[fic] love is not a victory march (1/2)

[electricskeptic]

Title: Love Is Not A Victory March
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam; references to Dean/Lisa & Castiel/Meg
Spoilers: Up to 6.14
Warnings: Strong language, explicit sexuality
Word Count: 12,600
Disclaimer: Not mine, don’t sue.
Summary: It’s a funny thing about intimacy; if Castiel had attempted to hug him rather than Sam, Dean probably would have laughed him all the way back up to Heaven, but sex -- sex, he’s familiar with.

Notes: So I started writing this just after 6.12 aired and it was supposed to be a short little coda, but it has since taken on a life of its own, undergone many reformulations, and basically ended up much longer and angstier than I originally expected. I blame current canon for this. I also changed a few details after watching 6.14 so that it better corresponds with recent events.

Title is from Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, because nobody ever accused me of originality. Also, the Latin is from an online translator and so probably isn’t as accurate as it could be.



Love Is Not A Victory March

“Hey, is Cas okay?”

Sam asks the question when everything has calmed down somewhat and all the drama of the past few days -- dragons, souls, the Mother of All -- has faded to a more manageable buzz at the back of their heads. At first Dean has no idea what he’s getting at, because Cas hasn’t exactly been the first thing on his mind as of late. Which, yeah, probably makes him a shitty friend, but then he’s never claimed to be anything else. At any rate, he thinks he’s well within his entitlement to have been a little preoccupied, given that he’s spent the last six months or so playing the role of moral guide to his soulless freak of a brother.

“S’far as I’m aware, yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know, just… He was acting kinda weird, is all.”

Dean snorts inelegantly, swiping his thumb through some of the condensation that’s collected on the neck of his beer bottle. “Sam, this is Cas we’re talking about. Dude’s got his picture next to ‘weird’ in the dictionary.”

Sam makes a face. “Weirder than usual, then. He, uh. He tried to hug me.”

Dean blinks at him a few times, sure he must have heard wrong. The idea of Cas -- awkward, reserved, military Cas, the embodiment of stiff upper lip -- angling for physical affection is just plain absurd, and for a moment he worries that whatever Death did when he shoved Sam’s soul back in there must have somehow warped his brother’s grasp on reality.

“Seriously?”

“Dean, you think I could make that up? We were talking, and he was saying how glad he is that I’m alive, and then he just… came at me, arms open wide. It was freaky, man.”

Dean boggles, unable to process the visual image provided by Sam’s words; but now that he actually thinks about it, Castiel’s behavior has been increasingly erratic lately, from the little of it Dean’s been privy to. It seems as though one moment he’s quite content to torture some random kid, the heartless son of a bitch he always claimed to be, and the next he’s kissing demons and rambling on about ‘regrettable things’ and generally acting as though he’s a hair away from going into complete meltdown.

The realization makes Dean feel faintly uneasy, because maybe Cas hasn’t been coping all that well with the requirements of his new position, and maybe Dean’s been missing that in his all-consuming worry over Sam. Not that his worry wasn’t justified -- and Sam will always come first, no matter what -- but he can’t help the slight pang of guilt he feels when he thinks back over all the times he’s dismissed Castiel’s problems as unimportant since the angel came back into his life.

“I guess he’s pretty stressed,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “With the war and all.”

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Sam suggests, draining the last of his beer. Dean pulls a face even though he knows Sam has a point; the prospect of talking about feelings with anyone is enough to bring him out in hives, but talking about feelings with Castiel is always guaranteed to be the most cringeworthy scenario possible, because Castiel is the one person -- angel, whatever -- who’s even more emotionally redundant than Dean. Noticing his reluctance, Sam shoots him a wry smile.

“Bet you’re starting to wish you hadn’t bothered getting my soul back, huh?”

“Not funny, Sam,” Dean snaps, not even caring when he gets a strange look in return. Some things just shouldn’t be joked about; even Dean knows that.

+

Of course, somewhere in between facing off against a real-life Spiderman on steroids, Sam threatening to give him a coronary by remembering Hell, their run-in with homicidal mannequins and saying what will probably be his last goodbyes to Lisa and Ben, Dean’s epiphany about Castiel’s mental wellbeing gets buried under a pile of other crap he should really deal with at some point but probably never will. As it happens, he doesn’t get a chance to talk to Castiel at all until they’re at Bobby’s again, waiting for the Impala to be made road-worthy so that they can get back to business.

He’s curled in bed, hovering on that razor-edge between sleep and wakefulness when he hears noise downstairs. Movement. Somebody clattering around, not even trying to be quiet about it. It could be Sam, could be Bobby, but Dean knows with that hunter’s instinct he’s learned not to question over the years that it’s neither. He curls his hand around the knife hidden under his pillow.

It’s dark in Bobby’s kitchen, but Dean only has to take a few steps inside before he recognizes the shape leaning over the counter. A couple inches shorter than him, deceptively slender frame hidden by the bulk of the ever-present trench coat; Dean blinks in surprise, puts his weapon away. Not that it’d do him much good in this situation even if he wanted to use it, but.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies, in the same flat, tired voice he always uses these days. He doesn’t move an inch.

“Cas, what the fuck are you doing? Do you think we could have some light, maybe?”

Almost instantly, the bulb overhead sputters to life, casting the room in a yellowish glow. Castiel is stood against the counter in a way that has Dean immediately revisiting that dream he had, way back when they first met (I dragged you out of Hell; I can throw you back in). Only he’s fairly sure that in the dream, Cas hadn’t been swigging from a bottle of Jack, two empties abandoned on the surface beside him.

“I had a particular fondness for liquor, when I was falling,” Castiel offers, and Dean snorts because, yeah, understatement

“I remember.”

“It no longer works the way it used to,” Castiel informs him, in a curious tone of regret. He’s staring at the bottle as though it holds the answers to all of life’s great mysteries. “I find I rather miss it.”

He drains the last of the liquid and sets the empty bottle down on the counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. By the time he looks at Dean again, his gaze is clear, laser-focused, searing straight through Dean as though he were made of glass.

“So you wanna tell me what the hell you thought you were doing, blabbing all the clubhouse secrets to Sam?” Dean finds himself demanding, because this is the first time he’s seen Castiel since then, and he can’t get the image of Sam seizing on the floor out of his head. Cas seems to have this effect on him as of late, and he has no idea what’s brought it on; only that, for some reason, he can’t help lashing out whenever the angel is around. Castiel narrows calculating eyes at him, gaze gone cold and flat.

“Sam led me to believe that he already knew much of what has transpired in the last year. Perhaps if you informed me of your plans --”

“And just how would you suggest I do that, seeing as you never show your face unless there’s something in it for you?”

Castiel lets loose a frustrated growl that causes Dean’s mind to go places he’d probably be better staying away from. “I’m at war, Dean; how is it that such a simple concept still appears to escape your comprehension entirely?”

Dean has the sudden, uncontrollable urge to laugh; and he does, the absurdity of the situation burbling out of him in hitching snickers. It’s completely inappropriate but as irresistible as a sneeze, and it makes Castiel glare harder than ever, a quietly smoldering volcano in ill-fitting office wear. They’re as far apart as they’ve ever been, and that just makes Dean laugh even harder, teetering on the verge of hysteria.

“Would you mind sharing the joke?” Castiel asks, an undercurrent of warning in his voice. “I find myself once again failing to understand the source of your amusement.”

“Just… what the fuck are we doing here, Cas?” Dean gasps, fighting to sober himself up before Castiel smites him where he stands. “Seems like we’re hardly reading from the same book anymore, let alone on the same page, but honestly? I’m not even that mad at you.”

At this, Cas seems to come off the attack just a bit, tilting his head to the side in that weird, birdlike way of his. “No?”

“Well. No, not really.”

“Ah.”

There follows a few long, long seconds of awkward silence, in which Dean becomes raptly fascinated by a smudge of dirt on Bobby’s kitchen floor.

“I am… pleased that Sam appears to be suffering no ill effects,” Castiel offers tentatively.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say that,” Dean mutters sullenly, feeling the heavy, familiar weight of impending doom congeal in the pit of his stomach like old yoghurt. “He’s started remembering Hell, Cas. Some of it, anyway.”

“How is he?” Castiel asks, and there’s real concern there; that much, at least, is gratifying.

“For now? A little shaken up, but fine. God only knows how long that’s gonna last, though.”

“I feared this might happen,” Castiel sighs; too quiet, too calm. Dean feels his rage begin to swell up again in the face of it.

“By all means, rub it in. Maybe we should have gone with your plan instead, just left him to burn in the Pit for the rest of time. That would have gone so much better for Sam.”

“Dean,” Castiel visibly deflates, sagging in on himself until he doesn’t really resemble a warrior of God anymore; just some tired, stressed-out dude in way over his head. He looks down briefly, then steps away from the counter and advances until he’s right in his favorite place; an inch too far inside Dean’s personal bubble.

Dean doesn’t back away, though. He never does.

“I was afraid,” Castiel admits, and that can’t be right because this is the guy who severed a horseman’s finger while his body was ravaged by a million different diseases, who threw a holy Molotov at Heaven’s most powerful archangel; Cas just doesn’t do scared, and yet -- “There are few that I could call ‘friend’, and the prospect of losing one made me uneasy. And I feared what would become of you, should Sam be lost again. But I always knew that you would do everything in your power to bring him back, and you were right not to listen to me. I shouldn’t have… what I said was out of order. I’m sorry.”

Secretly, Dean’s impressed; getting an actual apology out of Castiel is such a rare event that he can count the number of times it’s happened on one hand. The fact that he’s getting one now probably says a lot about how far Castiel overstepped the line this time. To imply that Dean wasn’t looking out for Sam, that Dean has ever had anything other than Sam’s best interests at heart… Cas should know better than that. The uncharacteristic humility has him concerned, though, because it’s a far cry from the way Cas was acting the last time they were in the same room. It’s as though the fight has finally gone out of him and this is all that’s left, a hollow shell of the angel Dean had once been terrified of. It doesn’t bode well.

“Hey, Cas, are you okay?” He begins tentatively, and it feels as though maybe he should have asked a long time ago. “Only, Sam seems to think that you’re not.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel replies automatically; stoic to the last, but the way he can’t hold Dean’s gaze is a huge fucking tell. It’s not much, but Dean has studied hard over the last few years and he now considers himself well-versed in the language Castiel’s body speaks. The signs are subtle, little more than fluctuations in expression and stance; but if you know where to look for them, they paint a freaking roadmap of Castiel’s doubts and insecurities.

“Yeah, right; you’re fine. That’s why you’re raiding the liquor cabinet at…” he checks his watch, “…nearly half-past-one in the morning. I’m tellin’ you, man, Bobby’s gonna be pissed. That’s the good stuff you’ve been knocking back.”

“It can be replaced,” Castiel says dismissively. Then he turns away, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose in an utterly human gesture, eyes falling shut on a rattling sigh.

It’s another one of those tiny signals; this one seems to read end of the line, turn back now. Without even considering what he’s about to do, Dean reaches out and places his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, squeezing gently. It’s the most physical contact they’ve had since before the end of the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, and the effect is instantaneous: Castiel’s eyes fly open wide, and his expression is one that Dean has seen multiple times on the faces of small animals caught in the glare of the Impala’s headlights.

“Dean, what -- what are you doing?”

“Shh,” Dean murmurs, even though he’s pretty much asking the same question himself. “Just go with it. Let it happen.”

Castiel shoots him a dubious look, but doesn’t protest any further. Dean continues to work his hands in repetitive circular motions over the planes of Castiel’s shoulders, feeling the unnatural warmth of his skin even through all the layers. After a few moments, Castiel breathes deeply as the tension begins to bleed out of him.

“Dean, that -- oh. That feels good.”

Dean feels his face start to heat up at hearing those words from Castiel’s mouth, spoken in Castiel’s deep baritone, but he doesn’t let up on the pressure, digging his thumbs into the hollows of the angel’s collarbone.

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one with healing hands, dude. Just ask Lisa.” He shakes his head with a sigh to dispel all thoughts of his ex, that last, fraught discussion in her kitchen, Lisa dressed for a date with another man and Dean with a hundred empty apologies that would never actually make things right. It’s… surprisingly easy, actually, and the twinge in his chest when he thinks of her is manageable; more mild heartburn than cardiac arrest.

“You need to relax, man,” he tells Castiel, still working the stiffness from his posture. “Actually, you know what? You need to get laid. Like, yesterday.”

The comment brings two faint spots of color to Castiel’s cheeks; probably undetectable if Dean hadn’t been nose-to-nose with the guy by this point. He smirks, because he remembers a time when he thought Castiel was made of stone, an immovable object made flesh, and it’s too damn fun to watch him squirm now he knows that isn’t the case.

“Still haven’t done the deed, huh? I did wonder whether you’d gotten down and dirty with Meg after your little performance at Crowley’s funhouse.”

“She’s a demon,” Castiel protests, a note away from scandalized.

“That didn’t stop you from shoving your tongue down her throat,” Dean points out -- reasonably, in his opinion. Castiel’s eyes flicker away in what could be embarrassment, or shame.

“I was -- curious.”

“And?”

Castiel wets his lips, a furrow appearing in the center of his forehead. Dean finds himself unconsciously tracking the motion of his tongue, the glisten of saliva left behind. He swallows hard, forcing himself to look away. They’re standing far too close, his hands still resting on Castiel’s shoulders, but God help him, Dean can’t bring himself to pull away.

“It was… interesting. Pleasurable, I think, though the taste of sulfur was distracting. I -- I think I would do it again. Although preferably not with Meg.”

Dean laughs, mostly to disguise the fact his heart is in his throat and going like a jackhammer. “Yeah? And just exactly who did you have in mind, Casanova?”

Castiel looks him dead in the eyes then, and the intensity of his gaze fairly blows Dean away.

“Do you really need to ask?”

That’s an invitation if ever he’s heard one, and resistance is futile. Dean doesn’t stop to think about how weirdly easy it all is; he doesn’t stop to think at all. He just moves his right hand from its place at Castiel’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck, leans forward slowly in case Cas decides to freak out. He doesn’t; the last thing Dean sees is his eyes drifting shut before he closes the negligible distance left between them and fits their lips together.

As soon as the contact is made, Castiel melts against him, uttering a soft sound like he’s been waiting for exactly this. His hands flutter uncertainly over Dean’s shoulders before sliding down to rest at the front of his shirt, fingers twitching at the cotton like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with them.

From watching him with Meg, Dean had assumed that Castiel had some natural aptitude for kissing, a knowledge of the theoretical even if his practical experience was sadly lacking. That seems to be the case, but he’s still a little hesitant, almost shy; nothing of the way he’d pinned Meg to the wall and taken what he wanted. It’s a good kiss, Dean decides; he runs his tongue over the seam of Castiel’s lips, and Castiel opens for him beautifully, sighing into Dean’s mouth when Dean licks his way inside.

Castiel tastes of strong liquor, but there’s a subtle flavor lingering in the dark corners that’s uniquely, distinctively Cas, and it’s that which Dean chases down. Even the slow burn of that permanent five-o’clock shadow is somehow maddeningly erotic in its otherness, so very different from Lisa’s smooth skin and soft curves. The hand Dean has at Castiel’s neck moves of its own volition to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the ridge of bone below his eye socket.

When Dean finally pulls away to breathe, Castiel follows, keeping their mouths little more than centimeters apart, and there’s no way that will ever not be hot. He looks dazed, wide-eyed and red-lipped and pink-cheeked, and the sight sends a pulse of heat direct to Dean’s groin.

“So, uh,” he clears his throat awkwardly, runs a hand down the length of Castiel’s tie, “you sure about this? ‘Cause if we’re headed where I think we’re headed… if we do this, there’s no going back.”

Castiel growls out an indecipherable noise that’s downright predatory; before Dean has time to do much more than blink, he’s got angel hands on either side of his head and he’s having the sense thoroughly kissed out of him. There’s nothing shy or hesitant about it this time around; it’s this primal thing, all lips and teeth and saliva. Castiel sucks Dean’s tongue into his mouth, catches at his bottom lip with sharp incisors, and holy hell, how did Cas learn to do all this, anyway?

Dean can only assume that oxygen deprivation isn’t much of a problem for angels, because Castiel continues his relentless onslaught until Dean feels as though he might just be on the cusp of passing out. Which, in this particular situation, might not be such a painful sacrifice. Castiel looks utterly debauched when they finally separate this time around; Dean doesn’t even want to think about how he must look. He feels a little like he’s the butt of some massive cosmic joke, only he can’t quite figure out the punchline.

“Your concern is touching, Dean,” Castiel informs him (and he doesn’t even sound out of breath, the bastard), “but this war… I don’t have the luxury of waiting. I may not have another chance after this; every time I see you, I fear it will be the last. So believe me when I say that yes, I’m sure. I want this. Dean, I want everything.”

Dean attempts to swallow against the dry mass that seems to have accumulated in his throat at the images Castiel’s words bring to mind. He feels ridiculously out of his depth, as though he’s the inexperienced virgin in this scenario.

“Well. Okay, then.”

It’s a funny thing about intimacy; if Castiel had attempted to hug him rather than Sam, Dean probably would have laughed him all the way back up to Heaven, but sex -- sex, he’s familiar with. Sex is what he knows. And it’s hardly a chore: Castiel is a good-looking dude, what with the big blue eyes and the permanent sex-hair and all the sharp angles of his face. Technically, those things belong to Jimmy, but Jimmy’s long gone by now and there’s a world of difference in the way Castiel wears his body. The stiff awkwardness of his posture until he’s got a sword in his hand and it becomes graceful and fluid, poetry in motion; the façade of cold impassivity that doesn’t quite manage to hide the bone-deep desolation and the endless reserves of agape etched into every line and shadow of him: these are things that could only ever belong to Cas. And Cas knows Dean -- all of Dean that there is to know, and he hasn’t yet run screaming in the opposite direction.

Dean is well aware of just how unlikely all this is: he just agreed to have sex with Castiel, the bad-tempered, bad-humored little dweeb who dragged him back to life, who has since kicked his ass a million times in both the figurative and the very, very literal sense, and who has somehow, inexplicably, become his friend. Quite possibly his best friend, if that didn’t sound so Sweet Valley High. So yeah: he gets how totally insane it is that they’ve reached this point. He just doesn’t really give a fuck. He resolutely ignores the voice in the back of his mind whispering that maybe he’s always wanted this; maybe he just hadn’t realized it until now, slow on the uptake as per fucking usual.

He runs a hand down the side of Castiel’s face, brushes their lips together, searches the angel’s eyes for any hint of doubt. When he finds none, he nods once, and leaps off the precipice.

“In that case… we should probably take this upstairs.”

(Split for length; continued here.)