Kiss you When it's Dangerous - Part 5
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Sam's large hands cradle a cup of coffee and Castiel frowns seeing one sitting in front of him and another in front of the empty space next to him. For Dean, he surmises.
He didn't even hear the waitress stop by.
"Your... friend Bobby seems most knowledgeable," Castiel says thoughtfully, wrapping his own long fingers around the cup and studying the wisps of steam rising as though they themselves are portents or runes.
He sees Sam nod out of the corner of his eye. "Oh yeah. Bobby knows a lot of hunters in the biz. A lot of other kinds of people too. Psychics, book dealers, artifact traffickers. He's got a pretty good library himself."
Castiel's no stranger to interrogation. He knows a good opening when he sees one. "So, you've been to his residence, then?"
Again Sam nods. "Yeah. The junkyard. We don't really have much of a home base but if we did, it would probably be Bobby's."
"I see," replies Castiel, feeling something sink in his gut.
He's sure Dean has a lot of... friends. A lot of acquaintances the country over. He's never in one place very long and leads a nomadic lifestyle. Castiel is likely just another blip on his map.
"You are very close, then. To Bobby. You... and Dean."
"Yeah," Sam says lowly, spinning his cup a little. "I think..." he takes a deep breath and lets it out, staring out the window at Dean like Castiel did earlier. "Sometimes I think he's more of a father to us than our own dad was."
Castiel's fingers still on the mug. This is... surprising. He had just assumed Bobby was a young hunter like Sam and Dean. "Pardon?"
"It's just," Sam continues like he doesn't really hear Cas. "Dad tried. I know he tried. I get that now and he did the best he could. But sometimes he just dropped us off at Bobby's or Pastor Jim's. Jim was another hunter that Dad knew," Sam clarifies by explanation. "And when I think of my childhood, I think of them a lot instead of my dad. My dad and I... we didn't really get along, you know? And Dean..." Sam sighs again. "Dean wanted to be just like Dad and I don't know if Dad ever saw it or he saw it and he... I don't know, used it. Not in a malicious way. Just... Well. He did the best he could. Like I said. But there were some long summers at Bobby's and when I think back, I think it was Bobby that taught Dean to shoot. Taught him the most about cars. Talked to him about hunting. About our mom. I don't know if Dad ever talked to us about our mom."
Castiel feels his face flush slightly with his embarrassment at having assumed that Bobby was some kind of ... ‘port in a storm’, when in actuality, Bobby is a mentor and surrogate father to Dean and Sam. He turns to look out the window again, watching Dean as he lazily flips his key ring around his finger and nods to something he's hearing on the phone. Dean suddenly looks up, right at Cas and winks at him. Castiel can feel his blush deepen, the heat of it quick across his face and he looks back at his cup of coffee with a slight smile on his lips.
"He likes you."
Castiel's eyes flick up to Sam who looks a little amused as he stares at Castiel. Castiel doesn't know what to say in return so he only nods his head once.
"We don't get to make a lot of... well, connections with people in our line of work," Sam continues. "We're pretty much in and out and onto the next town, the next hunt, the next big bad before people even have time to remember us."
"It must be very difficult for you."
Sam shrugs. "We're used to it, I guess. But Dean... he likes you."
Again Castiel nods solemnly. "I like him too."
Sam smiles. "I figured as much," he says. "But, you know. A brother's gotta check."
Castiel opens his mouth to say that he understands but the bell above the diner door tinkles and both he and Sam look over as Dean strides in, flipping his cell phone shut and coming over to the table. He slides into the booth next to Castiel, his thigh and hip bumping up against Cas' and resting there. He grabs his coffee and takes a deep slurp.
"We gotta date with a psychic. Pamela Barnes. About half an hour from here. We got time to eat and then we hit the road."
"Bobby vouches for her?" Sam asks.
Dean grins, sharp and quick. "Hell yes. And get this, she called him right before I called to tell him to send us over. Now that's what I'm talking about!" Dean exclaims. "A psychic should know you're coming before you even know it yourself, am I right?"
He leans back in the booth, long limbed and graceful and if Castiel didn't know better, he would swear that it's happenstance that once of Dean's hands ends up on Cas' knee under the table. But it happens so easily, so smoothly, that it couldn't be anything other than an intended motion. He glances slightly sideways at Dean who has picked up a menu with his other hand and is perusing the plastic covered surface with serious gaze. Castiel surreptitiously inches his own hand over and slowly, so slowly, places it over top of Dean's. Without any break in his studying of the menu, Dean's fingers thread through Castiel's under the table, securing them together soundly.
The waitress comes by to take their order and Cas’ eyes, used to picking up things from suspects, cannot fail to miss how her gaze gets caught by something and flickers toward it.
His wrist, he realizes. The scar is still pink and prominent. He tugs his fingers free from Dean’s grasp and pulls down on the sleeves of his shirt and coat, hoping they’ll be long enough to stay put even though his arms are bent. Dean’s fingers stay on his knee and press against him slightly.
He knows Dean saw too. Saw the waitress look over, saw Castiel tug his shirt down. It shouldn’t matter. She’s a stranger. He owes her no explanations. And Dean knows the truth of what happened. He knows that Castiel didn’t inflict those wounds on himself.
Still, he feels crowded and uncomfortable all of a sudden and wishes he wasn’t seated on the inside of the booth. He wishes this were just another case, another investigation, another job that he could leave at the end of the day.
He hears Dean order for him, a sandwich and with a salad on the side and it occurs to him that although they’ve not spent much time together in person, they have learned each other over their phone calls and texts. Dean picked for him exactly what he would have picked for himself. The waitress is gone just as quick as she arrived but his discomfort lingers.
Dean and Sam talk shop - demons, poltergeists, what they expect or don’t expect from the psychic, game plans, Uriel, devil’s traps. Castiel manages to keep up with most of the conversation but he’s still amazed at how much he doesn’t know. It’s like learning a new language. He can understand what they’re talking about, but cannot participate.
After lunch, they head out to the psychic’s. Sam offers the front seat but Castiel just shakes his head. He somehow prefers the back; prefers being able to watch Dean from the rearview mirror, watch the back of his head, his hands on the wheel - the confidence and dexterity he displays as he drives. Castiel thinks back on the night before and though he’s never considered himself a prude, he’s certainly not wanton and thinking about last night makes his stomach do a crazy somersault.
He wonders if Dean will spend the night again. Will he have to ask? Will it be assumed? Castiel isn’t sure what the rules are and he doesn’t know how to figure them out.
Pamela Barnes lives in a small bungalow-style house in an older part of town. It’s worn, but well-loved with cracked paint on the window frames and porch steps that sag gently in a smile shape. They creak when the three of them step upon them, but not ominously; just in a way that indicates that they are old and worn, but still sturdy enough to stand on.
Dean knocks on the door and it’s only moments before it swings open and a strikingly beautiful woman with long, dark hair and cat-like eyes is staring up at them.
"Hello boys. I’ve been expecting you."
She turns around and Castiel can’t help but notice how both Sam and Dean take a moment to stare at her denim clad ass, adorned with some rhinestone work on the pockets. He suppresses his frown. Dean can look at whomever he likes; it’s not as though Castiel has any claim over him. Still, he can’t help but feel a flare of disappointment.
However by the time they follow her into a small dining room and take the seats she indicates for them at the table, Dean appears to be all business again, looking around the room and taking stock. Dean sits to her right, Sam to her left, leaving the chair across from her to Castiel.
"Pamela Barnes?" Dean asks.
"That’s me," she replies with her whiskey-soft voice. "You sure didn’t waste any time getting over here."
"Well, Bobby said you’d already called him and invited us over. No time like the present," Dean replies, his drawl lazy and relaxed even as his posture is prepared and at the ready.
Pamela taps the table and examines each one of them in turn. First Dean, then Sam and then finally her eyes linger on Castiel. Castiel doesn’t look away, matching her gaze. She eventually smiles and then pulls out a deck of tarot cards.
"So, tell me exactly what you boys are looking for."
"Don’t you know? You called Bobby," says Sam.
"I know you’re looking for something, but not what. I’m good, but I can’t see everything, Sam."
"Did Bobby Singer tell you our names?" Castiel asks, wondering.
"Dean and Sam’s name, yes. Yours… yours I already knew."
"How?" barks Dean.
She looks from Castiel back to Dean, shrugging as she shuffles. "Just the way it works sometimes. You’re looking for something." It’s a statement, not a question.
Castiel nods. "Yes. Demonic activity. A lot of it, if we’re not mistaken. And rather recently."
She makes a ‘hmmm’ sound as she shuffles the cards and then sets them down, pushing them to the center of her small, square table. Dean reaches out but a look from Pam stops him.
"Castiel, if you would please cut the cards."
Castiel reaches out and takes what he believes to be an even half of the deck and sets it down.
"And again, with the top half of what you took first."
He sees Dean’s sharp eyes out of the corner of his own but no one says anything as Castiel cuts the cards again.
Pamela scoops them up, shuffles them once and starts laying them out. She deals out five cards and pauses, looking them over, before she speaks.
"Tell me, Castiel, about the man who betrayed you."
Castiel can feel his eyebrows go up in surprise, sees Dean and Sam shift slightly in their seats. He manages a slight shrug.
"Uriel was…. My partner. We worked together for many years. There were many difficult cases, many long nights working. He was the funniest agent I knew."
He can sense the surprise from Dean and Sam at his words but he doesn’t pause to look at them. He keeps his eyes on the cards, as Pamela does.
"I truly never suspected any duplicity or wrongdoing from him. I was… completely surprised. Even in retrospect, I still feel surprised. And saddened."
Pamela deals out a few more cards. "And the night of his betrayal. It was dark," she says, and then places another card. "You were alone." Another card is laid on the table. "Dying."
He sees Dean shift anxiously in his seat but he doesn’t have the extra fortitude to offer him strength at the moment.
"Yes."
She deals out three more cards. "Surrounded by demons. The same ones you seek now."
"Yes," he answers again.
"Do you know where they are or are you just going to keep hammering at him?" Dean says suddenly, his anger quick and hot in the room.
Before Castiel can do anything, Pamela is stretching out her hand and patting Dean’s. "Easy, tiger. I’m not trying to hurt your boyfriend, I’m just reading the cards."
Castiel waits for Dean to protest that he’s not Castiel’s boyfriend.
The protestation never comes.
Pamela deals a few more cards, shifting and shuffling a few of them around on the table while she makes non-verbal sounds of thinking. She drums her fingers a few times and then pushes back from the table, bending low to rifle through some books she has before pulling a large, fat, dusty volume off the bottom shelf and dropping it on the table with a ‘thunk.’
"What? What’ve you got?" Dean asks.
She flaps her fingers at him as she flips through the pages of her book. The tome so old Castiel can smell the dusty paper - slightly moldy and yet dry and vanilla-y at the same time. She runs her fingertips over the page, reading. Castiel can’t read the text from where he sits but it appears Sam can and at Dean’s inquisitive look, Sam shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders.
She closes the book with a snap, sending trails of dust up in the air.
"Your partner, the man who betrayed you, he’s not kidding around this time. He’s holed up in a holy place, a place of worship, although I don’t think it’s been used for some time."
"What, like an abandoned church or something?" asks Sam.
Pamela nods, pulling all the cards together in a pile. "Yes. He’s angry that he’s been unsuccessful so far and this time he means to go whole hog. Places where people gather and pray tend to have… residual energy. A lot of people gathering with a lot of intent over a long period of time. It leaves a mark."
"Where?" Dean demands.
Pam shakes her head. "Sorry, Dean. It doesn’t work that way. I don’t know where."
Castiel sees Dean about to say something, something sharp, and he chooses to speak before it can happen. "There can’t be too many places like that in town. Certainly not ones that were well populated."
Dean turns quickly to him and then to Sam, who is nodding as well. "He’s right. Churches, the big ones, are usually pretty good and keeping records of their land purchases and their building usages. If it was a smaller church, a smaller denomination, we might be shit outta luck, since those can be dodgy."
"No, it had to have enough people to leave behind a significant amount of energy," confirms Pamela. "The… bones of it would be old."
"That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?" Dean asks.
"For you? Yes," confirms Pamela. "Although I would like to speak to Castiel alone, in the kitchen while you show yourselves out."
This time, Castiel manages to place a hand on Dean’s elbow to cut him off, nodding to Pamela as he does. "Very well. Dean, Sam, I shall meet you at the car."
Dean makes a loud sound of annoyance and stands up, nearly tipping his chair over. Pamela pushes back with a lot more grace, turning away and walking toward, what is presumably, the kitchen.
Castiel follows her, hearing Sam and Dean leave through the front door. Pamela fills a kettle with water and strikes a match, deftly lighting the gas stove.
"He likes you. A lot," she says.
"I’m… aware," Castiel answers, somewhat shyly.
"Are you?" she asks, elegant eyebrow raised, eyes lively and knowing.
He feels himself flush and she laughs a little, low and throaty.
"You shouldn’t doubt it. He’s not one to make attachments but he’s… pretty attached to you."
"Is this why you asked me to stay?"
Her expression sobers. "No. No it’s not."
"Do you have additional information?"
She nods almost hesitantly and he feels something unpleasant settle in his stomach.
"I don’t know how much can be changed. How much is predetermined and how much can be altered."
His stomach tightens a bit at her expression and her words. He feels as though a dark cloud is settling over him.
"So many things are already in motion and with this much power involved it’s … hard to say how it will settle."
"Will Dean die?" he asks suddenly, the words out of his mouth before he realized he had any intent to say them.
"No," she says quickly. "I’m nearly sure of it. Not Dean nor Sam."
She stares up at him, her green eyes, serious and… sad.
"Oh," he says quietly, at a loss for anything else to say. "I… see."
"I don’t know for certain," she continues, placing a hand on his arm. It’s warm and solid against the fabric of his jacket. "I only know that it’s… very likely. And yet…" She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looks past him, through him. "It’s not quite there."
"I don’t understand."
"It’s as though it does and does not happen. Both. Simultaneously. I can’t quite tell." She licks her lips. "You’ve another energy around you. A favorable one. One that wants you to succeed."
"It’s not the Winchesters?" Castiel asks.
Pamela shakes her head. "No. It’s older, stronger. But far away. Distant. It’s tied to your faith."
"My faith?" Castiel is surprised. He’s always considered himself faithful, spiritual, even though he’s not a regular church goer.
"Yes. Your faith in good, in wanting to do the right thing. Your faith that there is more out there than this."
Castiel ponders this, feeling it weigh heavy on his mind, although not unbearably so. It’s more… heavy in intent than in weight.
"It is your faith that can save you, I think. But I don’t know definitely. I’m sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Castiel answers automatically.
"I do know that it’s a choice. Your choice," Pamela says, her eyes finally gaining their focus back and looking at him again.
"Then there must be no other option," he says firmly.
Her eyes narrow slightly. "I look at you and I see a key," she says.
"It’s what I have become, I believe. Through the ritual."
"I feel…" She frowns. "I feel this need to tell you that a key locks a door as well as unlocks it."
He feels as though something is sliding into place inside him, but he isn’t sure exactly what. "I have had dreams with similar words. What does it mean?"
Pamela shrugs, apology still written on her features.
He is torn. He feels compelled to believe her and yet, at the same time, he feels that it is foolish to do so. He knows there are supernatural things out in the world. He has seen them with his own eyes now. And he knows that Pamela knew they were coming to see her before they had even really known themselves.
On the other hand, he knows he is a good agent. A good soldier, for lack of a better word. He has faced criminal elements many times and has succeeded. He is trained, he is smart and he is determined.
But there is something about this… thing with Uriel, something about the ritual and the situation that feels…like a runaway train. He feels swept up in it and he’s not sure how much he can rely on his strengths and fortitude to break his momentum.
He’s not sure how much faith he has.
"How much time do I have? Do you know?"
"I… . Soon."
They stand there for a moment, in her kitchen which smells faintly of lemons and soap, with her mismatched dishes and cheery Formica counter top, staring at one another silently.
Finally, he manages to swallow around the hard spot in his throat. "I should go. They are waiting for me."
She lurches forward suddenly and hugs him; fiercely and tightly and he startles somewhat. It’s happened in his career before that people, overcome by emotion have reached out to him, but not so much that it’s ever become something he’s been good at or easy with. He manages to pat her awkwardly on the back and then, just as she pulls away, she kisses him on the cheek.
"Vaya con dios," she whispers.
"Thank you," he says, his voice soft and low. The kettle whistles loudly and she turns abruptly from him toward the sound, pulling it off the stove.
He makes his way out of her homey kitchen and through the dining room, back out the front door. Dean’s in the driver’s seat, tapping his fingers against the wheel impatiently while Sam is on his smartphone, probably researching already. Dean looks up quickly as Castiel comes down the porch steps and toward the car.
Castiel gets in the back seat, ignoring Dean’s pointed look in the rear-view mirror. He pretends he doesn’t see and looks out the back window instead. He hears Dean tap his thumbs a few more times against the steering wheel before he starts the car and pulls out onto the street.
"Why don’t you drop me at City Hall," Sam says, still reading text on his phone. "I can do some research into places there and you guys can continue to work on the Enochian, maybe linking Bobby in or something."
"I would also like to log into the FBI mainframe and see what they have, if anything, on this latest murder," Cas replies.
He sees the back of Sam’s head nod. Dean remains silent.
They pull up to City Hall after a few silent minutes of driving. Sam and Castiel both get out - Sam to leave and Cas to slide into the passenger set. He’s just settled himself in when Sam leans into car one more time before he closes the door.
"I’ll get a cab back to the motel. I won’t wait up," he says with a smirk and he shuts the door firmly.
"Mouthy," Dean mutters, but there’s no real heat behind his voice. "So."
He doesn’t say anything else and Cas turns his gaze from the retreating form of Sam toward Dean.
"So," Cas repeats.
Dean gives him an expectant look, eyebrows going up. "Well?"
"Well, what?" Castiel asks back.
Dean’s eyes go wider. "Well what did Miss Psychic have to tell you that was so all-fired secret and important?"
Castiel shrugs. He’s not willing to share his secret with Dean. If this is going to be the only time he has with Dean, if their moments together are measured and so countably finite, he doesn’t want to tell Dean. He doesn’t want to spend those moments tense and unhappy or arguing with Dean about how to proceed.
He just wants to enjoy the moments he has.
When he speaks, it’s with the slow cadence of someone trying to figure out what to say while they’re saying it. "She just… wanted to talk to me. About you," he finishes.
"Me? Why? What did she say?" Dean asks, eyes narrowing.
"She said you liked me," Cas says and feels his chest warm at the way Dean blushes and looks away, suddenly busy with steering and pulling them back out into traffic.
"Oh. Well. Sure, I… I mean, you know."
Castiel feels a real smile tug his lips. He turns to the window where the sun is shining in. He closes his eyes. It’s warm and bright on his face and he hopes that it can warm the chill that’s settled into his heart at Pamela’s words.
The sun doesn’t do much for his heart, but Dean’s hand, sliding over his knee moments later and threading through his fingers, does.
***
Dean knows he’s good at hunting. He’s always had a kind of knack for it - he keeps his head cool in heated situations and doesn’t panic.
But he full on hates research.
He gets why Sammy likes it. It’s methodical and measured - like following breadcrumbs through history and science. Clue A leads to B leads to five possibilities and each one needs to be fleshed out and examined. Like one big logic puzzle or decision tree.
And it’s not that Dean can’t do it. He can. He has.
He just doesn’t like it.
But from the way Cas is hunkered over his laptop, backlit screen illuminating his face, making him seem ghostly white except for the stubble cropping up on his cheeks and jaw, he’s totally into it. He hasn’t moved in an hour except to type, click his mouse, and grab the cup of coffee that Dean set down next to him. He hadn’t even looked up when Dean placed it, just murmured a quiet ‘thank you,’ and started sipping away. His brow has remained solidly furrowed, lips slightly pursed as he thinks. Every now and then he breathes in deep and then lets out a long exhale but he doesn’t get up or shift.
Dean is bored.
And hungry.
It’s tough to say which one is going to win out.
Hunger ends up winning out over boredom first. When his stomach growls for the second time and Cas hasn’t so much as twitched in forty minutes, Dean walks over and shuts Cas’ laptop screen.
Cas turns his furrowed eyes up to Dean. "I was in the middle of something."
"Like you don’t have your auto-save set to go off every five minutes. I’m hungry. Let’s eat."
"I’ve nothing by the way of groceries in the apartment."
Dean smirks to himself. That must be Cas speak for ‘I’ve got no food.’ He shrugs. "So we go out, we order in. Whatever. I’m easy."
"Yes, I found that out last night."
It takes Dean a moment to realize that Cas is joking and then he laughs. "Did you just make a joke? An honest to God joke?"
"I’ve been known to make them in the past."
"And dude, you’re as easy as I am. I don’t even think we’ve had a first date."
Cas looks a little sad and thoughtful for a moment. "No, I don’t suppose we have."
"Well, let’s go. We’ll head out, grab a bite. Make it date night."
Cas pauses, eyes flickering downward and then back up. "Would you mind, if perhaps, we could just stay here tonight?"
Looking down at Cas’ earnest and open expression, Dean feels like he couldn’t ever tell him no. "Sure. You wanna order in or I can go out and grab something?"
Cas sets his computer aside gently and stands up, into Dean’s space, unselfconsciously. "I think I have some menus."
Cas is just about to turn away when Dean grabs his hips and pulls him in for a dirty kiss that leaves Castiel looking slightly befuddled and a little dazed. Castiel blinks at him twice in mild confusion.
"What was that for?"
Dean shrugs. "Felt like it."
Cas does that thing again where he seems to be studying Dean’s face - his eyes roaming over each of Dean’s features. Dean tries not to flinch under the scrutiny but when his stomach growls again, he laughs a bit, breaking his nervous tension.
"Dean Winchester’s stomach waits for no one," Dean says.
"Apparently not," answers Castiel and he hunts down the neatest stack of takeout menus Dean has ever seen.
They’re even alphabetized and organized by food type.
He knows he’s in deep when instead of finding it prissy or dickish he just thinks it’s kind of nerdy and cute that Cas is so meticulous. He chooses deep dish pizza and Cas only offers a shrug and tells him whatever he wants is fine.
He orders and then manages to tackle Castiel to the couch and sprawl over him. They’re too big to really fit on the couch together. Cas has to rest the soles of his feet on one of the cushions, pushing his knees up a bit and one of Dean’s legs dangles over the edge, his knee touching the floor as he straddles Cas’ hips.
"Seriously," he says against Cas’ lips. "This is a couch for hobbits."
Cas shifts a bit, trying to fit them together better and he manages to hit Dean in the side with his knee and then almost clips him with his arm. "I didn’t have this intent in mind when I purchased it. I was more concerned with the scotch-guard."
Dean chuckles into Cas’ mouth as he kisses him. Cas’ fingers thread their way through his hair, massaging into his scalp and he wants to hum with the pleasure of it. "I believe you. This couch is horrible."
He rocks his hips a bit and the couch makes horrible squeaking and squelching sounds that are anything but sexy. He sputters out a laugh and has to bury his face in Cas’ neck for a second. It’s so ridiculous. He’s trying to be smooth and suave and he’s got a couch made for dolls and scotch-guarded leather that sounds like… he can’t even think what it sounds like without losing his shit and laughing again. He pulls back to look at Cas and Cas does that weird staring thing again, where he looks at Dean and doesn’t blink - doesn’t look away. His pupils are large and owlish in the low light of the room.
Dean doesn’t really feel like laughing anymore. He slowly lowers his lips to Cas’, touching them once almost chastely, and then again with more intent. He licks across the seam of Cas’ lips and then sucks on Cas’ bottom lip for a bit. When Cas finally opens his mouth, Dean doesn’t waste a moment before diving his tongue into the wet heat and licking inside. Cas sighs and seems to sink down further into the couch; Dean lets his own weight drop a little more, sinking with him.
He manages to sandwich one of his arms underneath Cas and uses the other one to pull Cas’ shirt out from his waistband, sliding his hand around Cas’ hip. Cas’ skin is warm and taut, and Dean can feel the bony protrusion of Cas’ hip bone under his thumb and he presses down on it a bit. Cas’ hands slip under Dean’s shirt, across the expanse of his back and it feels like he has all the time in the world to be here, on this god-awfully uncomfortable couch, pressed into the heat of Cas, kissing him senseless.
He can’t remember the last time he kissed someone without the thought that it was just kind of a stepping stone on the way to something else. But this moment is just all about the kissing - all about mapping Castiel’s lips, his jaw, his neck - figuring out the texture and dips of it with his own lips - darting his tongue out to taste the skin at his pulse point, and then again just under his ear lobe. Dean feels no real sense of urgency to do anything else other than try to learn Cas by touch and taste.
The apartment buzzer eventually goes off and he has to extricate himself from Cas’ pliant warmth, adjusting his pants a bit and fluffing his shirt out in a way that always sorta screams to him, ‘I’m totally trying to hide a partial hard-on’ and answer the door. Even the two minutes it takes for the pizza girl to arrive at the door isn’t enough to calm him down, apparently, given the embarrassed blush-smirk combo he gets from her when he answers the door and she peers behind him to see Cas kind of blinky and dazed on the sofa.
He tips her a solid ten bucks and tells her to have a great night and he hears her murmur, "Not as great as you," as she walks back down toward the elevator.
When he turns back, Cas is staring at him with a sort of lost, sad look on his face. It makes Dean pause, sliding the pizza on the kitchen counter. He frowns.
"What’s wrong?"
Cas takes a deep breath like he’s about to speak and then closes his mouth and shrugs, looking suddenly bashful. "I like having you here."
Dean feels a grin split his lips. "I like being here."
Cas doesn’t smile back and in fact looks more forlorn. He pushes himself off the couch and comes toward the kitchen, stepping into Dean’s space with no preamble or awkwardness. Their hipbones bump slightly as Cas presses himself up against Dean, sliding his arms around him.
Dean feels a little uncertain all of a sudden with the strange mood Cas seems to suddenly be in.
"Are you…? Uh…" he stammers.
"I wish…" Cas begins, voice low and warm in Dean’s ear. He sighs. "We wasted so much time," he finally says.
Dean gives him a squeeze, arms tightening around Cas’ frame for a moment. "We’re not wasting any time now."
Cas pulls back slightly. "No, I suppose not."
Dean waits for a minute, thinking that this moment, whatever it is, will pass.
But it doesn’t. Cas continues to stare at him, not saying a word. Dean squeezes him again.
"Dude. Pizza," he prods.
"Of course," Castiel replies, like he hasn’t just been scrutinizing Dean wordlessly.
Cas pulls away and goes to one of the cupboards taking out plates and the finding napkins from another drawer. Dean almost laughs when he also gets out knives and forks. It’ll probably be the first time Dean’s ever had knives and forks handed out with pizza, but if it’s how Cas rolls…
He thinks he can get used to it.
***
As Dean cleans up, putting the pizza in the fridge and loading the small dishwasher, Castiel takes a moment to call Gabriel. As soon as the phone picks up, he can hear the muted din of noise that indicates Gabriel is in his office and not out on the nightclub floor. The music, while audible, is not as pulse-pounding as it is when Gabriel tries to talk while tending bar.
"If this is about those kids, I swear that ID looked legit," Gabriel says as he picks up the phone.
Castiel smiles. He is fond of his brother and does love him. Gabriel has always been larger than his frame implied. Big ideas, big dreams, big presence. "Hello, Gabriel."
"You wouldn’t arrest your favorite brother, would you?"
Castiel can tell from Gabriel’s tone that he’s had a couple of drinks already tonight. "You are my only brother."
"Even worse! Oh my God, the tragedy! It’s so Cain and Abel! Don’t do that to us, Cas. Because then I’ll have to break out of jail and take you on some roadtrip to loosen you up and there’ll be strippers and too many chocolate bars and I might leave one in your suit pocket and it will be ruined and then you’ll have to walk around naked and it will be horrible for your pale skin."
"I’m not arresting you."
"Oh thank God. I knew I could count on you, bro!"
"How are… things?"
"Is this a social call?" Gabriel asks, his tone confused.
"I just wanted to check in with you. Talk."
"Jesus, who died?" Gabriel jokes back and Castiel can feel himself flinch a bit at the words. Before he can stammer anything out, Gabriel begins chattering on about the club, about his liquor license nearly expiring, about having to hire and fire another assistant, about Balthazar wanting to change the menus again…
Castiel lets the chatter flow over him, soothing and familiar.
"… and so I said to him, if you think that’s obscene, you should’ve seen what happened last week! Let me tell you, those are words you should never say to a judge."
"I’m constantly amazed that you aren’t incarcerated."
"Pfffft. They can’t lock me up or they’d be out of a place to carry on their own crazy shit. I’ve seen some people do some things if you know what I mean," Gabriel says, voice taken on comic tones. "But seriously, you sleeping with that hottie or what?"
He looks up immediately at Dean, as though Dean could hear Gabriel over the phone. Dean looks very good in his kitchen, Castiel thinks. He’s relaxed and easy as he wipes up after dinner, putting the pizza in tupperware and breaking down the pizza boxes for the garbage. Dean looks over and catches him staring and winks, lips curling into a smile. Cas blushes and stammers a bit but before he can answer, Gabriel is hooting and hollering in his ear.
"Woooooo, you are! Nice! Rawr. Go get’em. So bring him by! Let me chat him up, totally above board of course. And, um, you know. Bring his brother, or whatever."
"Perhaps."
"I’m serious. Come by when the club’s closed and I’ll be all ears. And hands. Kidding! Kidding! I’ll keep my mitts to myself. Unless you bring his brother."
In spite of himself, Castiel laughs softly at Gabriel. "I would like that," he says and given what Pamela told him earlier this afternoon he hopes that he’s not lying by omission.
There’s a muffled crash of glass and Gabriel swears. "Oh shit, listen that didn’t sound good. I gotta go."
"Of course, goodbye, Gabriel."
"Bye."
Dean drops down on the sofa beside him, the weight of him drawing Cas closer as he turns his phone over in his hands.
"Your brother?"
Castiel nods. "Yes."
"They can be a pain in the ass but they’re good to have around," Dean says.
He nods for lack of anything to add to Dean’s statement.
"I worry about him," Cas suddenly blurts out, surprising himself. "He’s very… impulsive and I worry what would happen to him if I weren’t around."
"He seems like he does all right. Got a business, looks like it’s doing well," Dean replies, swinging an arm around Cas and pulling him in closer. Dean’s warm and firm and Castiel wants to just lie there and not think for a minute. "Besides, it’s not like you’re going anywhere."
Not if he can help it, Cas thinks.
They spend a few more drowsy after-dinner minutes on the sofa before Cas pushes himself up and heads back to the office, Dean trailing after him with a quiet sigh. He pulls out the pages he took from the Grimoire, the ones he never gave to Dean and Bobby. It’s not as though Dean can tell which pages they are, but he still feels slightly exposed and… guilty, working on the translation of them with Dean in the room.
Dean seems pretty engrossed in taking over the internet searches for different translation meanings and interpretations on other parts of the Grimoire. Despite being focused on his task, Castiel does spare a few moments to steal some glances at Dean. He can’t help but wonder what would have happened if they’d met under different circumstances. Would he have figured out Dean was some sort of felon? Perhaps even arrested him? Or would he have somehow deduced that Dean wasn’t entirely guilty of the crimes of which he was accused. At least, not in the way in which he was accused of them.
How could it have ever worked between them? A felon and an FBI agent. Maybe Castiel would have broken the law to help Dean. He likes to pretend they could still have had some kind of relationship - in another time, another place. He wants to believe that some higher power would be at work, bringing them together and ensuring they stay that way.
He stares at the foreign words scribbled on the pages in front of him, the squiggly lines blurring and shifting.
He wants to have faith that there is a higher plan and that someone, something knows what it is doing and wants Castiel and Dean to succeed.
He doesn’t know if that makes him devoutly faithful to an unknown being or completely, absurdly insane.
If it’s the latter, he prefers to never find out.
He sighs, trying to focus his eyes on the pages again. He feels like he is very close to understanding them, close to making sense of the strange language, the bizarre phrases. If he could just make out a few more words, he has a sense that it would all fall into place.
Perhaps he was foolish in keeping these pages from Dean, Sam and Bobby. He’s not sure know if it was shame, pride or simple folly that possessed him in the first place. He pushes up from the table and takes them over to the fax machine.
"You got something?" Dean asks, not looking up from the computer.
"No. Just some… more things to send Bobby. Perhaps he will have better luck than me."
He doesn’t want to tell Dean he kept these pages back to begin with. He keeps his back to Dean as he sends them through the fax.
"Bobby’s brain’s gotta be a crazy place to be man," Dean says. "You know he speaks Japanese? Probably a dozen other languages."
"You’re all an odd assortment of talents, aren’t you?" Castiel replies, turning to look at Dean.
Dean looks up and grins. "You say that like you’re not one of us now, Cas."
Cas blinks a bit in surprise at Dean’s words. "I thought you were trying your hardest to keep me out.
Dean’s grin fades and his eyes turn serious. "Much as I hate to admit it, you’re pretty in this now."
"I understand you were born to this life," Castiel says lowly. "But even if you hadn’t been, knowing what’s out there, do you think you could turn your back on it? Pretend that you didn’t know it was all real?"
Dean taps his thumb on the table as he stares at Cas, his green eyes dark and deep in the low light. "Probably not," he admits.
The fax machine finishes feeding the paper through, indicating it’s done with a long beep. It seems to break through Castiel and he realizes how tired he is. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I think it’s bedtime for all good little FBI agents," Dean says, standing from the desk chair and coming over to Castiel.
Castiel feels the weight of the day press in on him. Seeing the body at the crime scene had been like seeing an alternate version of himself. What could have been.
What still might be.
Then there is Dean. Beautiful Dean standing in front of him, looking somewhat worn and sleepy himself. Castiel reaches his hand out and clasps Dean’s fingers in his own, feeling the calluses of Dean’s hands and slightly dry skin. Castiel is tired and for a moment, he forgets himself and lets his head fall forward, forehead resting on Dean’s shoulder.
He hears Dean chuckle softly and his other hand comes up and clasps the back of Castiel’s neck.
"Tired?"
"Yes."
"Let’s go to bed. We’ll check in with Bobby and Sam tomorrow and see where we’re at. Maybe even stop off and see Pamela again."
He lets Dean lead him to his own bedroom and there’s nothing sensual or sexual about the way they both strip down - Dean to his boxers and Castiel to his briefs and his undershirt. He must admit, he feels somewhat relieved. He wasn’t sure he would be invested in anything else given what’s weighing on his mind.
He crawls into bed and somehow ends up partially draped over Dean; Dean’s arms around him solid and warm.
"I totally knew it," Dean says quietly. "Stealth cuddler." His voice is soft and pleased.
Castiel just shifts down deeper, breathing in the scent of Dean, feeling Dean’s skin against his face, hearing Dean’s breath and heart in his ear.
"I don’t think I can hate Uriel for what he did," Castiel says, starting to drift off into sleep.
"Hm? What?" asks Dean, voice a confused rumble in Castiel’s ear.
"I don’t know how you and I would have met otherwise."
He’s not sure if he falls asleep before Dean speaks or if Dean just doesn’t reply.
Castiel dreams.
He is walking down a long hallway in which there are many doors. It’s dim, not well lit and he can’t quite tell where the ambient light is coming from. He looks down and in his hand is the key, the key with his name stamped into the metal. It’s warm and worn under his fingertips. He passes by doors without looking at him, knowing the door he seeks is up further ahead.
Castiel finds it.
Etched in the dark grain of the wood is the same symbol that’s carved into the flesh of his chest. He places his hand over the sigil and feels the wood pulse beneath his touch - somehow almost alive. He feels an echoing pulse in the markings on his chest. He takes the key and slides it into the keyhole.
"Cas."
He turns his head to the side and sees Dean, far away, down at the end of the impossibly and improbably long corridor. He stands motionless, far away and yet intangibly close at the same time.
"I’m sorry, Dean."
He hears the words in his own voice and isn’t sure if he spoke them aloud or not.
Castiel turns the key, locks the door.
He awakes with a start, arms thrashing out and something immediately tightens around him.
"Hey, hey, shh. You’re okay."
The animal part of his brain must process the sound of Dean’s voice, the scent of Dean’s skin, before his higher brain functions can because he begins to relax before he’s really aware that he means to.
"Bad dream?"
Dean’s voice is morning deep and a little rough in Castiel’s ear. He likes it. He takes a deep breath and rolls slightly away from Dean, pushing his hair back with his fingers and settling on his back.
"Not… entirely," he admits, staring at the ceiling. He’s not sure why he’s so unsettled. Given some of the other dreams he’s had, this one was relatively tame.
There is faint light coming in the window; it must be early morning. A quick glance at the clock confirms it’s just past six.
Dean suddenly slaps him on the thigh and he starts slightly.
"You know what the cure for bad dreams is? Donuts. Imma get us some coffee and donuts. What’s your favorite kind?" Dean asks, sliding out of bed and pulling on his pants.
"Of donut? I don’t have one," Castiel admits, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Dean get dressed.
"What? Everyone’s got a favorite. Sammy likes those ones with the raisins in them. I like the ones with the rainbow sprinkles." Dean pauses and winks. "But if you tell him that I’ll say you’re a dirty rotten liar. C’mon. Maple? Boston cream?" Dean’s eyebrows quirk. "Jelly?"
Cas frowns. "I really don’t know. Sometimes I get one of the low-fat muffins."
"I bet you’re a jelly." With his pants and shirt now on, Dean leans over Cas and studies him. "Or… you might be sour cream glazed."
Dean studies him again for a quick moment and then darts forward, pressing a fast, hard kiss to Cas’ lips. "I’ll be back. Keep the bed warm," he smirks.
Castiel hears Dean just at the front door before he calls out, "My keys are on the hook by the light switch."
Dean doesn’t answer so Cas isn’t sure if Dean heard him or not.
He sinks back down into the warm and soft sheets, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the pillow. It smells of Dean - like clean sweat and soap and something that is uniquely him.
He dozes, at least he thinks he does because the next thing he knows, he’s sleepy, drowsy - the worst kind from going back to sleep early in the morning. He feels heavy and lethargic and just can’t face getting up. He’s aware of a ruckus from the front door, footsteps entering and then silence.
He’s fairly sure he doesn’t want to get out of bed even for Dean and his donuts.
He snuffles into the pillow a bit even as he mumbles, "Did you not find the keys?"
There’s no answer and he forces himself up a little higher into consciousness.
"Dean?"
When the attack comes, Cas is wholly unprepared for it. Hands grab him and something goes over his face and head immediately. He struggles - fists flying out, legs kicking - even as he dragged from his bed and lands hard on the floor.
There must be at least three of them. He can feel one set of hands flip him over onto his stomach and hold his shoulders down as another is pulling his arms behind him and securing them with something strong and tight - plastic zip ties, he thinks.
He kicks out again and feels his foot connect solidly with someone’s jaw. There’s a muffled curse and then there’s a hard and swift punch to his left kidney. He feels his ankles get similarly secured as his wrists, the plastic zip tie digging into his flesh.
He wriggles like an eel, still trying to move. When he’s unceremoniously flipped over onto his back, he kicks both his feet out and hits someone in the chest, hearing them fall back to the floor with a crash that sounds like it was his nightstand lamp. He snaps his feet out again, hoping to strike at someone else but feel nothing.
"Goddamn, he packs a wallop," Cas hears and feels a grim sense of satisfaction at the note of pain in the unknown voice.
"Yes. He’s quite strong and skilled."
That voice he knows. Castiel stills immediately.
"Uriel."
"Brother," Uriel says, and it’s eerily like Castiel’s dream when Uriel called him the same thing. "It appears I have need of you still."
"Fuck you."
He’s not one normally given to swearing but the words fall from his lips easily even though he’s bound on the floor with cloth over his head.
Uriel sighs and Castiel hears him move closer. Castiel cranes his neck in vain trying to figure out exactly where Uriel is and places him somewhere off to Castiel’s right. He hears the shuffle of clothing rustling and then Uriel’s voice is by his ear, as though he were crouching next to Castiel.
"I’m sorry it had to come to this."
Castiel wants to say something more, something dangerous, he isn’t sure what. All he manages is to open his mouth before he feels the prick of a needle in his thigh. His world starts to go wobbly and uneven, his lips heavy and thick. He tips off to the side and feels the warm bulk of Uriel catch him before he hits the ground.
He feels Uriel pet his hair softly, fondly. "Your sacrifice will not be in vain, brother."
He tries to worm away from Uriel’s embrace but his world goes sideways and he feels like he’s falling.
Then he feels nothing it all.
***
Cas must live in some kind of weird donut shop vacuum, Dean thinks, because he had to drive for twenty minutes before he saw the tell-tale sign of fresh baked yeast and brewed coffee.
Although it’s early, there’s already a line up at the popular coffee and donut shop and Dean doesn’t even try to maneuver his baby into the drive-thru line. She’s a beaut and a classic but she doesn’t always fit through the tight corners and curves that modern construction allots for four wheels.
Besides, being in the donut shop he’s awash in the heavenly scent of baking donuts and he can stand in front of the display case and try to decide what kind of donut Cas is.
Yeah, definitely sour cream glazed, Dean thinks. Understated, under-appreciated, a little crunchy on the outside and surprising dense and soft on the inside.
Holy fuck, he’s got it bad.
It makes him a little dizzy for a second, realizing how bad he’s got it for Cas and he feels a fine bead of cold sweat form on his upper lip and his forehead. The girl in the hairnet at the counter is looking at him funny and he realizes it’s his turn to order and he’s standing there, leaning against the cold pasty case, breathing through his mouth, trying to calm down. He manages a weak smile and she gives him a nervous one in return.
"Um, two large coffees, one double cream one black, and six donuts: three sour cream and three rainbow sprinkles."
She still looks dubious but rings it all up and a few minutes later he’s back in the cool morning air and he feels like he can breathe again.
He has no idea how this is gonna work, if it’s gonna work. Cas is a fed and Dean’s a wanted a felon. He spends all his time on the road chasing after things that go bump in the night while Cas sits at a desk and has an apartment.
This could be the scariest thing he’s ever done.
Or the dumbest.
Or both. Simultaneously.
By the time he makes it back to Cas’ apartment, he’s got the sick-nervous feeling back and he keeps telling himself that it’s stupid - there’s no reason to get into any of this now. They’re still working the job.
There’ll be plenty of time for freak-outs later on and Jesus, Sam is going to hand him his ass because he was so right and Dean’s got it for Cas and now he’s probably going to have to talk about his feelings or some dumb shit and Sam will make him watch daytime talk shows and use a body scrub or something.
He comes around the corner of the hallway, balancing the drink tray with coffee and the box of donuts and stops short.
Cas’ apartment door is open.
Cas isn’t the kind of guy to run out for the paper or to take the trash out and leave the door open and Dean knows he locked it behind him because Cas had yelled out where his keys were and Dean had seen them and scooped them up.
He quietly, carefully, sets the coffee and donuts down and wishes he’d brought his fucking Colt with him instead of leaving it in the Impala where it’s currently not doing a lick of good. He thinks about going down and getting it but he doesn’t want to waste the time it would take. He inches over to the door and listens.
It’s silent. There’s nothing from the inside.
He eases the door open further and peeks around the corner and sees nothing but Cas’ apartment - the same as when he left it.
He steps quietly into the hallway, eyes alert, body ready. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disturbed as fuck that there doesn't seem to be anything amiss.
And then he makes it to the bedroom.
There’s obviously been a struggle - bed sheets strewn, lamp broken, nightstand tipped over, the rug folded and twisted up. Dean’s stomach clenches tightly.
"Cas!" he calls out loudly, no longer caring to keep quiet. If Cas is still around, Dean needs him to make some kind of sound, give a signal.
There’s nothing in response.
Jesus fuck, he’s gone and from the looks of it, not willingly. Dean turns in a circle, completely at a loss for what to do. He pushes his hands through his hair. Holy fuck, he was just here, he was just fucking here and Cas was sleeping and Dean just left him and now he’s… he’s…
His phone vibrates and it scares the shit out of him for a second and he spins ready to fight before he realizes what it is. He pulls the phone out and sees Bobby’s number. His hands are shaking even as he answers it.
"Bobby?" he asks.
"Where’d your fella get those pages he sent me last night?" Bobby says, not pausing for a greeting.
"What?" Dean can’t make sense of Bobby’s question.
"Castiel. He sent me those pages last night. Where’d he get ‘em?"
Bobby’s voice is abrupt, gruff and Dean is so flummoxed he can’t even respond. He’s still turning in a slow circle, looking around the room like Cas will just appear out of somewhere.
"I don’t… oh fuck."
"What’s wrong?"
"Shit, Bobby. I went out for coffee and I just… when I got back… he’s… someone just fucking… they must have grabbed him."’
"Your fella? Castiel?"
"Yeah, he’s… Jesus, Bobby, I don’t know what happened. I was just gone half an hour, maybe forty minutes."
"Where’s Sam?"
"The hotel," Dean answers. "I think. I mean-" he presses the heel of his hand against his one of his eye sockets. Fuck he can’t think. He takes a breath and forces his brain to work. "The hotel. He’d be at the hotel unless he went to the Y to work out or something."
"Where’re you at?"
"I’m at Cas’. Jesus, they must have come in as soon as I left. I just… we figured that they’d need Cas for the spell, but I… I mean… I … Goddamit!" he shouts.
"You stay put, I’m gonna get Sam on the horn and when he gets there, you boys call me. We gotta chat."
The phone goes silent and Dean drops it back in his pocket and turns another full circle in the bedroom, looking for something, anything.
He finds two unused zip ties leading him to figure that they must have used some on Cas when they (whoever they were) snatched him.
Other than the clutter and mess, there’s nothing else.
Not a goddamn thing.
When Sam shows up, Dean’s still pacing the small space, on his way to wearing a nice path into the utilitarian carpet. Cas’ phone sits charging on the counter and Dean wants to smash it into little bits. He knows Gabriel’s got a tracker in it and fat lot of good it does them now when Cas wasn’t even properly dressed when he was taken, let alone armed or with his phone.
Sam calls Bobby back and they put him on speakerphone. Sam’s spreading out the bulk of his latest research in Castiel’s office, trying to find spots not already taken up by Castiel’s work.
"I was asking Dean, where did Castiel get those pages he sent me last night?" Bobby says, voice gruff over the phone.
Sam looks up at Dean and Dean shrugs. "I have no idea. It was just something he always seemed to be working on. Why? You didn’t have them?"
"No, I didn’t have them," Bobby says, his voice terse and tense. "And it might have done me a fuck lot more good if I had. I need to know if you boys are holding anything else back."
Again, Dean and Sam exchange a look, both of them looking slightly bewildered.
"Bobby," Sam says, "we’ve sent you everything we have. I mean, I don’t know what Castiel sent you the other night but, uh…" Sam looks over at Dean again. "We don’t have anything else."
Bobby makes a non-committal sound - a sort of half grunt.
"What the fuck is this all about?" asks Dean, barely able to stand the tension.
"Those pages your fella sent last night, he’d got them mostly translated, which is pretty fucking impressive given that he only just started learning this kind of thing."
Dean feels a quick flare of pride and satisfaction at that, but it’s short lived. "But…"
"But it would’ve been a site better if I’d had them before. I got access to a lot more shit then he does and I could’ve had this translated sooner. And this shit is important."
"How important?" asks Sam.
"Shutting down an apocalypse portal important," Bobby grouses. "Look, Dean, I don’t know how to say this so I’m just gonna say it."
Dean feels his stomach clench up at those words and he can’t even look up from the phone, can’t look at Sam. He doesn’t want to see his brother’s sympathetic eyes right now, doesn’t want to feel anything soft or warm. He just needs to think and get through this.
"Say what?"
"Your fella Castiel, he and I have been working on some of the other translations in the book, the grimoire of Uriel’s. Based on that it’s been pretty clear that Castiel was the key to opening up that damned portal."
"I know all this, Bobby," Dean growls.
"Yeah, well these pages I got last night make clear is that Castiel is a key that works both ways. He opens the portal, and he can close it."
On to Part 6
Sam's large hands cradle a cup of coffee and Castiel frowns seeing one sitting in front of him and another in front of the empty space next to him. For Dean, he surmises.
He didn't even hear the waitress stop by.
"Your... friend Bobby seems most knowledgeable," Castiel says thoughtfully, wrapping his own long fingers around the cup and studying the wisps of steam rising as though they themselves are portents or runes.
He sees Sam nod out of the corner of his eye. "Oh yeah. Bobby knows a lot of hunters in the biz. A lot of other kinds of people too. Psychics, book dealers, artifact traffickers. He's got a pretty good library himself."
Castiel's no stranger to interrogation. He knows a good opening when he sees one. "So, you've been to his residence, then?"
Again Sam nods. "Yeah. The junkyard. We don't really have much of a home base but if we did, it would probably be Bobby's."
"I see," replies Castiel, feeling something sink in his gut.
He's sure Dean has a lot of... friends. A lot of acquaintances the country over. He's never in one place very long and leads a nomadic lifestyle. Castiel is likely just another blip on his map.
"You are very close, then. To Bobby. You... and Dean."
"Yeah," Sam says lowly, spinning his cup a little. "I think..." he takes a deep breath and lets it out, staring out the window at Dean like Castiel did earlier. "Sometimes I think he's more of a father to us than our own dad was."
Castiel's fingers still on the mug. This is... surprising. He had just assumed Bobby was a young hunter like Sam and Dean. "Pardon?"
"It's just," Sam continues like he doesn't really hear Cas. "Dad tried. I know he tried. I get that now and he did the best he could. But sometimes he just dropped us off at Bobby's or Pastor Jim's. Jim was another hunter that Dad knew," Sam clarifies by explanation. "And when I think of my childhood, I think of them a lot instead of my dad. My dad and I... we didn't really get along, you know? And Dean..." Sam sighs again. "Dean wanted to be just like Dad and I don't know if Dad ever saw it or he saw it and he... I don't know, used it. Not in a malicious way. Just... Well. He did the best he could. Like I said. But there were some long summers at Bobby's and when I think back, I think it was Bobby that taught Dean to shoot. Taught him the most about cars. Talked to him about hunting. About our mom. I don't know if Dad ever talked to us about our mom."
Castiel feels his face flush slightly with his embarrassment at having assumed that Bobby was some kind of ... ‘port in a storm’, when in actuality, Bobby is a mentor and surrogate father to Dean and Sam. He turns to look out the window again, watching Dean as he lazily flips his key ring around his finger and nods to something he's hearing on the phone. Dean suddenly looks up, right at Cas and winks at him. Castiel can feel his blush deepen, the heat of it quick across his face and he looks back at his cup of coffee with a slight smile on his lips.
"He likes you."
Castiel's eyes flick up to Sam who looks a little amused as he stares at Castiel. Castiel doesn't know what to say in return so he only nods his head once.
"We don't get to make a lot of... well, connections with people in our line of work," Sam continues. "We're pretty much in and out and onto the next town, the next hunt, the next big bad before people even have time to remember us."
"It must be very difficult for you."
Sam shrugs. "We're used to it, I guess. But Dean... he likes you."
Again Castiel nods solemnly. "I like him too."
Sam smiles. "I figured as much," he says. "But, you know. A brother's gotta check."
Castiel opens his mouth to say that he understands but the bell above the diner door tinkles and both he and Sam look over as Dean strides in, flipping his cell phone shut and coming over to the table. He slides into the booth next to Castiel, his thigh and hip bumping up against Cas' and resting there. He grabs his coffee and takes a deep slurp.
"We gotta date with a psychic. Pamela Barnes. About half an hour from here. We got time to eat and then we hit the road."
"Bobby vouches for her?" Sam asks.
Dean grins, sharp and quick. "Hell yes. And get this, she called him right before I called to tell him to send us over. Now that's what I'm talking about!" Dean exclaims. "A psychic should know you're coming before you even know it yourself, am I right?"
He leans back in the booth, long limbed and graceful and if Castiel didn't know better, he would swear that it's happenstance that once of Dean's hands ends up on Cas' knee under the table. But it happens so easily, so smoothly, that it couldn't be anything other than an intended motion. He glances slightly sideways at Dean who has picked up a menu with his other hand and is perusing the plastic covered surface with serious gaze. Castiel surreptitiously inches his own hand over and slowly, so slowly, places it over top of Dean's. Without any break in his studying of the menu, Dean's fingers thread through Castiel's under the table, securing them together soundly.
The waitress comes by to take their order and Cas’ eyes, used to picking up things from suspects, cannot fail to miss how her gaze gets caught by something and flickers toward it.
His wrist, he realizes. The scar is still pink and prominent. He tugs his fingers free from Dean’s grasp and pulls down on the sleeves of his shirt and coat, hoping they’ll be long enough to stay put even though his arms are bent. Dean’s fingers stay on his knee and press against him slightly.
He knows Dean saw too. Saw the waitress look over, saw Castiel tug his shirt down. It shouldn’t matter. She’s a stranger. He owes her no explanations. And Dean knows the truth of what happened. He knows that Castiel didn’t inflict those wounds on himself.
Still, he feels crowded and uncomfortable all of a sudden and wishes he wasn’t seated on the inside of the booth. He wishes this were just another case, another investigation, another job that he could leave at the end of the day.
He hears Dean order for him, a sandwich and with a salad on the side and it occurs to him that although they’ve not spent much time together in person, they have learned each other over their phone calls and texts. Dean picked for him exactly what he would have picked for himself. The waitress is gone just as quick as she arrived but his discomfort lingers.
Dean and Sam talk shop - demons, poltergeists, what they expect or don’t expect from the psychic, game plans, Uriel, devil’s traps. Castiel manages to keep up with most of the conversation but he’s still amazed at how much he doesn’t know. It’s like learning a new language. He can understand what they’re talking about, but cannot participate.
After lunch, they head out to the psychic’s. Sam offers the front seat but Castiel just shakes his head. He somehow prefers the back; prefers being able to watch Dean from the rearview mirror, watch the back of his head, his hands on the wheel - the confidence and dexterity he displays as he drives. Castiel thinks back on the night before and though he’s never considered himself a prude, he’s certainly not wanton and thinking about last night makes his stomach do a crazy somersault.
He wonders if Dean will spend the night again. Will he have to ask? Will it be assumed? Castiel isn’t sure what the rules are and he doesn’t know how to figure them out.
Pamela Barnes lives in a small bungalow-style house in an older part of town. It’s worn, but well-loved with cracked paint on the window frames and porch steps that sag gently in a smile shape. They creak when the three of them step upon them, but not ominously; just in a way that indicates that they are old and worn, but still sturdy enough to stand on.
Dean knocks on the door and it’s only moments before it swings open and a strikingly beautiful woman with long, dark hair and cat-like eyes is staring up at them.
"Hello boys. I’ve been expecting you."
She turns around and Castiel can’t help but notice how both Sam and Dean take a moment to stare at her denim clad ass, adorned with some rhinestone work on the pockets. He suppresses his frown. Dean can look at whomever he likes; it’s not as though Castiel has any claim over him. Still, he can’t help but feel a flare of disappointment.
However by the time they follow her into a small dining room and take the seats she indicates for them at the table, Dean appears to be all business again, looking around the room and taking stock. Dean sits to her right, Sam to her left, leaving the chair across from her to Castiel.
"Pamela Barnes?" Dean asks.
"That’s me," she replies with her whiskey-soft voice. "You sure didn’t waste any time getting over here."
"Well, Bobby said you’d already called him and invited us over. No time like the present," Dean replies, his drawl lazy and relaxed even as his posture is prepared and at the ready.
Pamela taps the table and examines each one of them in turn. First Dean, then Sam and then finally her eyes linger on Castiel. Castiel doesn’t look away, matching her gaze. She eventually smiles and then pulls out a deck of tarot cards.
"So, tell me exactly what you boys are looking for."
"Don’t you know? You called Bobby," says Sam.
"I know you’re looking for something, but not what. I’m good, but I can’t see everything, Sam."
"Did Bobby Singer tell you our names?" Castiel asks, wondering.
"Dean and Sam’s name, yes. Yours… yours I already knew."
"How?" barks Dean.
She looks from Castiel back to Dean, shrugging as she shuffles. "Just the way it works sometimes. You’re looking for something." It’s a statement, not a question.
Castiel nods. "Yes. Demonic activity. A lot of it, if we’re not mistaken. And rather recently."
She makes a ‘hmmm’ sound as she shuffles the cards and then sets them down, pushing them to the center of her small, square table. Dean reaches out but a look from Pam stops him.
"Castiel, if you would please cut the cards."
Castiel reaches out and takes what he believes to be an even half of the deck and sets it down.
"And again, with the top half of what you took first."
He sees Dean’s sharp eyes out of the corner of his own but no one says anything as Castiel cuts the cards again.
Pamela scoops them up, shuffles them once and starts laying them out. She deals out five cards and pauses, looking them over, before she speaks.
"Tell me, Castiel, about the man who betrayed you."
Castiel can feel his eyebrows go up in surprise, sees Dean and Sam shift slightly in their seats. He manages a slight shrug.
"Uriel was…. My partner. We worked together for many years. There were many difficult cases, many long nights working. He was the funniest agent I knew."
He can sense the surprise from Dean and Sam at his words but he doesn’t pause to look at them. He keeps his eyes on the cards, as Pamela does.
"I truly never suspected any duplicity or wrongdoing from him. I was… completely surprised. Even in retrospect, I still feel surprised. And saddened."
Pamela deals out a few more cards. "And the night of his betrayal. It was dark," she says, and then places another card. "You were alone." Another card is laid on the table. "Dying."
He sees Dean shift anxiously in his seat but he doesn’t have the extra fortitude to offer him strength at the moment.
"Yes."
She deals out three more cards. "Surrounded by demons. The same ones you seek now."
"Yes," he answers again.
"Do you know where they are or are you just going to keep hammering at him?" Dean says suddenly, his anger quick and hot in the room.
Before Castiel can do anything, Pamela is stretching out her hand and patting Dean’s. "Easy, tiger. I’m not trying to hurt your boyfriend, I’m just reading the cards."
Castiel waits for Dean to protest that he’s not Castiel’s boyfriend.
The protestation never comes.
Pamela deals a few more cards, shifting and shuffling a few of them around on the table while she makes non-verbal sounds of thinking. She drums her fingers a few times and then pushes back from the table, bending low to rifle through some books she has before pulling a large, fat, dusty volume off the bottom shelf and dropping it on the table with a ‘thunk.’
"What? What’ve you got?" Dean asks.
She flaps her fingers at him as she flips through the pages of her book. The tome so old Castiel can smell the dusty paper - slightly moldy and yet dry and vanilla-y at the same time. She runs her fingertips over the page, reading. Castiel can’t read the text from where he sits but it appears Sam can and at Dean’s inquisitive look, Sam shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders.
She closes the book with a snap, sending trails of dust up in the air.
"Your partner, the man who betrayed you, he’s not kidding around this time. He’s holed up in a holy place, a place of worship, although I don’t think it’s been used for some time."
"What, like an abandoned church or something?" asks Sam.
Pamela nods, pulling all the cards together in a pile. "Yes. He’s angry that he’s been unsuccessful so far and this time he means to go whole hog. Places where people gather and pray tend to have… residual energy. A lot of people gathering with a lot of intent over a long period of time. It leaves a mark."
"Where?" Dean demands.
Pam shakes her head. "Sorry, Dean. It doesn’t work that way. I don’t know where."
Castiel sees Dean about to say something, something sharp, and he chooses to speak before it can happen. "There can’t be too many places like that in town. Certainly not ones that were well populated."
Dean turns quickly to him and then to Sam, who is nodding as well. "He’s right. Churches, the big ones, are usually pretty good and keeping records of their land purchases and their building usages. If it was a smaller church, a smaller denomination, we might be shit outta luck, since those can be dodgy."
"No, it had to have enough people to leave behind a significant amount of energy," confirms Pamela. "The… bones of it would be old."
"That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?" Dean asks.
"For you? Yes," confirms Pamela. "Although I would like to speak to Castiel alone, in the kitchen while you show yourselves out."
This time, Castiel manages to place a hand on Dean’s elbow to cut him off, nodding to Pamela as he does. "Very well. Dean, Sam, I shall meet you at the car."
Dean makes a loud sound of annoyance and stands up, nearly tipping his chair over. Pamela pushes back with a lot more grace, turning away and walking toward, what is presumably, the kitchen.
Castiel follows her, hearing Sam and Dean leave through the front door. Pamela fills a kettle with water and strikes a match, deftly lighting the gas stove.
"He likes you. A lot," she says.
"I’m… aware," Castiel answers, somewhat shyly.
"Are you?" she asks, elegant eyebrow raised, eyes lively and knowing.
He feels himself flush and she laughs a little, low and throaty.
"You shouldn’t doubt it. He’s not one to make attachments but he’s… pretty attached to you."
"Is this why you asked me to stay?"
Her expression sobers. "No. No it’s not."
"Do you have additional information?"
She nods almost hesitantly and he feels something unpleasant settle in his stomach.
"I don’t know how much can be changed. How much is predetermined and how much can be altered."
His stomach tightens a bit at her expression and her words. He feels as though a dark cloud is settling over him.
"So many things are already in motion and with this much power involved it’s … hard to say how it will settle."
"Will Dean die?" he asks suddenly, the words out of his mouth before he realized he had any intent to say them.
"No," she says quickly. "I’m nearly sure of it. Not Dean nor Sam."
She stares up at him, her green eyes, serious and… sad.
"Oh," he says quietly, at a loss for anything else to say. "I… see."
"I don’t know for certain," she continues, placing a hand on his arm. It’s warm and solid against the fabric of his jacket. "I only know that it’s… very likely. And yet…" She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looks past him, through him. "It’s not quite there."
"I don’t understand."
"It’s as though it does and does not happen. Both. Simultaneously. I can’t quite tell." She licks her lips. "You’ve another energy around you. A favorable one. One that wants you to succeed."
"It’s not the Winchesters?" Castiel asks.
Pamela shakes her head. "No. It’s older, stronger. But far away. Distant. It’s tied to your faith."
"My faith?" Castiel is surprised. He’s always considered himself faithful, spiritual, even though he’s not a regular church goer.
"Yes. Your faith in good, in wanting to do the right thing. Your faith that there is more out there than this."
Castiel ponders this, feeling it weigh heavy on his mind, although not unbearably so. It’s more… heavy in intent than in weight.
"It is your faith that can save you, I think. But I don’t know definitely. I’m sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Castiel answers automatically.
"I do know that it’s a choice. Your choice," Pamela says, her eyes finally gaining their focus back and looking at him again.
"Then there must be no other option," he says firmly.
Her eyes narrow slightly. "I look at you and I see a key," she says.
"It’s what I have become, I believe. Through the ritual."
"I feel…" She frowns. "I feel this need to tell you that a key locks a door as well as unlocks it."
He feels as though something is sliding into place inside him, but he isn’t sure exactly what. "I have had dreams with similar words. What does it mean?"
Pamela shrugs, apology still written on her features.
He is torn. He feels compelled to believe her and yet, at the same time, he feels that it is foolish to do so. He knows there are supernatural things out in the world. He has seen them with his own eyes now. And he knows that Pamela knew they were coming to see her before they had even really known themselves.
On the other hand, he knows he is a good agent. A good soldier, for lack of a better word. He has faced criminal elements many times and has succeeded. He is trained, he is smart and he is determined.
But there is something about this… thing with Uriel, something about the ritual and the situation that feels…like a runaway train. He feels swept up in it and he’s not sure how much he can rely on his strengths and fortitude to break his momentum.
He’s not sure how much faith he has.
"How much time do I have? Do you know?"
"I… . Soon."
They stand there for a moment, in her kitchen which smells faintly of lemons and soap, with her mismatched dishes and cheery Formica counter top, staring at one another silently.
Finally, he manages to swallow around the hard spot in his throat. "I should go. They are waiting for me."
She lurches forward suddenly and hugs him; fiercely and tightly and he startles somewhat. It’s happened in his career before that people, overcome by emotion have reached out to him, but not so much that it’s ever become something he’s been good at or easy with. He manages to pat her awkwardly on the back and then, just as she pulls away, she kisses him on the cheek.
"Vaya con dios," she whispers.
"Thank you," he says, his voice soft and low. The kettle whistles loudly and she turns abruptly from him toward the sound, pulling it off the stove.
He makes his way out of her homey kitchen and through the dining room, back out the front door. Dean’s in the driver’s seat, tapping his fingers against the wheel impatiently while Sam is on his smartphone, probably researching already. Dean looks up quickly as Castiel comes down the porch steps and toward the car.
Castiel gets in the back seat, ignoring Dean’s pointed look in the rear-view mirror. He pretends he doesn’t see and looks out the back window instead. He hears Dean tap his thumbs a few more times against the steering wheel before he starts the car and pulls out onto the street.
"Why don’t you drop me at City Hall," Sam says, still reading text on his phone. "I can do some research into places there and you guys can continue to work on the Enochian, maybe linking Bobby in or something."
"I would also like to log into the FBI mainframe and see what they have, if anything, on this latest murder," Cas replies.
He sees the back of Sam’s head nod. Dean remains silent.
They pull up to City Hall after a few silent minutes of driving. Sam and Castiel both get out - Sam to leave and Cas to slide into the passenger set. He’s just settled himself in when Sam leans into car one more time before he closes the door.
"I’ll get a cab back to the motel. I won’t wait up," he says with a smirk and he shuts the door firmly.
"Mouthy," Dean mutters, but there’s no real heat behind his voice. "So."
He doesn’t say anything else and Cas turns his gaze from the retreating form of Sam toward Dean.
"So," Cas repeats.
Dean gives him an expectant look, eyebrows going up. "Well?"
"Well, what?" Castiel asks back.
Dean’s eyes go wider. "Well what did Miss Psychic have to tell you that was so all-fired secret and important?"
Castiel shrugs. He’s not willing to share his secret with Dean. If this is going to be the only time he has with Dean, if their moments together are measured and so countably finite, he doesn’t want to tell Dean. He doesn’t want to spend those moments tense and unhappy or arguing with Dean about how to proceed.
He just wants to enjoy the moments he has.
When he speaks, it’s with the slow cadence of someone trying to figure out what to say while they’re saying it. "She just… wanted to talk to me. About you," he finishes.
"Me? Why? What did she say?" Dean asks, eyes narrowing.
"She said you liked me," Cas says and feels his chest warm at the way Dean blushes and looks away, suddenly busy with steering and pulling them back out into traffic.
"Oh. Well. Sure, I… I mean, you know."
Castiel feels a real smile tug his lips. He turns to the window where the sun is shining in. He closes his eyes. It’s warm and bright on his face and he hopes that it can warm the chill that’s settled into his heart at Pamela’s words.
The sun doesn’t do much for his heart, but Dean’s hand, sliding over his knee moments later and threading through his fingers, does.
***
Dean knows he’s good at hunting. He’s always had a kind of knack for it - he keeps his head cool in heated situations and doesn’t panic.
But he full on hates research.
He gets why Sammy likes it. It’s methodical and measured - like following breadcrumbs through history and science. Clue A leads to B leads to five possibilities and each one needs to be fleshed out and examined. Like one big logic puzzle or decision tree.
And it’s not that Dean can’t do it. He can. He has.
He just doesn’t like it.
But from the way Cas is hunkered over his laptop, backlit screen illuminating his face, making him seem ghostly white except for the stubble cropping up on his cheeks and jaw, he’s totally into it. He hasn’t moved in an hour except to type, click his mouse, and grab the cup of coffee that Dean set down next to him. He hadn’t even looked up when Dean placed it, just murmured a quiet ‘thank you,’ and started sipping away. His brow has remained solidly furrowed, lips slightly pursed as he thinks. Every now and then he breathes in deep and then lets out a long exhale but he doesn’t get up or shift.
Dean is bored.
And hungry.
It’s tough to say which one is going to win out.
Hunger ends up winning out over boredom first. When his stomach growls for the second time and Cas hasn’t so much as twitched in forty minutes, Dean walks over and shuts Cas’ laptop screen.
Cas turns his furrowed eyes up to Dean. "I was in the middle of something."
"Like you don’t have your auto-save set to go off every five minutes. I’m hungry. Let’s eat."
"I’ve nothing by the way of groceries in the apartment."
Dean smirks to himself. That must be Cas speak for ‘I’ve got no food.’ He shrugs. "So we go out, we order in. Whatever. I’m easy."
"Yes, I found that out last night."
It takes Dean a moment to realize that Cas is joking and then he laughs. "Did you just make a joke? An honest to God joke?"
"I’ve been known to make them in the past."
"And dude, you’re as easy as I am. I don’t even think we’ve had a first date."
Cas looks a little sad and thoughtful for a moment. "No, I don’t suppose we have."
"Well, let’s go. We’ll head out, grab a bite. Make it date night."
Cas pauses, eyes flickering downward and then back up. "Would you mind, if perhaps, we could just stay here tonight?"
Looking down at Cas’ earnest and open expression, Dean feels like he couldn’t ever tell him no. "Sure. You wanna order in or I can go out and grab something?"
Cas sets his computer aside gently and stands up, into Dean’s space, unselfconsciously. "I think I have some menus."
Cas is just about to turn away when Dean grabs his hips and pulls him in for a dirty kiss that leaves Castiel looking slightly befuddled and a little dazed. Castiel blinks at him twice in mild confusion.
"What was that for?"
Dean shrugs. "Felt like it."
Cas does that thing again where he seems to be studying Dean’s face - his eyes roaming over each of Dean’s features. Dean tries not to flinch under the scrutiny but when his stomach growls again, he laughs a bit, breaking his nervous tension.
"Dean Winchester’s stomach waits for no one," Dean says.
"Apparently not," answers Castiel and he hunts down the neatest stack of takeout menus Dean has ever seen.
They’re even alphabetized and organized by food type.
He knows he’s in deep when instead of finding it prissy or dickish he just thinks it’s kind of nerdy and cute that Cas is so meticulous. He chooses deep dish pizza and Cas only offers a shrug and tells him whatever he wants is fine.
He orders and then manages to tackle Castiel to the couch and sprawl over him. They’re too big to really fit on the couch together. Cas has to rest the soles of his feet on one of the cushions, pushing his knees up a bit and one of Dean’s legs dangles over the edge, his knee touching the floor as he straddles Cas’ hips.
"Seriously," he says against Cas’ lips. "This is a couch for hobbits."
Cas shifts a bit, trying to fit them together better and he manages to hit Dean in the side with his knee and then almost clips him with his arm. "I didn’t have this intent in mind when I purchased it. I was more concerned with the scotch-guard."
Dean chuckles into Cas’ mouth as he kisses him. Cas’ fingers thread their way through his hair, massaging into his scalp and he wants to hum with the pleasure of it. "I believe you. This couch is horrible."
He rocks his hips a bit and the couch makes horrible squeaking and squelching sounds that are anything but sexy. He sputters out a laugh and has to bury his face in Cas’ neck for a second. It’s so ridiculous. He’s trying to be smooth and suave and he’s got a couch made for dolls and scotch-guarded leather that sounds like… he can’t even think what it sounds like without losing his shit and laughing again. He pulls back to look at Cas and Cas does that weird staring thing again, where he looks at Dean and doesn’t blink - doesn’t look away. His pupils are large and owlish in the low light of the room.
Dean doesn’t really feel like laughing anymore. He slowly lowers his lips to Cas’, touching them once almost chastely, and then again with more intent. He licks across the seam of Cas’ lips and then sucks on Cas’ bottom lip for a bit. When Cas finally opens his mouth, Dean doesn’t waste a moment before diving his tongue into the wet heat and licking inside. Cas sighs and seems to sink down further into the couch; Dean lets his own weight drop a little more, sinking with him.
He manages to sandwich one of his arms underneath Cas and uses the other one to pull Cas’ shirt out from his waistband, sliding his hand around Cas’ hip. Cas’ skin is warm and taut, and Dean can feel the bony protrusion of Cas’ hip bone under his thumb and he presses down on it a bit. Cas’ hands slip under Dean’s shirt, across the expanse of his back and it feels like he has all the time in the world to be here, on this god-awfully uncomfortable couch, pressed into the heat of Cas, kissing him senseless.
He can’t remember the last time he kissed someone without the thought that it was just kind of a stepping stone on the way to something else. But this moment is just all about the kissing - all about mapping Castiel’s lips, his jaw, his neck - figuring out the texture and dips of it with his own lips - darting his tongue out to taste the skin at his pulse point, and then again just under his ear lobe. Dean feels no real sense of urgency to do anything else other than try to learn Cas by touch and taste.
The apartment buzzer eventually goes off and he has to extricate himself from Cas’ pliant warmth, adjusting his pants a bit and fluffing his shirt out in a way that always sorta screams to him, ‘I’m totally trying to hide a partial hard-on’ and answer the door. Even the two minutes it takes for the pizza girl to arrive at the door isn’t enough to calm him down, apparently, given the embarrassed blush-smirk combo he gets from her when he answers the door and she peers behind him to see Cas kind of blinky and dazed on the sofa.
He tips her a solid ten bucks and tells her to have a great night and he hears her murmur, "Not as great as you," as she walks back down toward the elevator.
When he turns back, Cas is staring at him with a sort of lost, sad look on his face. It makes Dean pause, sliding the pizza on the kitchen counter. He frowns.
"What’s wrong?"
Cas takes a deep breath like he’s about to speak and then closes his mouth and shrugs, looking suddenly bashful. "I like having you here."
Dean feels a grin split his lips. "I like being here."
Cas doesn’t smile back and in fact looks more forlorn. He pushes himself off the couch and comes toward the kitchen, stepping into Dean’s space with no preamble or awkwardness. Their hipbones bump slightly as Cas presses himself up against Dean, sliding his arms around him.
Dean feels a little uncertain all of a sudden with the strange mood Cas seems to suddenly be in.
"Are you…? Uh…" he stammers.
"I wish…" Cas begins, voice low and warm in Dean’s ear. He sighs. "We wasted so much time," he finally says.
Dean gives him a squeeze, arms tightening around Cas’ frame for a moment. "We’re not wasting any time now."
Cas pulls back slightly. "No, I suppose not."
Dean waits for a minute, thinking that this moment, whatever it is, will pass.
But it doesn’t. Cas continues to stare at him, not saying a word. Dean squeezes him again.
"Dude. Pizza," he prods.
"Of course," Castiel replies, like he hasn’t just been scrutinizing Dean wordlessly.
Cas pulls away and goes to one of the cupboards taking out plates and the finding napkins from another drawer. Dean almost laughs when he also gets out knives and forks. It’ll probably be the first time Dean’s ever had knives and forks handed out with pizza, but if it’s how Cas rolls…
He thinks he can get used to it.
***
As Dean cleans up, putting the pizza in the fridge and loading the small dishwasher, Castiel takes a moment to call Gabriel. As soon as the phone picks up, he can hear the muted din of noise that indicates Gabriel is in his office and not out on the nightclub floor. The music, while audible, is not as pulse-pounding as it is when Gabriel tries to talk while tending bar.
"If this is about those kids, I swear that ID looked legit," Gabriel says as he picks up the phone.
Castiel smiles. He is fond of his brother and does love him. Gabriel has always been larger than his frame implied. Big ideas, big dreams, big presence. "Hello, Gabriel."
"You wouldn’t arrest your favorite brother, would you?"
Castiel can tell from Gabriel’s tone that he’s had a couple of drinks already tonight. "You are my only brother."
"Even worse! Oh my God, the tragedy! It’s so Cain and Abel! Don’t do that to us, Cas. Because then I’ll have to break out of jail and take you on some roadtrip to loosen you up and there’ll be strippers and too many chocolate bars and I might leave one in your suit pocket and it will be ruined and then you’ll have to walk around naked and it will be horrible for your pale skin."
"I’m not arresting you."
"Oh thank God. I knew I could count on you, bro!"
"How are… things?"
"Is this a social call?" Gabriel asks, his tone confused.
"I just wanted to check in with you. Talk."
"Jesus, who died?" Gabriel jokes back and Castiel can feel himself flinch a bit at the words. Before he can stammer anything out, Gabriel begins chattering on about the club, about his liquor license nearly expiring, about having to hire and fire another assistant, about Balthazar wanting to change the menus again…
Castiel lets the chatter flow over him, soothing and familiar.
"… and so I said to him, if you think that’s obscene, you should’ve seen what happened last week! Let me tell you, those are words you should never say to a judge."
"I’m constantly amazed that you aren’t incarcerated."
"Pfffft. They can’t lock me up or they’d be out of a place to carry on their own crazy shit. I’ve seen some people do some things if you know what I mean," Gabriel says, voice taken on comic tones. "But seriously, you sleeping with that hottie or what?"
He looks up immediately at Dean, as though Dean could hear Gabriel over the phone. Dean looks very good in his kitchen, Castiel thinks. He’s relaxed and easy as he wipes up after dinner, putting the pizza in tupperware and breaking down the pizza boxes for the garbage. Dean looks over and catches him staring and winks, lips curling into a smile. Cas blushes and stammers a bit but before he can answer, Gabriel is hooting and hollering in his ear.
"Woooooo, you are! Nice! Rawr. Go get’em. So bring him by! Let me chat him up, totally above board of course. And, um, you know. Bring his brother, or whatever."
"Perhaps."
"I’m serious. Come by when the club’s closed and I’ll be all ears. And hands. Kidding! Kidding! I’ll keep my mitts to myself. Unless you bring his brother."
In spite of himself, Castiel laughs softly at Gabriel. "I would like that," he says and given what Pamela told him earlier this afternoon he hopes that he’s not lying by omission.
There’s a muffled crash of glass and Gabriel swears. "Oh shit, listen that didn’t sound good. I gotta go."
"Of course, goodbye, Gabriel."
"Bye."
Dean drops down on the sofa beside him, the weight of him drawing Cas closer as he turns his phone over in his hands.
"Your brother?"
Castiel nods. "Yes."
"They can be a pain in the ass but they’re good to have around," Dean says.
He nods for lack of anything to add to Dean’s statement.
"I worry about him," Cas suddenly blurts out, surprising himself. "He’s very… impulsive and I worry what would happen to him if I weren’t around."
"He seems like he does all right. Got a business, looks like it’s doing well," Dean replies, swinging an arm around Cas and pulling him in closer. Dean’s warm and firm and Castiel wants to just lie there and not think for a minute. "Besides, it’s not like you’re going anywhere."
Not if he can help it, Cas thinks.
They spend a few more drowsy after-dinner minutes on the sofa before Cas pushes himself up and heads back to the office, Dean trailing after him with a quiet sigh. He pulls out the pages he took from the Grimoire, the ones he never gave to Dean and Bobby. It’s not as though Dean can tell which pages they are, but he still feels slightly exposed and… guilty, working on the translation of them with Dean in the room.
Dean seems pretty engrossed in taking over the internet searches for different translation meanings and interpretations on other parts of the Grimoire. Despite being focused on his task, Castiel does spare a few moments to steal some glances at Dean. He can’t help but wonder what would have happened if they’d met under different circumstances. Would he have figured out Dean was some sort of felon? Perhaps even arrested him? Or would he have somehow deduced that Dean wasn’t entirely guilty of the crimes of which he was accused. At least, not in the way in which he was accused of them.
How could it have ever worked between them? A felon and an FBI agent. Maybe Castiel would have broken the law to help Dean. He likes to pretend they could still have had some kind of relationship - in another time, another place. He wants to believe that some higher power would be at work, bringing them together and ensuring they stay that way.
He stares at the foreign words scribbled on the pages in front of him, the squiggly lines blurring and shifting.
He wants to have faith that there is a higher plan and that someone, something knows what it is doing and wants Castiel and Dean to succeed.
He doesn’t know if that makes him devoutly faithful to an unknown being or completely, absurdly insane.
If it’s the latter, he prefers to never find out.
He sighs, trying to focus his eyes on the pages again. He feels like he is very close to understanding them, close to making sense of the strange language, the bizarre phrases. If he could just make out a few more words, he has a sense that it would all fall into place.
Perhaps he was foolish in keeping these pages from Dean, Sam and Bobby. He’s not sure know if it was shame, pride or simple folly that possessed him in the first place. He pushes up from the table and takes them over to the fax machine.
"You got something?" Dean asks, not looking up from the computer.
"No. Just some… more things to send Bobby. Perhaps he will have better luck than me."
He doesn’t want to tell Dean he kept these pages back to begin with. He keeps his back to Dean as he sends them through the fax.
"Bobby’s brain’s gotta be a crazy place to be man," Dean says. "You know he speaks Japanese? Probably a dozen other languages."
"You’re all an odd assortment of talents, aren’t you?" Castiel replies, turning to look at Dean.
Dean looks up and grins. "You say that like you’re not one of us now, Cas."
Cas blinks a bit in surprise at Dean’s words. "I thought you were trying your hardest to keep me out.
Dean’s grin fades and his eyes turn serious. "Much as I hate to admit it, you’re pretty in this now."
"I understand you were born to this life," Castiel says lowly. "But even if you hadn’t been, knowing what’s out there, do you think you could turn your back on it? Pretend that you didn’t know it was all real?"
Dean taps his thumb on the table as he stares at Cas, his green eyes dark and deep in the low light. "Probably not," he admits.
The fax machine finishes feeding the paper through, indicating it’s done with a long beep. It seems to break through Castiel and he realizes how tired he is. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I think it’s bedtime for all good little FBI agents," Dean says, standing from the desk chair and coming over to Castiel.
Castiel feels the weight of the day press in on him. Seeing the body at the crime scene had been like seeing an alternate version of himself. What could have been.
What still might be.
Then there is Dean. Beautiful Dean standing in front of him, looking somewhat worn and sleepy himself. Castiel reaches his hand out and clasps Dean’s fingers in his own, feeling the calluses of Dean’s hands and slightly dry skin. Castiel is tired and for a moment, he forgets himself and lets his head fall forward, forehead resting on Dean’s shoulder.
He hears Dean chuckle softly and his other hand comes up and clasps the back of Castiel’s neck.
"Tired?"
"Yes."
"Let’s go to bed. We’ll check in with Bobby and Sam tomorrow and see where we’re at. Maybe even stop off and see Pamela again."
He lets Dean lead him to his own bedroom and there’s nothing sensual or sexual about the way they both strip down - Dean to his boxers and Castiel to his briefs and his undershirt. He must admit, he feels somewhat relieved. He wasn’t sure he would be invested in anything else given what’s weighing on his mind.
He crawls into bed and somehow ends up partially draped over Dean; Dean’s arms around him solid and warm.
"I totally knew it," Dean says quietly. "Stealth cuddler." His voice is soft and pleased.
Castiel just shifts down deeper, breathing in the scent of Dean, feeling Dean’s skin against his face, hearing Dean’s breath and heart in his ear.
"I don’t think I can hate Uriel for what he did," Castiel says, starting to drift off into sleep.
"Hm? What?" asks Dean, voice a confused rumble in Castiel’s ear.
"I don’t know how you and I would have met otherwise."
He’s not sure if he falls asleep before Dean speaks or if Dean just doesn’t reply.
Castiel dreams.
He is walking down a long hallway in which there are many doors. It’s dim, not well lit and he can’t quite tell where the ambient light is coming from. He looks down and in his hand is the key, the key with his name stamped into the metal. It’s warm and worn under his fingertips. He passes by doors without looking at him, knowing the door he seeks is up further ahead.
Castiel finds it.
Etched in the dark grain of the wood is the same symbol that’s carved into the flesh of his chest. He places his hand over the sigil and feels the wood pulse beneath his touch - somehow almost alive. He feels an echoing pulse in the markings on his chest. He takes the key and slides it into the keyhole.
"Cas."
He turns his head to the side and sees Dean, far away, down at the end of the impossibly and improbably long corridor. He stands motionless, far away and yet intangibly close at the same time.
"I’m sorry, Dean."
He hears the words in his own voice and isn’t sure if he spoke them aloud or not.
Castiel turns the key, locks the door.
He awakes with a start, arms thrashing out and something immediately tightens around him.
"Hey, hey, shh. You’re okay."
The animal part of his brain must process the sound of Dean’s voice, the scent of Dean’s skin, before his higher brain functions can because he begins to relax before he’s really aware that he means to.
"Bad dream?"
Dean’s voice is morning deep and a little rough in Castiel’s ear. He likes it. He takes a deep breath and rolls slightly away from Dean, pushing his hair back with his fingers and settling on his back.
"Not… entirely," he admits, staring at the ceiling. He’s not sure why he’s so unsettled. Given some of the other dreams he’s had, this one was relatively tame.
There is faint light coming in the window; it must be early morning. A quick glance at the clock confirms it’s just past six.
Dean suddenly slaps him on the thigh and he starts slightly.
"You know what the cure for bad dreams is? Donuts. Imma get us some coffee and donuts. What’s your favorite kind?" Dean asks, sliding out of bed and pulling on his pants.
"Of donut? I don’t have one," Castiel admits, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Dean get dressed.
"What? Everyone’s got a favorite. Sammy likes those ones with the raisins in them. I like the ones with the rainbow sprinkles." Dean pauses and winks. "But if you tell him that I’ll say you’re a dirty rotten liar. C’mon. Maple? Boston cream?" Dean’s eyebrows quirk. "Jelly?"
Cas frowns. "I really don’t know. Sometimes I get one of the low-fat muffins."
"I bet you’re a jelly." With his pants and shirt now on, Dean leans over Cas and studies him. "Or… you might be sour cream glazed."
Dean studies him again for a quick moment and then darts forward, pressing a fast, hard kiss to Cas’ lips. "I’ll be back. Keep the bed warm," he smirks.
Castiel hears Dean just at the front door before he calls out, "My keys are on the hook by the light switch."
Dean doesn’t answer so Cas isn’t sure if Dean heard him or not.
He sinks back down into the warm and soft sheets, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the pillow. It smells of Dean - like clean sweat and soap and something that is uniquely him.
He dozes, at least he thinks he does because the next thing he knows, he’s sleepy, drowsy - the worst kind from going back to sleep early in the morning. He feels heavy and lethargic and just can’t face getting up. He’s aware of a ruckus from the front door, footsteps entering and then silence.
He’s fairly sure he doesn’t want to get out of bed even for Dean and his donuts.
He snuffles into the pillow a bit even as he mumbles, "Did you not find the keys?"
There’s no answer and he forces himself up a little higher into consciousness.
"Dean?"
When the attack comes, Cas is wholly unprepared for it. Hands grab him and something goes over his face and head immediately. He struggles - fists flying out, legs kicking - even as he dragged from his bed and lands hard on the floor.
There must be at least three of them. He can feel one set of hands flip him over onto his stomach and hold his shoulders down as another is pulling his arms behind him and securing them with something strong and tight - plastic zip ties, he thinks.
He kicks out again and feels his foot connect solidly with someone’s jaw. There’s a muffled curse and then there’s a hard and swift punch to his left kidney. He feels his ankles get similarly secured as his wrists, the plastic zip tie digging into his flesh.
He wriggles like an eel, still trying to move. When he’s unceremoniously flipped over onto his back, he kicks both his feet out and hits someone in the chest, hearing them fall back to the floor with a crash that sounds like it was his nightstand lamp. He snaps his feet out again, hoping to strike at someone else but feel nothing.
"Goddamn, he packs a wallop," Cas hears and feels a grim sense of satisfaction at the note of pain in the unknown voice.
"Yes. He’s quite strong and skilled."
That voice he knows. Castiel stills immediately.
"Uriel."
"Brother," Uriel says, and it’s eerily like Castiel’s dream when Uriel called him the same thing. "It appears I have need of you still."
"Fuck you."
He’s not one normally given to swearing but the words fall from his lips easily even though he’s bound on the floor with cloth over his head.
Uriel sighs and Castiel hears him move closer. Castiel cranes his neck in vain trying to figure out exactly where Uriel is and places him somewhere off to Castiel’s right. He hears the shuffle of clothing rustling and then Uriel’s voice is by his ear, as though he were crouching next to Castiel.
"I’m sorry it had to come to this."
Castiel wants to say something more, something dangerous, he isn’t sure what. All he manages is to open his mouth before he feels the prick of a needle in his thigh. His world starts to go wobbly and uneven, his lips heavy and thick. He tips off to the side and feels the warm bulk of Uriel catch him before he hits the ground.
He feels Uriel pet his hair softly, fondly. "Your sacrifice will not be in vain, brother."
He tries to worm away from Uriel’s embrace but his world goes sideways and he feels like he’s falling.
Then he feels nothing it all.
***
Cas must live in some kind of weird donut shop vacuum, Dean thinks, because he had to drive for twenty minutes before he saw the tell-tale sign of fresh baked yeast and brewed coffee.
Although it’s early, there’s already a line up at the popular coffee and donut shop and Dean doesn’t even try to maneuver his baby into the drive-thru line. She’s a beaut and a classic but she doesn’t always fit through the tight corners and curves that modern construction allots for four wheels.
Besides, being in the donut shop he’s awash in the heavenly scent of baking donuts and he can stand in front of the display case and try to decide what kind of donut Cas is.
Yeah, definitely sour cream glazed, Dean thinks. Understated, under-appreciated, a little crunchy on the outside and surprising dense and soft on the inside.
Holy fuck, he’s got it bad.
It makes him a little dizzy for a second, realizing how bad he’s got it for Cas and he feels a fine bead of cold sweat form on his upper lip and his forehead. The girl in the hairnet at the counter is looking at him funny and he realizes it’s his turn to order and he’s standing there, leaning against the cold pasty case, breathing through his mouth, trying to calm down. He manages a weak smile and she gives him a nervous one in return.
"Um, two large coffees, one double cream one black, and six donuts: three sour cream and three rainbow sprinkles."
She still looks dubious but rings it all up and a few minutes later he’s back in the cool morning air and he feels like he can breathe again.
He has no idea how this is gonna work, if it’s gonna work. Cas is a fed and Dean’s a wanted a felon. He spends all his time on the road chasing after things that go bump in the night while Cas sits at a desk and has an apartment.
This could be the scariest thing he’s ever done.
Or the dumbest.
Or both. Simultaneously.
By the time he makes it back to Cas’ apartment, he’s got the sick-nervous feeling back and he keeps telling himself that it’s stupid - there’s no reason to get into any of this now. They’re still working the job.
There’ll be plenty of time for freak-outs later on and Jesus, Sam is going to hand him his ass because he was so right and Dean’s got it for Cas and now he’s probably going to have to talk about his feelings or some dumb shit and Sam will make him watch daytime talk shows and use a body scrub or something.
He comes around the corner of the hallway, balancing the drink tray with coffee and the box of donuts and stops short.
Cas’ apartment door is open.
Cas isn’t the kind of guy to run out for the paper or to take the trash out and leave the door open and Dean knows he locked it behind him because Cas had yelled out where his keys were and Dean had seen them and scooped them up.
He quietly, carefully, sets the coffee and donuts down and wishes he’d brought his fucking Colt with him instead of leaving it in the Impala where it’s currently not doing a lick of good. He thinks about going down and getting it but he doesn’t want to waste the time it would take. He inches over to the door and listens.
It’s silent. There’s nothing from the inside.
He eases the door open further and peeks around the corner and sees nothing but Cas’ apartment - the same as when he left it.
He steps quietly into the hallway, eyes alert, body ready. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disturbed as fuck that there doesn't seem to be anything amiss.
And then he makes it to the bedroom.
There’s obviously been a struggle - bed sheets strewn, lamp broken, nightstand tipped over, the rug folded and twisted up. Dean’s stomach clenches tightly.
"Cas!" he calls out loudly, no longer caring to keep quiet. If Cas is still around, Dean needs him to make some kind of sound, give a signal.
There’s nothing in response.
Jesus fuck, he’s gone and from the looks of it, not willingly. Dean turns in a circle, completely at a loss for what to do. He pushes his hands through his hair. Holy fuck, he was just here, he was just fucking here and Cas was sleeping and Dean just left him and now he’s… he’s…
His phone vibrates and it scares the shit out of him for a second and he spins ready to fight before he realizes what it is. He pulls the phone out and sees Bobby’s number. His hands are shaking even as he answers it.
"Bobby?" he asks.
"Where’d your fella get those pages he sent me last night?" Bobby says, not pausing for a greeting.
"What?" Dean can’t make sense of Bobby’s question.
"Castiel. He sent me those pages last night. Where’d he get ‘em?"
Bobby’s voice is abrupt, gruff and Dean is so flummoxed he can’t even respond. He’s still turning in a slow circle, looking around the room like Cas will just appear out of somewhere.
"I don’t… oh fuck."
"What’s wrong?"
"Shit, Bobby. I went out for coffee and I just… when I got back… he’s… someone just fucking… they must have grabbed him."’
"Your fella? Castiel?"
"Yeah, he’s… Jesus, Bobby, I don’t know what happened. I was just gone half an hour, maybe forty minutes."
"Where’s Sam?"
"The hotel," Dean answers. "I think. I mean-" he presses the heel of his hand against his one of his eye sockets. Fuck he can’t think. He takes a breath and forces his brain to work. "The hotel. He’d be at the hotel unless he went to the Y to work out or something."
"Where’re you at?"
"I’m at Cas’. Jesus, they must have come in as soon as I left. I just… we figured that they’d need Cas for the spell, but I… I mean… I … Goddamit!" he shouts.
"You stay put, I’m gonna get Sam on the horn and when he gets there, you boys call me. We gotta chat."
The phone goes silent and Dean drops it back in his pocket and turns another full circle in the bedroom, looking for something, anything.
He finds two unused zip ties leading him to figure that they must have used some on Cas when they (whoever they were) snatched him.
Other than the clutter and mess, there’s nothing else.
Not a goddamn thing.
When Sam shows up, Dean’s still pacing the small space, on his way to wearing a nice path into the utilitarian carpet. Cas’ phone sits charging on the counter and Dean wants to smash it into little bits. He knows Gabriel’s got a tracker in it and fat lot of good it does them now when Cas wasn’t even properly dressed when he was taken, let alone armed or with his phone.
Sam calls Bobby back and they put him on speakerphone. Sam’s spreading out the bulk of his latest research in Castiel’s office, trying to find spots not already taken up by Castiel’s work.
"I was asking Dean, where did Castiel get those pages he sent me last night?" Bobby says, voice gruff over the phone.
Sam looks up at Dean and Dean shrugs. "I have no idea. It was just something he always seemed to be working on. Why? You didn’t have them?"
"No, I didn’t have them," Bobby says, his voice terse and tense. "And it might have done me a fuck lot more good if I had. I need to know if you boys are holding anything else back."
Again, Dean and Sam exchange a look, both of them looking slightly bewildered.
"Bobby," Sam says, "we’ve sent you everything we have. I mean, I don’t know what Castiel sent you the other night but, uh…" Sam looks over at Dean again. "We don’t have anything else."
Bobby makes a non-committal sound - a sort of half grunt.
"What the fuck is this all about?" asks Dean, barely able to stand the tension.
"Those pages your fella sent last night, he’d got them mostly translated, which is pretty fucking impressive given that he only just started learning this kind of thing."
Dean feels a quick flare of pride and satisfaction at that, but it’s short lived. "But…"
"But it would’ve been a site better if I’d had them before. I got access to a lot more shit then he does and I could’ve had this translated sooner. And this shit is important."
"How important?" asks Sam.
"Shutting down an apocalypse portal important," Bobby grouses. "Look, Dean, I don’t know how to say this so I’m just gonna say it."
Dean feels his stomach clench up at those words and he can’t even look up from the phone, can’t look at Sam. He doesn’t want to see his brother’s sympathetic eyes right now, doesn’t want to feel anything soft or warm. He just needs to think and get through this.
"Say what?"
"Your fella Castiel, he and I have been working on some of the other translations in the book, the grimoire of Uriel’s. Based on that it’s been pretty clear that Castiel was the key to opening up that damned portal."
"I know all this, Bobby," Dean growls.
"Yeah, well these pages I got last night make clear is that Castiel is a key that works both ways. He opens the portal, and he can close it."
On to Part 6