Dean knows he hit home when a day later, Sam knocks on his door to lean in and sheepishly tell him, "Cas is headed up to Sioux Falls."
Dean turns off his music and sets his headphones down on the bed. "All right. Everything okay up there?"
"Yeah, no problems. Jody and the girls are fine. Cas asked me to, uh, call them up, see if he could go visit with Claire." He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "Jody's never spoken to Cas in person before, I don't think she was expecting to meet him like this, but now they know… you know, what to expect."
"Cool. Anything else?"
Sam hovers in the door, staring down at him. Dean studies the fraying sleeve of his shirt until he hears Sam huff impatiently.
"I guess not."
"Okay."
"He's leaving in an hour."
"Great."
Sam lets out another bitchy little huff, then closes the door again. Finally.
Dean puts his headphones back on, but he realizes after five minutes of staring at the backs of his hands, trying to breathe normally, that he forgot to press play again. He stays in his room for the rest of the night, and only comes out after midnight, when he's relatively sure Sam will be asleep.
He can make his way through the hall pretty easily in the dark, just from muscle memory. But the kitchen light is already on, and Jack is sitting inside. So. There goes one bright idea.
Jack looks up from the laptop he's gently frowning at. "Oh, you're up late," he says.
"Couldn't sleep," Dean says. Which is true, not that he was trying that hard. "You know, staring at that screen all day's gonna rot your brain."
"That's a myth," Jack says pleasantly.
"Unicorns are a myth."
"Actually, they—"
"Okay, shatter all my illusions why don't you," Dean says. "They probably only talk to virgins anyway, right?" He takes a glass and fills it with water from the tap, sitting across from Jack at the kitchen table. "What're you up to?"
"I'm reading the news," Jack says.
"Looking for another case?"
Jack chews on his lip. Dean wonders where he picked that tic up from.
"Castiel said he wasn't sure how long he'd be gone. So, until he comes back, I need to find something I can do to help. I'm still not very good at… at making my powers do what I want them to. But I've learned it's actually… nice. To feel useful."
Dean swallows a pang of sympathy. He remembers his dad being gone, trying to do his drills like his dad taught him, trying to find something that would make his dad look at him for just a moment in a way that said he did a good job. For a second, Dean feels a flash of anger at Cas for leaving Jack behind with hardly any warning, but then he guiltily remembers that every single time, it's been Dean's fault. Hard to blame Cas for that.
"All right, hit me. Anything interesting?"
"Not really. A lot of articles about 'tweets'."
"Yeah, you'll wanna ignore those. Here, let me show you a couple of the places me and Sam hit up for leads."
Dean walks Jack through some of their go-to forums, pointing out which posts are claptrap and which ones have merit. He shows him how to corroborate eyewitness accounts with evidence from other sources, and he shows him how to dig into a poster's history to see if it's a reliable eyewitness.
"There's this shit called 'creepypasta'," Dean says. "Really made our job more difficult in the last few years. You'll wanna just ignore anything you see on Reddit right off. Just don't even bother."
"Oh," Jack says, disappointed. "I like looking at the cat pictures."
"Well... those are fine. Just not the ghost stories." Dean changes the subject before Jack decides to ask him which subreddits he looks at.
After that, Jack comes to him for things a lot more often. Not constantly, but Dean realizes now how often Jack had been holding himself back in Dean's presence, trying not to disturb the tenuous truce they'd settled into. A while ago, Dean might have thought: Good. He should be careful around me. Now, he's surprised to find he doesn't think of Jack as being Lucifer's son first. He's Castiel's. Another weird little person-shaped angel, or half-angel at least, looking at him like his word is gospel. Looking at it through that lens, he feels a tremendous pressure to get it right this time.
Underneath that is a quieter want: to do something that Cas would be proud of him for, to protect something that's important to him. To care, because Cas cares.
When he fruitlessly tries to sleep without any medicinal intervention, staring at his phone, trying not to call Castiel, or text him, or hell, even pray to him, he thinks about how wrong he's already gotten it and wonders what the point is in trying. But then he'll demonstrate something trivial that Jack's never done before in his short life, like how to change the oil in a car, or how to tell if someone's cheating you at cards, or even something stupid like how to play rock paper scissors, and Jack's whole face lights up with an uncomplicated delight that belies the violence of his conception, and Dean… well, he's learning to take that for the gift it is.
Dean's seen his whole past lain out by the divine powers manipulating his narrative, all the wars fought to bring him into existence. The dirty deals and the deceit necessary for Sam to have been born. But he knows, he knows Sam was born good, that Sam tries, every day, to do good. It's a comfort to think that neither of them were born violent. And hey. Maybe the same goes for Jack.
Sam gives him an update on Cas with an impatient set to his mouth. Reportedly, Jody says he's not what she expected from an angel, which, fair. Claire left town the day before to take care of a nest of ghouls, and Cas tagged along with her. So the two of them are buddy-buddy enough to go on hunting trips together, which is not what Dean would have expected, either, but all right.
"Tell Cas to check in when they're done, make sure everything's okay."
"Claire's been hunting on her own a while now," Sam says with a weird look. "She and Jody have their own system."
"Yeah, I know that, but—" Sam keeps looking at Dean oddly, until Dean's ears go hot. "Man, shut up."
"If you're that worried about them, why don't you talk to Cas yourself? Or hell, if you're still intent on being a middle-schooler about it, just send Claire a message. She's not pissed at you."
Dean's eyes narrow. Sam holds his hands up in surrender, turning on his heel and walking out before Dean can argue with him.
He tries that night. Opens his phone and pulls up Claire's number. Stares at the screen for a while, trying to think of something to say that isn't completely mortifying, before he tosses the phone across the bed, where it slides off the blankets and lands on the floor with a clatter. Dean curses, scrambling over to inspect it, but the screen's not broken. Which is good, because the amount of fights he gets into, he's broken a lot of phones, and it's a real pain in the ass.
He rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He should go out too. Find some heads to bust, or something. He can't sleep for shit the last couple weeks, and he's spinning around pointlessly like a hamster in a wheel here at the bunker. He flips through his graciously unbroken phone, skimming over articles and forum posts, trying to fend off the tension headache starting behind his eyes and giving up when keeping them open is more trouble than it's worth.
When all else fails, jerking off usually helps him sleep, and it's a luxury he's indulged in often since they found the bunker and Dean gained near-boundless access to privacy for the first time in his life. He eyes the stack of magazines on the dresser without actually getting up to look at one, too unfocused to make the effort. He eyes his phone again, considering the options there, but he knows there'd be some needling little urge in the back of his mind to look at his contacts or his messages again, so he nixes that idea too.
"Keep it simple, stupid," he mutters to himself, palming himself through his jeans, not trying to accomplish anything but feeling the warmth. He stares at the cracks on the ceiling. He doesn't even have to look at his stash to summon a visual. That's a place to start. Simple, uncomplicated appreciation of breasts is something he considers key to his character. And the last time he saw a really nice pair was...
A month ago, Castiel shucking out of a white chemise.
His hand stills. A moment later, he groans, holding his head in his hands, elbows in the air. Of course. He's cursed now. He's not even allowed the relative safety of thinking about tits to get him through the night.
He gets up, goes to the sink, and aggressively splashes water on his face until his sleeves are unpleasantly damp. He grabs two aspirin, swallowing the pills and chasing them with the remaining contents of the flask he'd successfully managed to avoid touching until now. It's not much, but it's gotta be enough, because Dean's on track to just start banging his head against the mirror until he knocks himself out.
He strips out of his clothes, shutting out the lights and dragging the blankets over himself with furious finality. He lies still, in the dark, trying to breathe evenly until his body is dragged forcibly into sleep. Either ten minutes or an hour of concerted effort later, he huffs, rolling over to snatch his phone up from the bedside table.
There's about a hundred things he wants to say to Castiel. He could pick one. He could just spin the big wheel until it lands on something, and he could say, "I'm sorry," or, "I fucked up," or, "Are you okay?" He could tell Cas he just wants things to be the way they never really got a chance to enjoy. Him and Cas sitting on the edge of a motel bed watching The Mask of Zorro on a battered old TV. Dean sitting shotgun in the Continental and hearing the mixtape he made for Cas coming out of the speakers, watching Cas mouth along with his favorite lyrics. Castiel, who saw the birth of life on this planet, who watched the stars and the planets formed from nothing, who has lived through more lifetimes than Dean's mind can comprehend, content to sit with him in a greasy diner, knocking knees with him under the table while Dean eats and debating whether he ought to spend a quarter on Dusty Springfield or Elvis.
Dean could say that he wants to kiss him again, the way Cas deserves to be kissed. The way Dean wishes he could, if he could just peel back all the layers of scar tissue he's built up over the years. No hard edges, no looming threat. Just Dean's hands sliding through his hair, making the coarse ends of it bristle and stick out in that way that makes him look perpetually post-nap, until Cas sighs and leans into him like a cat.
He could say, "You're wrong." That something is broken in him, has been broken so long he can't trace it back to when it happened. That Cas fixed his body, but the soul he stuffed in it was cracked, and always had been.
He could say, "Come home."
His fingers move on the screen.
Tell Claire I said hey
After a few minutes, the message is marked as read. Dean waits for a response until his eyelids droop. He's still waiting when he drifts into sleep.
—
Dean cracks an egg into the pan. The shell splits, parts almost evenly into halves, allowing its contents to slide into the oil to pop and crackle and set in the heat. Wet eggwhite trails behind and sticks to his thumb. Dean tosses the shell into the compost jar, and runs his hand under the faucet.
The light is cool and dim through the window in the little galley kitchen. The wind tousles his hair as it blows through the screen. It's in need of patching, but it's not important.
Dean slides one sunny side up egg onto a slice of buttered toast, a perfectly round yellow yolk in a cloud of white.
There's a stirring, from deeper inside the little house where Dean lives. The floorboards creak here, sometimes. In the winter, there's little to insulate him from the cold, and he piles rugs, one on top of the other, to stop the chill creeping in. Summers are soft and breezy, though, and when it's too warm, Dean can walk to the beach and dive into the water. At night, he can see the ends of the coast curling around the ocean like an outstretched hand.
Castiel emerges, golden and formless. He fills the air around him with bright and shifting light.
"Good morning, sunshine," Dean says. He lifts the slice of toast to his mouth and bites. Savory yolk spills over his lip and down his chin, clinging there. His tongue darts out to swipe it away.
Castiel speaks. His voice is the white noise at the end of a cassette tape, the echo of your ear pressed to a seashell, the sound of the ocean through their bedroom window at night. His many wings don't fit in the doorway of the kitchen, and Dean tells him so with a crumb-flecked smile. He sets the plate down on the counter, meeting Castiel in the doorway. He shouldn't be able to fit in this house at all, but his power has dwindled somewhat over the years. That's fine with Dean.
Two of Castiel's great wings part, revealing his face. He is beautiful, eyes sky blue and cloaked in flame. Dean leans into him, and two more wings close around him. Fire races through his nerves, too much and not enough. In his ear, Castiel's voice is fire, cracking wood and fluttering heat. A tongue of fire licks out across Dean's bristled chin. Despite the warmth, Dean shivers.
"Woe is me," whispers Dean, "for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips."
Castiel curls around him more tightly, until Dean can see nothing but the glow of his great body. Castiel bends to him, bird-necked and sharp, and kisses him. His lips are hot coals, and Dean burns with them.
Into his mouth, Castiel breathes smoke. Dean inhales. Castiel's ringing voice melts into owlsong. "Behold, this has touched your lips; Your iniquity is taken away, and your sin purged."
Dean gasps.
—
Dean gasps.
He lies awake in his bedroom, holding his palms downward at his sides, flat against the bed. He's hard against his stomach. He swallows, his throat dry and sticking. His eyes adjust to the darkness moment by moment.
He looks at his phone. Somehow, it migrated, half under his shoulder and half under his pillow. He shifts, reaching for it, hissing at the friction it causes.
No messages.
"Fuck," he mutters emphatically. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
It's not even 5 AM yet. Dean throws himself out of bed and into his robe, rushing his way through a cold shower that leaves his teeth chattering. What the fuck. What the fuck.
Dean slaps himself once, following the slap with another shake of the towel across his wet hair.
His heart hasn't stopped pounding since he woke up. He doesn't know how to stop it. Coffee certainly won't help, but he can't think of what else to do to bring himself back to reality, so he starts a pot, pacing in the kitchen while the little machine gurgles and spits.
This is the kind of shit that gets his subconscious off now. Formless balls of flame, as long as they're named Castiel. Without trying to, he can still feel the sear of his kiss. He leans against the refrigerator, his forehead thunking against the cold metal.
"Dean?"
Dean whirls around, heart in his throat. Sam is in the doorway, still in pajamas and with bed-rumpled hair, squinting like he's only partly awake.
"I thought I heard you banging around in here. What's going on?"
"Nothing," Dean says too fast. "Coffee. Sorry, wasn't tryna be loud."
"Okay," Sam says, unconvinced. He looks at the coffee pot, still chugging away, then back at Dean. "All right. So."
Dean sucks in a sharp breath, turning on his heel with a grimace, because of course Sam's going to choose now to finally ambush him.
"Dean, don't act like that, okay? You gotta talk to me, man."
"I don't gotta do anything."
"Okay, then you'll just keep doing this. Whatever this is," Sam says, gesturing at the two of them, awake before dawn, talking in circles in the kitchen. "Until Cas finally leaves for good. Cause that's working out so great for you."
Dean makes a fist, counting to five.
"I don't know what you did, but…"
"What I did?" Dean whirls on him, anger surging in his blood. "You think this is all on me?"
"I don't know if it is or not, Dean, because you won't fucking talk about it!" Sam stops himself, realizing he's nearly shouting, and lowers his voice significantly, though his face is still twisted with desperate confusion. "You won't talk to me, and Cas is my friend too, and I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."
Dean's throat seals itself around the words. His face heats. "I…"
"Did you try something with him?"
"Sammy, if you want me to explain this to you so bad, you're gonna have to shut the hell up while I do it," Dean says. The coffee pot dings. Dean breathes in, then out, then goes to get two mugs, filling them with coffee and setting them both down on the table. He gestures for Sam to sit down. He does so, his mouth a straight, unhappy line. Dean sits across from him, staring into the mug, like if he looks hard enough it'll untangle the mess in his head.
"Cas and I sort of. We." Dean clears his throat, covering his face with his hand. "Jesus Christ."
"Did you—"
"I kissed Cas," Dean blurts out. "Cas said— but I'm the one who— Whatever, that happened."
"Okay." Sam breathes out, raising the mug to his mouth and taking a small sip, testing the temperature. "All right, so I'm trying— I'm trying to find a way to say this that isn't accusatory. Because I'm not trying to come out on the attack, and I am trying to see this from your perspective, Dean."
"Attack me, if that's what you wanna do," Dean says.
"No, I am trying not to attack you, because I am trying to understand what was going through your head that you decided because— because Cas came back in a woman's— because his body was different, because he looked different, that it's okay for you to just come on to him all the sudden. I don't know if you noticed, man, but Cas really cares about you. Like, he really loves you, and you can't just play fast and loose with his feelings because he looks like—"
"Sam, I'm serious, shut up. Stop talking." The smell of the coffee makes his stomach turn, and he bats the mug aside, letting it slide towards the other end of the table. Sam, to his credit, shuts up, setting his mug in front of him and holding it in two broad, white-knuckled hands. Dean massages his temples. All the heat of his anger has leeched from him, leaving cold dread in its wake. His toes are cold, and he curls them up under his feet, staring sightlessly at the scuff marks in the wood of the tabletop.
"Cas," Dean starts again, worrying at the dry skin on his lower lip with his teeth. "Cas would not be the first guy I've…" His head bobs. He's hoping Sam's smart enough to put the rest together himself. He hears the way Sam's breathing changes when it connects in his head.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I didn't. I didn't know."
Dean swallows, a hard knot twisting in his gut. Sam's already looking at him like he's trying to puzzle him back together from entirely new pieces. It's not rejection, but Dean can't stand it, and he has to look away.
"Dean, why didn't you ever say something?" When he glances back up, Sam's looking at him with big, sad I'm A Sensitive Guy eyes, and Dean wants to jump in the car and drive as far away from it as possible. "I mean, you know… you have to know, I wouldn't think—"
"When should I have told you, huh? When would have been a good time to share that information with you? When you were trying to kill Benny?"
"Benny?" Sam blinks once, twice. Something in his face changes again, and Dean shuts his eyes against it. "Benny. Oh my god, Dean…"
"Don't, just— don't, okay? Yes, Benny."
Sam's hand has slid over his mouth. He looks pale. "I'm sorry."
"Don't start."
Sam, cowed, lets out a wobbly sigh. When he looks back down, his expression is grim. "Did Dad know?"
"No," Dean says quickly, then, less certain, "I don't know." He shakes his head. "I wasn't really sure. If he did or not. I don't think he did. I think—" Dean rubs at his eyes. "I thought if he knew, he wouldn't let me around you anymore. Cause… y'know."
"Jesus." Sam stares up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "How did I not know this?"
"Well, it's not exactly something I wanted to broadcast, Sammy."
"No, I know that, it's just— you're my brother. You know me better than— than anyone. Anyone, living or dead. You know everything about me. And I didn't… Okay, no, this isn't about me, I have to—" Sam squeezes his eyes shut, wiping his hands over his face and running his fingers back into his sleep-tangled hair. "Thank you for trusting me, Dean."
"Shut up," Dean mutters. "Don't give me some after-school special crap. You basically had to hold me at gunpoint."
That startles Sam into an unsteady laugh. He drums his fist against the table. "Okay. Okay, so. You're…" Sam looks at Dean, waiting for him to finish the sentence.
"Not doing this with you. Next topic."
"All right, so then it wasn't that Cas was… that didn't have anything to do with it?"
"It had something to do with it," Dean admits. "Not everything to do with it." He feels his face heating and hides it in his hands. "Just made it easier at first. Jesus Christ, Sammy, I fucked up real bad."
"Do you… have feelings for Cas?"
Frantic laughter bubbles up out of Dean's throat. He can't stop it, and he covers his head with his arms, hunching down over the table while Sam looks at him like he's deranged. Does he have feelings. Christ.
"I don't get what's funny about this."
"There is nothing at all funny about this," Dean says, wiping his eyes. "Fuck me running. This is so not funny."
"I still don't get what actually happened."
"What happened is I pussied out."
"Don't— say shit like that, are you kidding me right now," Sam says with a baffled cough of a laugh. "God. You're an adult. Act like it. Step one: Have you tried apologizing?"
Dean's head thunks against the table.
"Okay, I'm gonna take that as a 'no'. Follow up question, why the hell not?"
Dean rubs his face into the sleeve of his robe, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Dean? All right, different question. Do you want… do you want things to go back to normal or do you want something else to happen?" Sam sighs. "Not that I think you can really walk this one back exactly, but, you know. Cas is family. I can't even really wrap my head around some of the stuff you've been through together. I have to think you could come back from this."
"I want him to come home," Dean admits after a minute. His voice is wet and muffled by his sleeve. Sam reaches across to ruffle Dean's hair with a rough hand. Dean half-heartedly bats him away.
"Okay. That's a step. And, uh, before you think about how you're going to apologize. Because you're going to do that, because you're my brother, and you don't back down from shit that scares you, right?" Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam just laughs weakly. "Before you do that, I want to tell you that I love you, and I'm sorry. Because I think it must have been really… really hard to go through all that without anyone to talk to. And I hope you feel like you can talk to me about this, because you can."
"Shut the fuck up," Dean says, face hot.
"No, I will not shut the fuck up, I'm going to be emotionally sincere at you, and you can just sit there and take it." Sam gives Dean a wet smile. Dean sniffs, covering his eyes.
"Bitch," Dean mutters.
"Jerk."
Sam sips his lukewarm coffee, letting Dean gather his wits and pretend he's not a mess while he drinks his own. He wishes it had Baileys in it, but he's not gonna tell Sam that.
After a few minutes, Sam frowns, looking down at his hands. "You know what Cas and Rowena are trying to do, right?"
"I figured." Dean worries at his lip with his teeth. "You trust Rowena not to double-cross us?"
"I think she's serious about it, yeah. At the very least, she likes being owed favors. But you're… I mean, you still…?"
"I don't care," Dean says. "I just don't want him to get hurt." He ducks his head when Sam's face softens into a smile.
"Yeah, I know."
—
Dean spends the next few days in the garage. Baby's had about all the tinkering she can take, but there are half a dozen other cars in there, and Dean needs something to focus on. He lifts the hoods, judges the damage. Mostly it's just neglect. They were all in pristine condition when the Men of Letters were wiped off the map, and they've been saved from real rust and decay by the bunker itself.
Dean, in his least salvageable jeans and his least likely to to be missed t-shirt, gets his hands dirty and just talks to himself.
"Cas, I— that was a stupid fucking thing I said," he mutters to himself, bent over the hood of a Packard. "I didn't mean that, I was. I was deflecting." He frowns. "No, now I sound like Sam, fuck that. Okay, I was— whatever. Cas, that shit I said, I was just— it wasn't because I think you're fucked up or broken or anything like that, it's because I was… I thought I wasn't good enough. I thought…" He swears, wiping his hands off with a rag. "I didn't want you to pity me. So I went on the attack. Like I always do, and I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have said that to you. So… I'm sorry."
Dean reclines on the cement, working lubricant into the gears of the old motorbike. "Cas: I need to apologize to you for being a fucking dick. I'm a huge fucking dick, and I can't stop myself from being a huge fucking dick sometimes, and that's not fair to you, because you deserve a friend who's not gonna treat you like… like a huge fucking dick. I'm sorry. About me. Being a dick." Oil drips onto his nose, tickling his nostril, and he sneezes violently, ruining the shine of the paintjob. "Shit. God damn it. Stupid."
"Dear Castiel," Dean grits out, frowning at the sludgy mess of the brake lines he's realizing are going to have to be replaced, "I never stopped thinking that if anyone ever saw me with a guy they'd try to beat the shit out of me, and even though I've literally beaten Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, and basically everything else in-between, that still freaks me out enough to make me act like a fucking lunatic around you. Sorry about that!"
He throws his wrench to the ground, cursing.
"I feel like you're going through some shit, and I can't help you with it, because I'm still— I'm so wrapped up in whatever this shit is up here," he says, rapping his knuckles against his head. "And it makes me feel like a dumb little kid again, and I don't know how to deal. And at the same time, all I want is…"
He sighs, his shoulders sinking.
"I wanted you back so bad, man. I didn't know what to do when you were gone. I didn't know how to.. to just keep going, after that. But then I got you back, and I didn't know how to. How to have that, either. I didn't know how to… Fuck." He sits, sinking to the floor and covering his face in his oil-stained hands.
"All this ugly shit in my head, and you said I… you said my soul was 'beautiful'. And I couldn't even ask if that was true, if you really meant that."
He sits in the garage, listening to the dead air settle, for a while. Then he heaves himself up, groaning at the way his knees don't cooperate quite like they used to anymore, and goes to shower, to wash the grime from under his nails and shave.
He makes dinner, and makes quiet conversation with his brother and the Nephilim and the witch who share their table, and when he's alone in his room again, he picks up his phone and sends Castiel a text.
I owe you an apology. I want to talk in person but I get it if you don't want to talk to me right now but you're my best friend and I miss you and you should know that
There's not an immediate response. He knows he can't force Cas to respond. He also knows that if something were really wrong, he would have at least heard about it from Jody. But he still lies awake for a long time, unable to decide who to be more pissed at for the silence, Cas, or himself.
Dean doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he's blinking awake again, his eyes struggling to adjust. He also doesn't remember leaving the desk light on. Then he notices someone standing over him, and he dives for his gun, adrenaline blanking his thoughts.
"Dean, it's only me," the someone says in alarm. Dean's finger stills on the trigger. Shooting wouldn't do him any good, anyway; it's Cas. Dean lets out a breath, setting the gun down on the side table heavily.
"Jesus Christ— don't— Don't do that."
"I'm sorry," Castiel says gravely.
Dean scrubs his fingers through his hair and down his face, forcing himself awake. "Thought you'd cooled it on watching me sleep."
Castiel has the audacity to blush.
Dean glances at his phone. It's a little past 1 AM. "When did you get in?"
"An hour ago. Everyone was asleep." His gaze drops, his stiff posture still somehow radiating embarrassment. "But… what you said."
Dean takes a steadying breath. "Right. That." He draws his legs up under the covers, resting his elbows over his knees. "Wait, I sent that like two or three hours ago. It's a six hour drive from…" Then Dean goes hot all over, because he realizes what he did. "Oh."
"I heard your prayers," Castiel said. "Every day. It was very distracting."
"M'sorry," Dean says, voice thin.
"I know. I heard that, too."
Dean's head drops between his knees, his hands grasping the back of his neck. His ears are buzzing. "Great. Awesome. I'm just gonna go fuckin'. Jump into a lake or something, then."
The bed dips by his foot. A cool hand reaches out to skate over his shoulder. Dean looks up to see Castiel sitting next to him, head cocked, regarding him quietly.
"I, uh." Dean clears his throat. "Okay, so. I guess you heard most of it, but I kind of wanted to say some of it anyway." He realizes he is very underdressed for this conversation in a t-shirt and boxers, but as long as he keeps the blanket over his lap, maybe he can maintain some of his dignity. "I'm sorry I… I'm always pushing you away and stuff. That isn't… I don't really want that."
Dean breathes in slow. Trying to force the words out in a way that makes sense to someone else when it barely makes sense to him is like vertigo, like trying to take a step forward while your feet stumble and lurch without your consent. He's already said it, and he knows Cas heard him. It shouldn't be this difficult to say it again. He feels like he has to anyway.
"I said something… really shitty, before you left, because I was freaked, and that makes me wanna… I feel like if I make people leave, if I act like I know it's coming, it'll hurt less later. And that's a shitty way to act. And I didn't… I didn't mean what I said. I don't think you're broken, Cas. And I get why you'd… I mean, we've gone though a lot of the same garbage, and I think I understand, but—"
"No, that's not—" Cas says, and Dean looks up, startled. "You don't understand. Of course you don't, because I didn't… I didn't explain myself. I'm sorry."
Dean shuts his mouth. Cas looks at the ceiling, eyes darting back and forth like he's trying to read through the script of his own memories.
"I am broken. I don't… function the way angels are meant to," Castiel explains. "I've been told that was a problem from a start. A flaw in my construct at the moment of creation."
Dean's face falls, anger bubbling up in his chest. Cas sounds so matter-of-fact about it, and Dean can't believe how fucked up this whole universe and everyone in charge of running it is.
"I'm explaining it badly again," Cas says, face stricken. "You're upset."
"Yeah, I'm upset. Those fuckers wouldn't know right from wrong if it kicked them in the ass. It has kicked them in the ass, you—"
Cas mutters, "The English language is so limiting sometimes," then meets Dean's eyes again, glittering with determination. "I'm proud of what I am. A defective angel. I'm proud to have defected. It's one of the few things about myself that I truly value. It's the thing about me that makes me myself. The thing that differentiates me from the Castiels in other universes, in other timelines, who never realized what it was to care for you. Other beings can see this… crack in me, this deviation from God's intent, and they call it a deformity. In a literal sense, it is. And I love it. Because without it, I would never have earned your trust. I might never have come to know you as I do now, never have learned all the incredible things you've taught me. I wouldn't have a family that I chose above the one that was chosen for me, who love the things about me that Heaven would call deviant. I wouldn't have a son."
Castiel's hand on his shoulder grows warmer the longer it rests there. In the dim yellow light, he's glowing, yet he looks soft enough to touch. Dean slides his hand over Castiel's, staring at the shadow Cas makes over his legs, framed against the lamp light. His throat feels tight.
"But those words… The meaning is different for you, of course it is. You heard me say I was defective, and… it hurt you. I hurt you."
Dean remembers. He had thought that if Castiel realized he deserved something better, he'd leave again.
"And before that. When I kissed you. I could feel myself causing you pain, and I couldn't figure out how to stop. I thought I was pushing you too hard, too quickly. I'm sorry, Dean."
"That wasn't," Dean croaks, his voice betraying him. "That wasn't your fault."
"I knew how much… conflict was tangled up in this, for you, but I still wanted you so much." Castiel's forehead creases, his expression anguished. "For a long time. I wanted you before I knew I could want anything at all."
"Jesus, Cas." He grips Castiel's hand tightly where it rests on his shoulder, too overwhelmed to look up and put a face to the bare desperation in his voice. "Why didn't you say something?"
"I thought I had."
The words spill out of Dean like a held breath released, low and urgent. "Cas, I missed you. I missed you so goddamn much. I couldn't... I don't know how to do this without you."
"Dean," Cas sighs. His fingers trail over the sharp line of Dean's jaw. Dean feels like he's burning up from the inside out.
"I want you to stay," Dean says, voice straining in the quiet. "Please. I want you to stay with me. I want… I want you."
Castiel's fingers flex under his, spreading out so that Dean's weave between them. When Dean looks back up, his eyes are achingly soft, his mouth curved in a barely-there smile. Cas leans in close. Dean's eyes flutter shut, and Castiel lays a kiss right between them, one burning touch to his brow.
I dreamed about you, Dean thinks. The shift of Castiel's coat on the blankets is the sound of waves through a bedroom window.
"I meant what I said." Castiel's lips skate over each of his eyelids, then his cheek, then his mouth.
"Oh," Dean says, and the sound is lost in the press of Castiel's mouth to his.
"I can still see it." Castiel breathes the words into him. "Your soul. Layered over your body, like ink bleeding through paper." He untangles his hand from Dean's, holding his face, thumbs rubbing circles over his cheeks. "When you're happy, it's like it's bursting with light. Green and gold. Sunlight through the leaves." Dean's eyes fall open, disbelieving. Cas sighs, kissing him softly again. "Yes, like that."
Dean's hands grasp Castiel beneath his coat, pulling him closer so he can crush his whole body to Dean's while he kisses him. Castiel only breaks away to throw his leg over Dean's lap, going up on his knees to bend down to kiss him again. "When I found you, you were in pieces. They'd stamped you out to embers, trampled you down, and I held you, this… flickering little soul," Castiel whispers, pressing kisses to Dean's jawline, "and I saw your death, and your life, all the ways it had tried to douse your fire, and you were so beautiful."
Dean grips Cas by the hips, tugging him closer, until he's seated in Dean's lap. Dean has his shirt in two fistfuls, and he tugs until he can slide his hands up, over Castiel's ribs, across his back. Cas gasps, melting against him, only mostly managing to kiss his mouth.
"Dean," he moans. Dean wants to hear that again. He drags his lips and teeth over Castiel's neck, over the cord of muscle there. Cas shakes against him, fingers buried in his hair, holding him in place. "Dean."
Cas is wearing way too many clothes. He tells him so, between kisses and scrapes of his teeth. Cas grunts in exasperation, and it vibrates in Dean's chest.
"You're the one who made me buy them."
"Yeah, well, that was a stupid goddamn decision," Dean says, yanking the coat from Castiel's shoulders. Cas slides off his lap (terrible) and starts by stripping out of his blazer (better) before unbuttoning his shirt.
"You're lucky I did," Cas says. He's wearing a sports bra underneath, blue and white stripes. Dean almost bursts out laughing when he notices it looks just like Castiel's old tie, but he realizes that's not usually the desired reaction when you're looking at someone's mostly-naked body. "I know you have experience with women, but even you wouldn't want to have to unlace a bodice."
"Done that," Dean says, tugging off his own shirt, while Castiel kicks off his shoes and drops his pants. He's wearing white boxers underneath, another detail that makes Dean laugh fondly. "You know punk-y burlesque chicks."
"Not really, no."
"Cas, get over here," Dean mutters, then Cas is on him again, pushing back the covers and tangling his legs with Dean's. This body he's in is long and skinny, and Dean's hand feels big spanning over his ribs. None of that changes how strong Cas is, and he's a little shocked when Cas easily shoves him back against the bed, holding his chin with one stern hand so he can lick his way back into Dean's mouth. It's a little filthy and completely perfect, and Dean's unbelievably hard against Castiel's thigh. Dean bites down on Cas's lip and is rewarded for it when Cas hisses and bucks down into him, perfect dragging friction.
"Can I…?" Dean's thumbs slide under the band of Castiel's bra. Cas doesn't stop mouthing at Dean's jaw for a moment.
"Yes."
Cas shimmies out of the bra as Dean tugs it off over his head. Castiel's breasts are small and triangular, and Dean palms one, lowering his head to the other to suck it into his mouth. Castiel doesn't react dramatically, but when his nipple slides out of Dean's mouth and hardens in the air, he shivers, his grip tightening in Dean's hair. His expression, when Dean chances a look up, is dazed, looking down flushed and heavy-lidded at Dean, his mouth hanging open. Dean grins, thrilled to be the focus of such attention. He spends as much time as he's craving mouthing eagerly at Castiel's tits, since he hasn't sensed any objections. He rolls a nipple between his teeth, feeling the heat where Cas is straddling Dean, and Cas just says his name again like it's the highest praise he can think of.
Dean tilts him back, one hand splayed across his shoulders, the other gripping his hip, until he's laid out flat on the bed. Dean lifts his hips up, tugging his boxers down his thighs and lifting his legs in the air until he can pull them off completely. Cas hasn't shaved—anywhere in fact, which—he guesses that makes sense. Why would he? It's another detail about this Dean never could have imagined, any of the times he actually allowed himself to imagine it, that just kind of makes everything that much more perfect, because that means it's actually happening.
Dean bends over him, trailing kisses down his sternum, over the dip of his ribcage, across his stomach as it rises and falls. He bends Cas's leg, turning his attention to his thighs, and Cas lets himself be maneuvered, craning his head down to watch Dean suck marks into his skin, blue eyes wide and amazed. Then Dean dips down to lick his way up Castiel's slit and Cas's eyelids flutter in his struggle to keep them open.
"Anyone ever done this to you before?" Dean asks quietly. His tongue darts out, lapping at Cas's entrance just enough to tease, to get him wet, but not enough to really get him anywhere.
"I didn't have a vulva before," Cas says, voice low and just edging into breathless.
"Okay, yeah, I know that," Dean says, smothering a smile and an eyeroll into the flesh of Castiel's inner thigh. "But, I mean…" Dean licks another stripe from bottom to top, tugging to pull the hood of Castiel's clit up so he can seal his lips over it, planting his tongue at the base and sucking. Cas spasms under him, and Dean tries to hold him still, but it's not easy, and he compensates by moving his head with the motion of Castiel's hips rocking.
"Dean, oh... I... " Cas's voice cracks, breaking into a long groan. "No, that's… oh."
Dean really enjoys his part. He also hopes that the doors in the bunker are thick, because clearly Cas is enjoying it too. His thighs press into Dean's ears, his feet crossed over Dean's shoulders, so Dean puts his neck into it, sucking Castiel's clit and letting him fuck up against his tongue as hard as he wants. Cas drops a hand to Dean's head, sliding his fingers through Dean's hair almost gently, and Dean likes that, too. He wouldn't mind Cas tugging on it a little, but he seems content just letting his fingernails graze over Dean's scalp while his head bobs between Cas's legs. He gets an elbow up on the bed so he can slide a finger into him, then two, crooking them forward to see if Cas likes that, too.
He's hot and wet inside, clenching down around his fingers like he wants them deeper. Dean angles Cas's hips so he can lean them both to the side, allowing him more leverage to really fuck Cas in earnest, his shoulder working in time with Castiel grinding down against his tongue.
"Dean, Dean… thank you, Dean, I... " Dean's gonna get an inflated ego, because while he's been thanked for a good time before, he's never been thanked this effusively, let alone with his face still buried in someone's cunt. He pulls off, unable to hold in a smile, needing to suck in a breath before he goes back in, and the puff of air against his wet folds makes Cas shiver all the way down to his toes, sighing in frustration. Dean goes back to work, letting the tension build back up until Cas seems about to snap, his spine arched and his breasts swaying with every gasp. It makes a really nice picture, one that has Dean grinding down against the bed for relief.
Cas comes like it's a shock, the breath punched out of him, and he clamps down around Dean's fingers, going still for a long moment before he whimpers, his knees shaking where they're draped over Dean's shoulders. Dean lets him down gently, letting his fingers slide out and lapping at Cas's swollen clit just enough to make his eyes roll behind his eyelids. Dean's chin is wet, his jaw aching. Completely worth it. He pillows his head on Castiel's stomach, catching his breath while Cas comes down, still petting Dean's head, thumbs dipping behind his ears and carding through his hair.
"No," Cas says after a few minutes. He clears his throat. "No one has ever… done that. To me."
Dean's mouth curves into a tired smile. He's glad he could snag at least one of Cas's firsts.
Cas moves under him, sitting up until Dean is forced to lift his head. He takes Dean's face in his hands, kissing him solemnly, gently. Dean curls an arm around Cas and lays back down with him at the head of the bed, gratefully resting his neck on his very welcoming pillow, letting Cas drape himself across Dean's chest. Dean's mouth is sloppy and red and Cas just can't seem to stop kissing him, no matter how worn out they both are.
"I want to do that for you. I want to see you..." Cas mouths at Dean's chin, at his own wetness streaking Dean's jaw, at the beginnings of Dean's stubble, then down towards his ear, enthusiastic and aimless.
"Yeah? How d'you want me, Cas?" Dean's voice is ruined, but even he can hear how smug he sounds.
"I don't know," Cas says, breath hot in Dean's ear. "I don't— Every way. Any way. I want everything, Dean, I don't know where to start. I just want you." Cas kisses him again, like he's starving for it. This is an aspect of Cas's personality he maybe should have had an inkling of, but it's making his head swim anyway, just with the headiness of being wanted so boundlessly. "Show me what you like. I want to know what you like."
"I'm pretty easy," Dean says, but he lets his hand slip down his stomach and grips his cock through his boxer briefs. There's a wet patch, and he lets his thumb roll over it, breathing out a sigh.
"I have not found that to be true at all," Cas says. Dean laughs, biting his lip, and Castiel's eyes fall to his mouth, trailing down his chest, watching his hand move. Dean, not one to deprive him of a show, tugs his waistband down, tucking it under so that his cock juts out, red and sticky with precome. Cas's eyes are fixed on him. Dean brings his palm up to his mouth, giving it one solid lick and bringing it back down to grip himself, giving his cock a good stroke, lifting his hips to meet his fist.
"Cas," Dean says. It feels good to say it, feels good to have his eyes on him, looking at him hungrily, good to have him tucked up under Dean's arm. Castiel winds his arms around Dean's neck, leaning in to press his nose to Dean's cheek, letting his lips brush Dean's jaw.
"Does that feel good?"
"Yeah." Dean strokes himself more steadily.
"Good. You deserve to feel good." Castiel's breath is hot against Dean's skin, and the words themselves make him feel hot all over, all down his chest and sinking warm into his belly. "I want you to feel this good all the time."
"Wouldn't get much work done," Dean huffs.
"I guess that's true," Cas says, and he starts to trace patterns over Dean's chest, over the protection sigil over his heart, across his flushed stomach, over his ribs, where Cas once carved words of praise in Enochian right into the bone. "But I want it anyway. I don't think I could ever tire of seeing you like this."
"Jeez, Cas. Make a guy blush." Dean glances over to find Cas watching his face rapturously.
"I want that, too. When you blush, it makes your eyes look so green. You're blushing right now, and I know it's just a natural physiological response, capillaries dilating, increased blood flow, but it's… arresting." Cas cups Dean's chin in his hand, swiping his thumb across his lip. Dean's tongue darts out to meet it. Cas's eyes watch it, dark and heavy. "Your body is so remarkable to me. It's been through so much. I had to put you back together, atom by atom, had to learn every nerve, every bone, every mark on your skin, and all of them, each one is perfect."
"Cas," Dean says. "Fuck."
"And under all of that, your soul, glowing so bright it sings." Cas lets his thumb slip between Dean's lips. Without thinking, Dean sucks it into his mouth. Cas takes it back a moment later, then reaches down to roll a thumb over Dean's nipple, bringing with it a shock of cold that sends pleasure coursing through him. "My siblings... When they talk of my deformity, they say there's a 'crack in my chassis'. They say I'm cracked. And I'm so glad. I'm so grateful for that, Dean. Do you understand why?"
Dean can hardly think coherently, let alone speak. He fucks his hand helplessly, letting Castiel trace feather-light shapes over his abdomen, his heartbeat roaring in his ears under the relentless, brutal kindness of Castiel's voice.
"Because when you're happy, your soul shines brighter, golden and warm and beautiful, and you shine into all the cracks in me." Cas kisses him, holding him, while his breath stutters and his hips move, lifting up from the bed to meet the tight circle of his fist. "Maybe that sounds silly to you, but I don't know how else to explain it."
'Silly' is maybe not the word Dean would use. He has to shut his eyes, feeling them prickle, his eyelashes wet and sticking. Fuck. What the fuck.
He hears Cas shifting, and then there's a soft hand stilling his, replacing his, wetness and warmth. A tremor goes through him, and then Cas starts to pump him in his fist, slow at first, then faster, steady, trying to match the pace Dean had started. Dean braces his feet against the bed, grasping Cas's hip in one hand, twining their fingers together with the other. Cas moves so that when Dean's head falls back, he's bracketed by Cas's shoulder, and Cas holds him like that, working his cock until Dean's panting, open-mouthed and light-headed.
"Of course I'll stay with you," Cas says. "I'm here, Dean. I have you."
"Cas, fuck, I—" Dean's orgasm lances through him, white-hot and overwhelming. Cas holds him through it, fisting his cock until Dean's shooting streaks of come up his chest in pulses, over his belly, over Castiel's knuckles. When he sinks, boneless, back to the bed, Cas keeps stroking him until it's just this side of too much, letting Dean's cock slowly soften in the palm of his hand. Dean should probably feel self-conscious, and he's so overstimulated it makes him want to pass out a little bit, but he also feels so strangely, completely safe. Cas has him. He's not going anywhere. The weight and depth of his regard is bigger than anything Dean's ever felt, big enough to let him sink into. To be held by.
He feels Cas easing him to the bed distantly, and there's a tickling sensation on his brow. Castiel's grace tingles over his skin, leaving him feeling clean and refreshed. Then Cas is with him again, pulling the covers up and crowding up behind him, curling an arm over his stomach. Dean dozes off that way, light and untroubled, Castiel's steady body against his back.