuckin’ idiot,” he adds then, stunned at his own daring, and he doesn’t know if he’s addressing himself or not.
Castiel gazes at him, and he closes his eyes, exhales long and deep. “I know,” he says quietly.
For a minute Dean is puzzled and unsure, because Castiel sounds oddly regretful, like he’s acknowledging Dean’s declaration reluctantly. And then the angel spins gracefully around, in a flurry of scented water that laps at Dean’s chest and spills over the lip of the tub, and before Dean can even process what’s happening Castiel is seating himself on Dean’s erection, in one long, controlled glide. His eyes lock on Dean’s, unblinking, as Dean cries out at the shock and almost-pain of the snug heat that splits apart around the head of his cock. The pressure squeezing him is so intense that he can already feel tingling in his balls, and he thinks he might shoot his load right then and there.
Castiel leans in to swallow Dean’s incoherent, babbled-out pleasure and panic, hushes Dean as he sits still, straddling Dean’s lap while he adjusts. He sprinkles light, chaste kisses on Dean’s cheeks, lips gentle, teasing, scraping the skin with the blunt edge of his teeth as he works his way down to Dean’s mouth. He rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder, drawn to his mark, slides the other up to cup Dean’s cheek, angles his head to suit, the pad of his thumb a delicate caress along the line of Dean’s cheekbone. His kisses are deeper now, thoughtful, and so considerate they might even be chivalrous.
Dean shifts his brain back into gear and steers clumsily around the fact that he’s inside Castiel, at fuckin’ last, that he’s going to spill inside him, mark his territory. He makes his own mouth soft and tender in response, darting his tongue in shyly to touch the tip of Castiel’s, mapping the terrain of Castiel’s back with his hands, tracking up and down the vertebrae, his stuttered-out gasps of bliss muffled by Castiel’s lips as his cock throbs and pulses against a pillow of soft inner flesh.
Castiel’s eyes are closed, his lashes thick black crescents on his cheeks as he kisses Dean. His lips are slow and lazy, like they have all the time in the world for this, and he’s making quiet, content humming sounds that have Dean feeling tight in his heart. The angel starts the barest rocking motion, his hips shifting languidly back and forth as he rides Dean, and Dean chokes out a whimper as jolts of electricity spark and strobe though his cock. He claws his way down to Castiel’s butt, spanning his fingers out and into the crease, so he can touch where their bodies join, and he can feel the root of his penis where it buries itself deep inside the angel, feel his balls, distended and aching for release.
Castiel grunts decisively, speeds up, circling now, working himself insistently on Dean’s length. He arches his back, tilts his chin to bare his throat to Dean, and Dean pulls himself up, chases Castiel, nuzzles underneath his jaw. He mouths his way down, bends to meet the wet skin of Castiel’s chest, biting into it hard enough to feel indentations when he soothes the mark with his tongue, all the while conscious of plunging into searing tightness. He moves his hands to the sharp jut of the angel’s hips as Castiel starts to flex his thighs, lifting himself up and sliding back down now, frowning slightly, utterly focused, his eyes dark with lust and his lips slightly parted.
Dean’s heart is thudding like it’s driving along the rumble strip, and he feels dizzy and weak with the ebb and flow of the clench, cling and clutch that chafes the head of his cock. He knows it won’t take long, feels like he might explode any second, and he starts thrusting up as Castiel bears down, falling in with the steady rhythm for endless moments until his ass slips down the tub and Castiel keens out a raw, startled noise at the change of angle. It’s all Dean needs to know he’s damn well hitting the right spot and he concentrates on butting his cock right there, right where he knows it detonates those starbursts of euphoria, squinting down through the water and wishing he could see Castiel impaling himself there, see himself driving in. He flicks at the bubbles, catches his hand on Castiel’s own cock, rigid and an angry, painful-looking red where it breaks the surface, and gets with the program, grasping it tight and fisting it. Castiel rasps a growl as Dean starts to pump harder and faster, slaps a hand to the back of Dean’s head, and pulls him into the wet skin of his chest again, at the same time as he grinds his pelvis on Dean’s.
Dean strains out his own animal noises, latches on to a nipple and suckles, rakes the nub of skin between his teeth, and hears Castiel sob out a wrecked, ecstatic sound. He looks up, and the angel’s eyes are wide, simultaneously confused and astonished as he starts to shudder, his body jerking spasmodically, gasps punching out of him now. Dean feels his own cock squeezed tight as Castiel’s release spills out and curls across his fingers, and he groans and lets go, heat streaking up his shaft as Castiel contracts and flutters inside, milking Dean until he has no more left to give and the friction eases to a slick slide.
Castiel slumps forward, trembling, his brow on Dean’s shoulder, breath heaving out, and Dean plants sloppy, reverent kisses up the side of his neck before he throws it out there again, tentative. “I love you. Cas. I love you.”
He feels Castiel’s hand at his nape, pulling him closer, feels Castiel’s lips gentle against his skin. “In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things,” the angel whispers after a beat. “And I’m sorry.”
Dean wraps his arms around Castiel, pulls him flush to his chest. “He can hear you, Cas,” he mutters tiredly. “He can hear you.”