Fic: Safest Place to Hide (2/3)
As early as spring, Sam starts talking about what they’re going to eat over the next winter. To Dean, it mostly sounds like he’s speaking a foreign language.
“Mache!” Sam declares enthusiastically. “Arugula! Swiss chard!” Dean smiles and nods and secretly wonders if the time in Hell screwed up Sam’s brain in addition to his soul.
Cas seems pretty enthusiastic about it too, though. He marks recipes in ancient, falling-apart cookbooks with pieces of aluminum foil, so that the kitchen looks like it’s been invaded by really studious aliens, or overly enthusiastic conspiracy theorists. Sam reads Cas lists of vegetables from his gardening books and Cas actually takes notes in the margins of his recipes. Dean doesn’t want to be a giant buzzkill - and he also doesn’t want to eat nothing but canned chilli for another winter - so he ends up building something called a cold frame.
It is actually a box, with four wooden sides, an open bottom and a removable lid made of glass. Sam claims that this box will hold in enough heat to keep vegetables alive, if not actively growing, all winter, wind and snow be damned. Dean has his doubts, but it’s not like he has anything better to do with his time.
“Tada!” Dean says, gesturing at the sort-of-pathetic structure Vanna White style. The wood of each of the four sides is stained a different colour because they’ve each been salvaged from different heaps of junk scattered around the property. The glass lid is made from a loose, cracked pane Dean pulled from the rotting greenhouse, and it definitely slopes more than the few degrees Sam had recommended. Dean really likes working with his hands, and he’s attracted to the idea of building stuff, but he’s really had more experience with cars. As it turns out, working with metal and working with wood are very different skills.
Sam doesn’t seem to notice the shoddy workmanship, though. “It’s perfect,” he says, and he smiles that new, carefully controlled smile. He slaps Dean on the back, just under his shoulder blades. “Now you just need to build two more.” He practically skips back to the house, and Dean knows he’s only pretending not to hear his groans.
But two hours later all three cold frames are finished, and the third one actually doesn’t look like total shit. Sam is suitably impressed with all of them and immediately starts rambling about which plants they should sow in the summer to prepare the soil under the boxes for a fertile winter. Dean switches easily into smile-and-nod mode as they walk back to the front porch, and sit down on the steps. Cas comes outside, book tucked under his arm, and hands Dean a slightly chipped glass full to the brim with ice water.
Dean likes the soreness in his muscles that comes from a hard day of physical labour. His life was always a strange combination of intense physical activity followed by long bouts of being totally sedentary. Researching a monster for hours sitting still and quiet in the library followed by running from or fighting said monster, followed by hours or days driving, with only the odd stop to stretch his legs. Dean’s life has been characterized by sudden starts and stops, and it’s nice to get moving again after the long, still winter.
There’s still a bit of winter chill in the air, but not quite so much that it’s worth standing up to get his jacket. Dean can feel Sam’s body heat soaking through their jeans where their knees bump together as they hang over the step. Across the porch, Cas climbs into the hammock and opens some old lady’s journal he’d found in the attic and won’t stop talking about lately.
Sam starts humming under his breath, and it’s hilariously out of tune. Feeling exhausted and charitable, Dean decides to find it endearing instead of irritating. He knocks his knee against his brother’s. “Someone’s happy,” he says fondly.
Sam makes a noise of agreement. “It’s been a good day.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and he’s just a little surprised to find he really means it. He’s living in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with his vegetable-crazy little brother and an angel, and Dean is really fucking happy. The grass in the fields is starting to come up green, and white buds are sprouting on the branches of the crab-apple tree.
“It’s really beautiful here,” Sam says. Dean’s not surprised he and Sam are thinking along the same sort of wavelength. They’re often in tune with each other like that these days.
“I think I could stay like this forever,” Dean says. “Just like this.” He’s aware there’s something really strange about their living situation. He probably shouldn’t want to spend the rest of his life pretending to be a farmer and sharing his angel boyfriend with his brother. It’s not exactly the plan he had for his life. In fact, it’s probably not the dream any normal person has for their life. But Dean’s not normal and never has been, and he suddenly, fiercely, wants to spend the rest of his life just like this, just the three of them.
Sam makes a sharp, stifled noise like pain in the back of his throat. “Me too,” he says, voice cracking. Dean means to just look over at his brother, to check that he’s okay, and instead ends up pressing their mouths together.
Sam inhales sharply and Dean worries for a moment he’s going to pull away, but then he opens his mouth under Dean’s. The kiss is short, barely long enough for Dean to register that Sam’s mouth tastes sweet and is still cold from a sip he stole from Dean's ice water. Then Dean pulls away just far enough to see Sam’s face. He’s careful to do it slowly, swiping his tongue along Sam’s bottom lip so that Sam knows Dean isn’t scared, isn’t angry.
Sam’s eyelashes seem suddenly very long around his eyes, huge and uncertain. Dean is close enough to see Sam’s bottom lip tremble, and he can feel Sam’s leg bouncing nervously where their knees are still pressed together. Dean puts his hand on Sam’s knee to still him.
“I’m not scared,” he says, perfectly honest, though he knows this shouldn’t be true. “Feel that? So you have nothing to be scared of either.”
Sam stares down at Dean’s hand on his knee. “Dean,” he starts.
“Sam,” Dean interrupts. “I don’t want to be an ass or anything, but I’m not really good at talking about this sort of thing.”
Sam nods, and frowns, like he’s trying to figure out what Dean wants from him. Then he leans forward and kisses Dean again, one hand on either side of Dean’s face. Dean smiles under his mouth, then pulls away with a laugh.
“Yeah Sam, I think we understand each other.”
When Cas clears his throat they both startle, and Sam looks momentarily wracked with guilt. “Is everyone okay over there?” Cas asks, his voice carefully neutral. “No one is going to have a heart attack or a seizure, are they?” He doesn’t even look up from his book, and that’s a little suspicious given his fondness for eye contact. Also, Dean is pretty sure he can see a smile tugging at the corner of Cas’ mouth.
“We’re fine Cas,” Sam says. “Yeah, I think we’re really good.”
“Excellent,” Cas says. “I’m going to go make you boys something for supper.” He climbs carefully out of the hammock, and there’s a little extra spring to his step as he heads inside.
***
“Hey Cas,” Dean says casually, like he hadn’t been honking the car’s horn repeatedly for the last five minutes. “How’s it going?”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “It was very peaceful. Apparently that’s over, now.”
Dean grins. “You know me, life of the party. But I bet you missed me.” Time doesn’t work the same way for Castiel as it does for Dean. Though he was gone nearly five hours on a supply run, to Castiel, absorbed in a briefcase of old letters in the attic, it might as well have been minutes.
“Terribly,” Castiel agrees, walking over to where Dean is leaning against the passenger side door. He presses a kiss to Dean’s mouth, smiles at the surprised noise he makes. “I’m glad you’re home.”
Castiel opens the back seat of the car with great care, remembering the last time a sack of flour had tumbled out and exploded. Their supplies seem to be more carefully packed this time, in both the back seat and the trunk. It is still a bit disconcerting to see the trunk of Dean’s car filled with toilet paper and toothpaste and fertilizer. Castiel doesn’t know where he’s moved all the weaponry. Castiel starts to unload boxes and crates and bags, while Dean fusses with something in the passenger’s seat.
“Sam,” he calls in the direction of the garden. “Sammy!”
When Dean calls his name, Sam pops up from behind the compost bins like the old jack-in-the-box children’s toy Castiel found in the attic. “Coming,” he calls, and then jogs over. He slows when he gets close, hesitant, like he and Dean still don’t know how to approach each other. His smile is small and crooked, but Castiel can see pure, undisguised joy in his eyes. Because for Sam, the time Dean is away might very well feel like eternity. It’s not that he and Sam don’t both care for Dean, just that they experience it differently.
“Come here,” Dean says, as he pulls a cardboard box out of the passenger’s seat of the car. He holds the box unusually delicately in Sam’s direction. “I got something for the garden.”
Sam’s expression is cautious as he approaches, like he expects Dean to throw the box at him. Then he peeks over the edge of the box, and Castiel sees his face transform completely.
“Oh my god, Dean,” he says, and reaches down into the box, rapt.
“The lady at the store said you’d need like, three different pesticides to deal with all your bugs. She said I should get these instead.”
Castiel walks closer and peers over Dean’s shoulder and into the box. Inside are six small balls of yellow and brown fluff, which immediately start moving toward the corner of the box closest to Castiel, making a high pitched noise.
“What is it?” Castiel says, and Dean laughs.
“They’re ducklings,” Sam says, stroking one along its back with a single finger. “And they’re perfect.”
“Hey,” Dean says gruffly. “I got them to eat bugs and stuff for you. This is a totally practical gift.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Sam says, scooping up one of the creatures and holding it to his face. Meanwhile the other five clump together, climbing all over one another to get closer to Castiel.
“I think they like you, dude,” Dean says.
“It is probably because I am an angel,” Castiel explains. It makes something in his stomach clench when Dean frowns at that. Dean frowns anytime he or Sam mentions that he is something more than human.
“Like you’re Snow White or something?” Sam asks, and Castiel doesn’t understand the reference, but he can sense that he’s being teased.
“I have an affinity with birds,” Castiel says. “We have characteristics in common.” Castiel picks up one of the ducklings. Its webbed feet are cold on his palm. The bird stares at him like it’s trying to communicate something with its eyes.
“Anyway. I have food and a heat lamp and shit in the car. The farmer I bought ‘em from wrote me some instructions.”
“Okay,” Sam says. “Sure.” He puts the duckling carefully back in the box, and then takes the box from Dean, setting it on the ground. He closes the gap between himself and Dean, hesitating only briefly before wrapping his arms around his brother’s neck.
Dean lets out a surprised huff of air at the unexpected embrace, then slowly lifts his arms to return the hug. “You’re welcome, Sam,” he says softly. “They’re just birds.”
“No they’re not,” Sam says as he pulls away, and he and Dean just stare at one another for a moment.
“Right,” Dean says finally, staring down at his boots. “Let’s finish unloading this car.”
***
Being in love with Dean is nothing new for Sam, but he expected, in all his wild adolescent fantasies, that if Dean ever started to love him back everything would change. Some teenage part of Sam’s brain expected fireworks, or at least constant butterflies in his stomach, but instead, being in a mutual, romantic relationship with his brother feels almost familiar.
Dean still teases him about his hair and his taste in movies and the way he can’t read analog clocks properly when he’s tired. They bicker about tiny, useless things and then make up just as quickly. Sam has always been aware of where Dean’s body is in relationship to his own; he can tell which room of the house Dean is in based on the sound of his footsteps, or his whistling, or sometimes just this feeling in the base of his spine. They finish each other’s sentences, and when Dean makes a supply run he brings back exactly what Sam needs, even if Sam didn’t remember to put it on the list.
So Sam takes to cataloguing the small differences between now and then instead of waiting for big ones. Dean smiles more often. The nervous edge is missing from his teasing, like he’s got nothing to prove and nothing to hide anymore. Dean wears Sam’s shirts without asking, and sometimes even when there’s lots of clean laundry left so he doesn’t strictly need to. Dean makes coffee for him every morning, not just on special occasions or when he thinks he might be in trouble. Between Cas’ constant invasion of Dean’s space and Dean’s new invasion of his own, Sam finds himself bumping into people constantly. It makes getting stuff done kind of difficult. When he’s out gardening he has to check over his shoulder on a regular basis to make sure he’s not about to stab someone in the stomach with his hoe.
And Dean touches him more often. That part definitely feels different. He rests his hand on the small of Sam’s back when they pass each other in the narrow hallway leading off of the kitchen. He ruffles Sam's hair when Sam falls asleep on the couch. Once, he gets kind of drunk and insists on holding Sam’s hand under the table while they each try to eat dinner one-handed. His morning coffee comes with a good morning kiss - quick, furtive, though no one but Cas can see - about every second or third day.
But there are some ways Dean doesn’t touch Sam. Sam finds out exactly which about a week after they first kissed, lying facing his brother on Dean’s bed. He can hear Cas making them supper downstairs, pots and pans clanging.
Before, sharing a bed wasn’t absolutely unheard of, but it was a rare thing after Sam hit puberty. It only happened when they ran so desperately short of money they couldn’t afford to pay the extra ten bucks to rent a cot, or John was injured, or too drunk to share a bed. Sam can’t remember them sharing a bed once since they started hunting together again after college. The most they might’ve done was sit on the same bed while they pulled on their shoes, or called Bobby, or shared a pizza.
But now they’re lying less than six inches apart, and Sam can feel Dean’s breath against his own lips. Sam reaches forward and grabs Dean’s hand, tracing tiny circles on the soft, pale skin at the inside of Dean’s wrist. It feels like an insane, impossible thing that Dean lets him, and though they’re fully clothed, Sam’s never felt so naked.
“Hey, you okay?” Dean asks, his voice whisper-soft. Sam realizes his hands are shaking.
“Yeah,” Sam says, because he has never been more okay than right now. “It’s just, sometimes it feels like maybe this place isn’t real, you know? Like I’m really asleep in the passenger seat of the Impala, and Cas is fighting a war in Heaven, and we’re still waiting for the world to come crashing down around us when I wake up from this really great dream.”
Dean smirks. “How long you been dreaming about me, Sammy?”
“Shut up,” Sam responds automatically, and then adds, “since I was fourteen” because they promised they would be honest with each other from now on.
Dean whistles quietly. “Ouch. Sorry Sam.”
That makes Sam chuckle, because how ridiculous is it for Dean to apologize for Sam’s crush on him? Then he leans forward and kisses Dean, just because he can.
It goes really well for the first minute or so. They share short, shallow kisses like they’re getting acquainted with each other. Sam knows almost everything there is to know about Dean Winchester, but until now the way he kisses was a mystery. He likes it very much. He wraps one hand around the back of Dean’s neck, pulling them closer. He deepens the kiss, relishing the way his tongue feels against Dean’s.
Dean makes a small noise in the back of his throat. Sam mistakes it for the same mixture of pleasure and surprise he’s feeling; he rolls forward and shifts so he’s leaning against Dean, pushing him onto his back. Sam keeps his hands on Dean as he shifts so he has one knee on either side of Dean’s legs, because now that he’s allowed to touch he never wants to stop. Sam keeps kissing Dean, and Dean keeps kissing him back, and Sam’s so caught up in it all he doesn’t notice how still Dean’s gone or how Sam’s the only one initiating and all Dean’s doing is reacting.
That is, until he rests some of his weight on Dean, thrusting his hips hesitantly against Dean’s as he moves in for another kiss. Before their mouths meet Dean turns his face away, and he makes a sound that is brutally, unmistakably, gagging.
“Dean?” Sam asks, “Are you okay?”
Dean doesn’t answer, not out loud. He pushes Sam away - gently - by the shoulders. Sam moves, and Dean shifts out from under him, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes. Sam’s brain catches up with his body, and now he sees how pale Dean is, and the wrinkles in his forehead that mean he’s upset. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. He hunches forward, leaning on his elbow, and Sam can see he’s taking slow, deep breaths like he’s trying to calm himself down after a fight, or a chase.
“Dean,” Sam repeats, worried now. “What’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it tight and dashes for the door, pushing Sam out of his way. A moment later Sam hears him in the bathroom, retching violently. Sam’s spent a lot of time listening to Dean puke over the years, but it’s never seemed quite this awful.
***
“It could be the chicken pot pie. Maybe the freezer is faulty.” Castiel knows the chicken he made for lunch was just fine, but he also knows more than Sam and Dean realize about white lies, and this seems like an ideal time to put one to use. He and Sam are sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen table. There’s a steaming bowl of spaghetti in the center of the table, but neither of them has made a move to serve it. Instead, they’ve both been staring at the washroom door for the last ten minutes.
“Thanks for trying, Cas” Sam mutters, and Castiel knows he’ll have to spend more time practicing his lies.
“There’s nothing wrong with your kissing,” he says. “I would know if there was.”
“But it’s not the same -“ Sam stops talking when Dean opens the washroom door. His hair is slightly damp and there are droplets caught in his eyelashes, like he’s just splashed his face with water. For some reason, Sam stands up.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Sit down, Sam. I’m not a fucking chick.”
Sam sits. He runs a hand through his hair, nervous. It’s getting very long and flops back down into his eyes.
“I...” Dean stops and looks at Castiel.
“Oh,” Castiel says. Of course they’ll want to talk about this alone. Their relationship is none of his concern. “I can go up to the attic and sort through some letters.”
“No,” Dean says quickly. “Stay. This affects you too.” Castiel does, resisting the urge to step back into a corner. Out of the way.
“We can just forget anything ever happened,” Sam says. “We can just go back to the way things were. Before.” He speaks too quickly, like he’s trying to force the words out before he has a chance to reconsider them.
“Is that what you want?” Dean asks, voice full of doubt.
Sam barks out a laugh, clipped and harsh. “Of course not.” Sam practically yells, “But touching me makes you hurl, so I don’t see how I have much of a choice.”
Dean winces at Sam’s volume. “It’s not you,” he says, much more quietly, “It’s me. You know how I feel. I wouldn’t lie about that. It’s just that when things start to get...intense, I imagine you in diapers.”
Castiel chuckles. He can’t help it; the feeling bubbles up in his chest and escapes before he can clamp his lips together. ‘I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “It’s not funny.”
“You picked a weird time to grow a sense of humour,” Dean says. His shoulders relax slightly, and he turns back to Sam. “Listen. It’s just that I’ve spent my whole life touching you. I helped you get dressed for school when you were a kid. I tickled you when you were scared of monsters at night. I know how you got every single scar on your body, and I stitched you up at least half those times. I know your body as well as my own, and never, ever was that the slightest bit sexual.”
Sam nods.
“And I know it was different for you, and that’s okay Sammy, it is. But I just can’t think of you that way. I wanna be with you, but I don’t want to fuck you.” Dean makes a face even saying the word, like he’s suddenly ashamed of cursing.
“Okay,” Sam says. He picks at the frayed threads around a hole in his jeans and suddenly looks very, very young.
“So I was thinking that maybe we could just take things slow? Like, hold back on the physical stuff for awhile.” The way Dean says ‘awhile’ sounds a lot like the way he says ‘forever.’ “’Cause sex isn’t everything, right?”
Castiel laughs again. He can’t help it, remembering the way Dean dragged him to a brothel ten seconds after finding out he was a virgin. But then, they’ve all changed, haven't they? The Sam who sits across from him picking nervously at his clothes isn’t the hardened, desperate, dangerous man Castiel first met, Castiel himself is barely distinguishable from a human anymore, his Grace has gone so far into hibernation, and Dean Winchester is declaring that sex isn’t a big deal.
“I’m glad you find our angst amusing, you sadistic bastard,” Dean says, but he reaches for the bowl of spaghetti as he says it, so Castiel knows everything is fine.
***
They bring the bed from the guest room into the main bedroom, and push the two together. One of the mattresses is slightly thicker than the other, but they compensate by shoving a couple of old quilts underneath the thinner of the two. There’s not a lot of room to spare, but this way the three of them can sleep together. Well, Dean and Sam sleep. Cas drifts off into a trance or something. Sam’s a blanket hog and the way Cas goes stiff as a board is sort of creepy, but Dean’s willing to put up with it so he can listen to their breathing at night. He likes to know they’re okay.
The only problem is, Sam gets up at the buttcrack of dawn every morning to check on his fucking garden. Dean appreciates all the work Sam puts into it and he’s glad to be eating something other than ramen noodles, but he sort of hoped that staying in one spot would mean getting to sleep in most mornings.
The alarm reminds Dean of the screaming souls in Hell, he swears to god, but Sam calls him melodramatic every time he mentions it. Since it was Sam’s turn to sleep in the middle the night before, he has to scramble over Dean to get out of bed. The elbow in his gut really makes Dean’s morning. He covers his head with his pillow until he hears the front door slamming and Sam’s disgustingly cheerful morning whistle. Then he uncovers his eyes and rolls over on his stomach, trying to block out the sun and catch the tail end of the dream he was having before it escapes.
A minute later he flops back onto his back and sighs heavily.
***
“No luck?” Castiel asks. He tries to speak quietly because he knows it alarms Dean, the way he is always so alert.
“Nope. I hate him. I think I’m going to break up with him.”
“That seems a bit rash. Besides, I’m glad you’re awake.”
“Why?”
“Because Sam is outside doing the weeding, and he’ll be gone at least an hour. We can make good use of that time.” Castiel rolls onto his side, assisted by the way the bed dips slightly in the middle, where the two sections meet. He kisses the side of Dean’s neck, then his chin, then his mouth.
They kiss for a full ten minutes before Castiel reaches for the waistband of the boxer shorts Dean sleeps in. “Hey,” Dean says, “hold your horses, cowboy.”
Castiel wants to scream at Dean for his stubbornness. He hates that Dean treats him like a child who needs protecting, like he’s not able to make his own choices about what he wants to do with this body he thinks of as his own, and Dean’s. He wants to hold Dean down, press him into the mattress and show him exactly how powerful he really is, just how much he doesn’t need anyone’s protection. But instead he just slides his hand back up to rest safely against Dean’s chest, where it’s allowed.
They lie in silence. “Are you mad at me?” Dean asks, finally.
Castiel says nothing.
“Are you giving me the silent treatment or something?”
“Well what’s the point in talking?” Castiel snaps. “If you won’t take me seriously when I do.”
“Oh God, what did I do now?”
“I have sex with Sam, you know. A lot. And I have been in no way negatively affected by that experience. So I really think I should be the judge of what’s good for me.”
Dean groans and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. They’ve had this argument before. “Listen,” Dean says, voice muffled, “I’m just not that kind of guy. I slept around a lot, sure, but I always made sure the girls got as much as they gave. Fair’s fair. Sam may want your pity sex, but I have my principles.”
Castiel has an idea. He sits up, pushing Dean by the shoulders to roll him onto his back. Then he straddles Dean’s waist. “Yes, I know how you were with women,” he says, pitching his voice low. “Sam’s told me all about it.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean says with a smirk. He looks perfectly comfortable pinned to the bed. Castiel remembers pinning Dean against walls and seeing fear, and the trust in his eyes now makes him shiver.
“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “He used to watch you sometimes,” he continues, wrapping a hand around each of Dean’s wrists and leaning over Dean to press them into the bed. “He told me you once let a blonde tie you to the headboard with her pantyhose.”
Dean goes rigid beneath him then, and uncertainty creeps into his eyes. He laughs nervously. “Yeah, well I’ll try anything once.”
“Or more than once. Does it turn you on, Dean, when someone else takes control?” Castiel squeezes Dean’s wrists hard enough to hurt. He could snap them like twigs if he tried.
Dean whimpers, a mixture of pain and lust. “Fuck.” He looks afraid, but not of Castiel.
“Don’t move,” Castiel says in his most authoritative voice. He goes to the closet, and when he comes back a moment later Dean hasn’t moved a muscle, still lying prone on the bed, jeans unbuttoned. He’s not capable of true lust, but seeing Dean like that still does something to Castiel, makes his heart leap like the moment you find your opponent’s weakness in a fight. The taste of victory is already on his tongue.
Castiel binds Dean’s wrists together with the dirty blue tie that was once Jimmy’s. He thinks if he tried he might be able to find some kind of symbolism there, but really it was just the closest, most convenient thing he could think of. Dean doesn’t protest, just watches Castiel in silence and lets him rearrange his arms above his head.
Castiel bends to kiss Dean’s mouth, and on the way back up his eyes get caught on Dean’s and it takes his breath away. He has to shakes his head to clear it before getting back to business, kissing a trail down Dean’s throat and his bare chest. He stops to suck at the soft skin of Dean’s belly, at the fine trail of golden hair leading him downward. Then he pulls down Dean’s boxer shorts, tossing them aside. Dean’s cock rests half-hard against his thigh, and Dean shudders when Cas touches it, throws his head back against the pillow.
Castiel takes Dean’s cock in one hand and strokes firmly, just like Sam taught him. Then he licks experimentally at the slit, and Dean groans appreciatively. Castiel smiles - he’s not surprised Sam and Dean like the same things. Castiel takes Dean’s cock into his mouth and begins to suck in earnest, and Dean squirms underneath him, struggling to sit up well enough to see without the use of his hands.
“Oh God Cas, stop,” Dean says, and Castiel doesn’t want to stop and really, Dean’s in no position to make him.
Castiel removes his mouth from Dean’s cock, but he keeps his palm wrapped firmly around it, moving in long, smooth, strokes. He lifts his head just far enough to meet Dean’s eyes. “What?” he growls, warning in his voice.
“Just...not like this, okay? Just, give me a hand here.” Dean squirms until Castiel moves enough to let him roll out from under him. Dean is awkward and just a little pathetic looking trying to move without using his arms for leverage or balance. He falls against Castiel’s chest and Castiel goes with the motion, landing flat on his back against the mattress, Dean balanced on just his knees above him, bound hands resting against his groin, partially obscuring his still-hard cock.
“I’ll untie you if you ask,” Castiel says because he knows it’s the right thing to do. The look in Dean’s face, all acquiescence and desperate want has no fight in it.
“No,” Dean says, and his voice is choked. “Just, uh, in the bedside drawer.”
Castiel reaches over and finds the tub of petroleum jelly.
“Okay?” Dean asks, but Castiel is already coating Dean’s cock, so the word comes out breathless. He has to push Dean’s hands out of the way to do it, and his eyes catch on the strip of whitened skin where the tie is knotted tight around Dean’s wrists.
Castiel holds Dean steady by the waist while he kicks off his pyjama pants. Then Dean edges forward and his cock nudges against Castiel. Castiel reaches down to line them up properly, and Dean thrusts forward and inside him. Dean falls forward then, out of surprise or pleasure Castiel doesn’t know, and Castiel catches him by the waist and the shoulder, before they can knock skulls.
Dean laughs, then thrusts again and groans, and lets Castiel support his weight, bound arms bumping uselessly between their chests. Castiel realizes that Dean had fallen on purpose, had known he would catch him. Dean presses down against Castiel’s hands to force himself up, and Castiel helps, until Dean is high enough to look into his eyes.
The expression in Dean’s eyes - laughter, and happiness and peace and limitless trust - startles Castiel and they gasp in unison, Dean from physical pleasure and Castiel because of the rush of warmth in his chest, the sense of something coming alive inside him.
“Angel eye-sex, right?” Dean manages between two ragged breaths. “Better when you can see me.” Castiel realizes that Dean probably wouldn’t have minded that blow job, that but the reason they’re fucking instead is so Castiel can look into Dean’s face.
“I love you,” Castiel says in response, and Dean just grunts.
They fuck fast and hard. Dean’s been celibate for so long now he probably couldn’t slow down if he wanted to. Castiel supports Dean’s weight the whole time, but it’s not like he can get tired, not like he can feel real pain even though Dean is less than gentle. Dean’s breathing is ragged and his expression almost pained, but he keeps his eyes open and fixed on Castiel’s, even when he comes, shaking and gasping and writhing.
Castiel is the one who breaks their locked gaze, resting Dean carefully against his own chest. Dean lies there for a few minutes, breathing hard, before he rolls off. Castiel reaches over to undo the knots in Jimmy’s tie. The blood rushes back into Dean’s hands and turns his skin pink.
“We should do that every day,” Castiel says after a minute’s silence.
Dean laughs. “Did you see my soul, Cas?”
Castiel nods.
“And? Was it a sexy, sexy soul?”
Castiel smiles, massaging the feeling back into Dean’s hands. “I can’t describe it in any of your human languages,” he says.
Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re such a girl.” He pulls his hands out of Cas’ grasp and sits up suddenly. “Come on,” he orders, pulling on a pair of jeans he finds on the ground. “I’ve got something to show you.”
***
When Dean walks out of the house wearing only a pair of jeans, chest sweaty, hair messy and lips swollen pink, Sam almost crushes the baby duck he’s holding. The ducks are a few months old by now so she squawks indignantly and bites Sam’s thumb and he drops her. Sam doesn’t take his eyes off his brother.
Cas follows Dean out the door a few moments later, and he’s fully clothed. “What are we doing?” he says.
“We’re teaching you how to drive,” Dean says gleefully, climbing into the Impala’s passenger side and shaking the keys beguilingly out the open door.
Sam wanders over. He tries to keep it casual, but secretly he wonders how Dean has managed to get himself drunk at nine o’clock in the morning.
“Sammy! I’m glad you’re here. You can help me beat the shit out of Cas if he fucks up my car,” Dean announces when he catches sight of Sam. Okay, so maybe he’s not totally wasted.
Cas gets into the driver’s side of the car and places his hands awkwardly on the steering wheel. Sam climbs into the back seat, because if they’re going to get into a car wreck and die, he might as well go with them.
“Okay, so first thing’s first. Do up your seat belt.”
Sam snorts, and Dean turns around to glare at him. “Got something to add, Mr. Backseat Driver?”
“He’s an angel,” Sam says. “If we crash it’s not going to hurt him any. You do up your seat belt.” Dean scowls, but he actually listens.
“It’s the principle of the thing, Sam. It can’t hurt to learn good habits. Cas might not be an angel forever.”
Cas’ knuckles go white around the steering wheel at that, Sam notices. Dean’s fervent anti-angel position is a sore spot they haven’t talked about yet. Dean and Cas don’t have the same total honesty policy that Dean and Sam have made official, and that Cas and Sam seem to have fallen into accidentally.
They sit in the car for nearly an hour before Dean even lets Cas turn the key in the ignition. Cas is remarkably patient. If it were Sam he might have punched Dean in the face by now. Dad taught Sam to drive, not Dean, and he was much more in favour of hands-on learning. Of course Sam was also learning in a beat up minivan they hotwired two towns over, not the Impala.
Cas is patient, and obedient, and he seems to take every miniscule direction Dean gives him to heart. Dean doesn’t seem to notice the way Cas’ fingers twitch on the wheel, the way he taps his foot against the accelerator without permission every so often, but Sam does. Dean’s lecture on basic car safety and maintenance is excruciatingly boring - not to mention hypocritical - but Sam likes watching him anyway, the way his face lights up when he talks about something he loves. He stretches out in the backseat, positions himself so he can see Cas’ hands and Dean’s face and half of his bare chest, and lets the excited rise and fall of Dean’s instructions and Cas’ calm, serious answers wash over him.
When the engine starts it startles him, and he sits up quickly, fastening his own seatbelt in a hurry. It turns out the worry is pretty unnecessary, though, because Cas is a natural or something, if a little uptight. They cruise down the dirt road at the end of the driveway, and Cas even rolls down his window to feel the breeze in his face. Sam really loves it, the three of them in the car together. He feels like they could go anywhere and do anything and no one would ever be able to touch them.
Dean makes them turn around when they get close to town, and Cas executes a perfect three point turn. He turns on the tape deck for the ride back, since the car radio doesn't work. This means, of course, that all they have is Dean's cassettes. Sam wonders if maybe Dean broke the radio on purpose.
Dean scowls at Cas as they pull into the driveway. Cas parallel parks even though he doesn’t need to. “You could have told me you already knew how to do this,” Dean says.
“I didn’t,” Cas answers. “You’re just an excellent teacher.”
Dean shakes his head, but looks mollified. “Yeah, well you’re a pretty fast learner.”
“Thank you,” Cas answers, missing the sarcasm in Dean’s voice entirely. “And thank you for teaching me to drive. I had fun. I’ll just go make lunch now. It’ll be ready in half an hour.”
They watch Cas go into the house, leaving all but the screen door open behind him. “Did Cas just say he had fun?” Sam asks.
“I think he did,” Dean says, equally baffled. “I am totally awesome.”
Sam slaps Dean on the back of the head. “Yeah, and totally humble too.” Dean tries to trip Sam on his way back to the garden, but Sam’s too quick for him and steps out of the way. “You’re adorable,” he calls over his shoulder.
“What? Am not!” Dean chases Sam to the duck house, and watches as Sam opens the gate to let the kids back inside. “What did I do that’s adorable?” He sounds pretty concerned about it.
“You got laid and then immediately let Cas drive your car. Like some bizarre courtship ritual only you could invent. You’re practically married, dude.” Sam pours a bowl full of duck starter pellets. He’ll add some finely chopped apples or something at dinner time.
Dean scratches the back of his head and frowns. He stares intently out across the field, where the ducks are slowly waddling their way back from the sprinkler where they’ve been playing all morning. “Is that a bad thing?” he asks. “If we’re practically married I mean?”
Sam switches on the heat lamp inside the shed and tosses down a fresh lawyer of straw since it’s getting a bit rank in there. “Nothing wrong with that,” Sam says. “Cas is quite the catch. He’s smart, he likes to cook, and he’ll do pretty much anything you want in bed.” Sam gives Dean his most lecherous grin. “You haven’t gotten to that part ‘cause you were too busy being noble and shit, but trust me.”
He expects Dean to either laugh or lecture him about being respectful of Cas’ nonexistent boundaries. Instead Dean just shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. The first of the ducks arrives and stares at Sam like “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” so Sam steps outside and bumps shoulders with Dean.
“I didn’t mean just me and Cas,” Dean says, so quiet that he’s almost drowned out by the noise three ducks trying to simultaneously go through a narrow gate make.”I meant like, all of us.”
Sam is silent for a long moment. He grins down at the last of the ducks. “Oh my god Dean,” he finally drawls, “did you just propose? Where’s my fucking ring?”
Dean rolls his eyes and turns back to the house. “You know what? I take it back.”
Sam laughs. “Aww, baby don’t be like that!”
“I’m only married to Cas. He appreciates my declarations of love.”
“That was a declaration of love?” Sam runs up behind Dean and grabs Dean by the bare shoulders. “No wonder you were always so crap at keeping a girlfriend.”
“Better than you,” Dean shoots back.
“Yeah, well, I think being in love with my brother might have had something to do with my problems with girls.”
“Sorry Sam,” Dean says, kicking at a pebble on the ground.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees, gesturing at their surroundings, and the house and the garden and the clear blue sky. “I’ve ended up here. It’s great, and it’s all your damn fault, you asshole.”
Dean actually blushes, and that makes Sam sort of proud of himself. “Who’s being sappy now?” Dean teases.
“It’s my soul. I can’t help it,” Sam says, entangling his fingers through Dean’s. “Now let’s go in and see what our wife has made us for lunch.”
***
Nine weeks after he kissed Sam on the porch, Dean breaks out the good whiskey after dinner. Castiel raises an eyebrow as he clears up the leftover salad they had with dinner, freshly picked from Sam’s early crop. Either Dean doesn’t notice, or he ignores him. Instead, Dean drinks, but not in the absent, brooding way that always makes Castiel nervous.
No. Dean drinks with a strange sort of focus, like the alcohol is medicine. When his glass is empty he immediately pours himself another, but he doesn’t break the flow of whatever silly argument he and Sam are having about action movies. His voice stays bright, though there’s a manic edge to his tone, like he’s gearing himself up for a fight. Dean’s posture is relaxed, his body loose and his smile easy. Castiel watches the way Dean’s eyes crinkle around the edges as he laughs at something Sam has said and he feels something stir in his chest, some piece of his grace awoken from hibernation by the beauty of Dean Winchester.
“But the third one was the worst,” Sam says. “Their accents were terrible and none of the original cast was even there.”
“Well, yeah,” Dean acknowledges. “But it was set in Japan. Everything in Japan is cool.”
Sam smiles fondly at Dean, and bites his bottom lip. Sam’s eyes dart rapidly from Dean’s eyes, to his mouth, and then lower until he catches himself. Cas realizes he’s not the only one who appreciates the way Dean looks right now, though he and Sam are undoubtedly feeling their appreciation differently.
Dean stands, and stretches, and Castiel watches Sam watch Dean’s t-shirt ride up a few inches on his stomach. Sam’s eyes darken with lust; it’s an expression that’s easy to read on him, even now that his soul is mostly back to normal.
Dean notices too. “Hey,” he says, words slow and just the slightest bit slurred, like his tongue is too relaxed to enunciate properly. “I’m beat. Gonna go to bed. You coming?”
It is only ten o’clock and there’s a completely untouched pie on the counter. Castiel wonders if Dean thinks he’s being subtle, or if he’s deliberately making a show of this.
“Yeah,” Sam says, standing up and stretching. He follows Dean down the hall, and Castiel notices him put one hand on Dean’s hip as they go, fingers curling in to the smooth skin just above the waistband of Dean’s jeans.
Fifteen minutes later, Dean is sitting at the kitchen table again, head in his hands, and Castiel is pouring him another drink.
“I just don’t get it,” Dean mumbles into his own palms. “It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
“Well actually,” Castiel says, pushing the glass in Dean’s direction. “The incest taboo is very strong, with biological, evolutionary and socio-cultural support. It makes sense that you would find it...distracting.”
“Yeah but I don’t give a shit about anybody’s rules,” Dean snaps, and Castiel loves the passion and the defiance in it, even as Dean sits before him defeated and discouraged. “I know how I feel about him and I should be able to show him that.”
Castiel frowns. “Does it make you feel like less of a man to know that you can’t sexually satisfy your brother?” he asks.
Dean groans. “What?” He takes a long drink, then shakes his head to clear it.
“Do you feel emasculated when you can’t maintain an erection when you’re intimate with Sam?”
“Shut up, Cas. You don’t even believe in that stuff.”
“True,” Castiel acknowledges. “When you spend as much time watching humans as I have, you realize they’re making most of it up as they go along. Gender roles are a social construct. Did you know that in Ancient Egypt men wore skirts, long hair and make-up as signs of status?”
“Are you trying to distract me?” Dean raises his head long enough to take a gulp of whiskey. Then he lets it fall back to the wooden table with a thump that makes Castiel wince.
“You would look good in make-up,” Castiel continues.
“I hate you.”
Cas smiles fondly, reaching over to grab a handful of Dean’s hair. He tugs up gently, so that Dean looks him in the eye. “Your masculinity is still very impressive to me, Dean Winchester,” he says.
Dean scoffs. “Says the dude with no sex drive who likes to read dead chicks’ diaries in his spare time.”
“Fine,” Castiel says, adopting the tone of a long-suffering martyr. “Would it make you feel sufficiently manly if I gave you a blowjob in the kitchen?”
Dean pushes back his chair with a scraping sound.
***
In the evenings, once it gets too dark for Sam to work outside and Cas can’t see the old photographs he’s sorting in the attic unless he holds them dangerously close to the candle flame, they come together in the living room. Most nights Cas makes tea - and looks the other way if Dean laces it with something from the liquor cabinet - and sets out cookies. They look through the photographs, books or documents Cas has sorted that day. Once, Cas finds a box of old board games, water-damaged and with half the pieces missing. Dean’s favourite is Candyland for some reason, even though the brightest colours on the board have mostly faded away. As a result, they play nothing but Candyland for two full weeks, until Cas discovers that the child the game belonged to died in a tractor accident at ten years old. Then Dean pushes the box away with a frown, and they play Snakes and Ladders instead.
They don't have cable, but Old man Parker accumulated an impressive movie collection before he died - real diverse, with action flicks sitting next to art films and romantic comedies mixed in with a series of nature documentaries. They throw themselves into it pretty much at random, taking turns choosing what they’ll watch.
Tonight, Sam chooses a VHS tape of animated shorts from the eighties. The cardboard case is torn and so coated with dust it’s hard to read, but it has a smiling teddy bear on the cover, and Sam is in the mood for something light. He pops the tape into the VCR then takes two steps back to sit on the couch next to Dean. The huge television’s screen is so fuzzy and its speakers so muffled that they’ve pulled the couch up way too close so they can watch.
“What’d you pick?” Dean asks.
Sam shrugs. “It’s a surprise.”
Dean scoffs. “So every time I pick you complain and complain, but when it’s your turn you just put on something random?”
“My entire purpose in life is to confuse you.”
“Your entire purpose in life is to irritate me.” He doesn’t sound the slightest bit irritated as he says it.
Dean stretches one arm out along the back of the couch behind Sam’s head. He lets his hand fall forward, fingertips stroking the side of Sam’s neck. The gesture warms Sam from the inside out. Sam doesn’t know if his overinvestment in these small things is because of his oversensitive soul, or just because he knows how to read Dean so well. Sam leans back into Dean’s touch, then sneaks a sideways glance at Dean. His brother smiles slightly, lifting one corner of his mouth, and shakes his head. He moves his hand, though, wrapping it more firmly around the back of Sam’s neck. The skin near Sam’s collarbone where Dean’s fingers end feels colder than the rest of him.
Instinctively, Sam reaches across his own chest and grabs Dean’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
Dean looks sideways at Sam, his expression quizzical. “Now you can’t get away,” Sam says by way of explanation.
Dean looks over to where their joined arms form a loop around Sam’s upper body. “Neither can you,” he says.
Cas joins them a minute later, carrying a heaping bowl of popcorn - slightly burnt, just the way Dean taught him to make it. He sets the bowl carefully on Dean’s lap, then sits at his other side. He tucks his bare feet under Dean’s ass. For some reason, Cas’ feet are the only part of him that ever get cold. Dean jokes that Cas is having the slowest fall from grace in history, starting from the bottom up, but Cas never laughs at that one.
On the television screen, menacing multicoloured bears chase terrified sheep through a dark forest. Some kind of eerie trance music starts up as the tree branches reach out to grab the sheep, too. The room is silent for a few moments, apart from the music and some distressed bleating.
“So what are we watching?” Cas asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“Yeah, what the fuck Sam?” Dean demands, wincing as a baby lamb is snatched up by an oak tree.
“The cover was misleading!”
“I’m making an executive decision,” Dean announces. “Sam’s not allowed to choose the movies anymore.”
“You can’t do that,” Sam argues. “You’re not the boss around here.”
“You’re absolutely right, Sammy,” Dean agrees, “We’re a democracy. Who votes for Sam not choosing the movies anymore?” Dean raises the arm not wrapped around Sam’s shoulders high into the air. To his left, Cas raises his hand too.
“Well fuck you too,” Sam mutters without heat. He tries to eat popcorn and pout at the same time.
Onscreen, the forest comes alive with splatters of vivid red as the poor sheep finally meet their maker, and Cas gets up to switch the tape.
After dinner, Dean goes outside to let the ducks in while Sam puts away the leftover sweet potatoes and Cas washes the dishes. Outside, the air is surprisingly crisp, and Dean wonders if they should start covering the gardens at night, and if they’ll need to get an extra heater for Duckingham Palace. He doesn’t love the idea of going into town to pick one up; any trip off the farm means another argument with Sam about why he can’t come along, and Dean is sort of running out of excuses.
It takes Dean longer than he expects to herd the ducks inside - they keep getting distracted by the fallen and slightly decomposed apples in their path - and by the time he closes the gate he’s shivering a little, and wishing he was wearing a jacket. Dean makes a mental note to start chopping wood for the winter, because it’s too damn expensive in town. A low howl - just someone’s dog, Dean tells himself - from some distance away raises even more goose bumps on Dean’s skin, and it’s a relief to step back into the warm cabin.
The dishes are stacked neatly in the dish rack, and the fire has been reduced to embers burning safely in the iron grate. Dean toes off his shoes and heads to the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. Sam and Cas are already in bed. Cas clutches a worn paperback, its cover missing and its pages yellowed, while Sam tries - and fails - to pull it from his grasp. Sam takes a new approach, releasing his hold on the book and sliding his hands back under the covers, where Dean can’t see them. He shuffles in closer to Cas under the covers and kisses his neck once, twice, three times. When Cas doesn’t lift his eyes from the book, Sam uses teeth.
Cas yelps in surprise, and then rolls his eyes. “Oh alright,” he says fondly, carefully dog-earring his page and setting the book aside, “if you really are so hopelessly needy.” He rolls to face Sam, pulling him into a practiced kiss. Cas reaches up to cup Sam’s face like it’s something he’s done thousands of times, like it comes naturally. It still takes Dean’s breath away how much they’ve all changed.
When Sam deepens the kiss, rolling to lie on top of Cas and pin him to the mattress, it starts to feel like too much. There’s an electricity in the air that usually sends Dean running from his brother, the sexual charge that acts as a signal their kisses have lasted too long, or gone too deep. Directed at Dean this kind of focused enthusiasm is something accidental and awkward, something reined in for Dean’s sake. With Cas, Sam is different. Sam’s motions are smooth, completely free of hesitance or worry, and seeing him like this twists something low in Dean’s stomach. He clears his throat.
“I can come back in an hour or something,” he says.
“No, don’t,” Sam answers. “It’s okay. I was just annoying Cas anyway.” He rolls to the side and onto the second bed, leaving a space between himself and Cas.
Dean considers complaining about having to sleep on the border between the beds, but decides he doesn’t have the energy. He climbs under the quilt Sam holds up for him, pulling off his jeans and throwing them across the room once underneath.
“Finished?” Cas asks, but doesn’t wait for a response before he switches off the bedside lamp. The room plunges into darkness, and while Dean’s eyes adjust his other senses sharpen. He imagines he can hear the sound of their heartbeats - Sam’s at his back and Cas’ at his front - synchronizing with his own.
“Good night,” Sam says into the dark.
“Good night,” Cas answers. They both shift and sit up on their elbows. Dean sees their silhouettes meet above him, leaning across Dean’s body for an open-mouthed kiss. On his way back down, Cas presses a matching kiss to Dean’s mouth.
“Good night,” Dean echoes, rolling to press his mouth against Sam’s. It’s a brief, barely-there kiss, enough to tell Sam he’s loved, but not enough to hurt him. Sam slides closer in response, throwing one arm across Dean’s chest. Dean closes his eyes, still listening for their heartbeats.
Part Three
Master Post