Isosceles - imogenbynight - Supernatural (TV 2005) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

It’s cold outside the barn, and the damp grass reaches Castiel’s knees, soaking through his suit pants to make them cling to his legs. If he were still human, the discomfort might be enough to push his thoughts from the track they’re stuck on. As it is, his angelic grace shields him from distraction and curses him with an eidetic memory that he cannot shake loose.

I love you, he’d said.

Even now, several minutes after he’d allowed Dean and Sam to pull him to his feet and followed them out into the chill winter air, he feels the sharp edges of those words sticking in his throat. As though they’d lodged there on their way out and left behind some trace of themselves. As though they’d altered him permanently in body and soul before they tripped so carelessly from his lips.

As they loop in his head, again and again, he comes to realize that they have. He’s changed. Everything has changed.

It had been foolish to say it—cruel, even, considering his timing—but with certain death mere moments away, he’d been incapable of holding himself back any longer.

He’s died enough times now for it to have become almost laughable to fear it—the notion that he’d ever stay dead and not be dragged, exhausted and deeply bruised, back into existence—but every other time he’s been taken so swiftly and with such little warning that any chance of a death-bed confession was lost with him.

It had seemed a cause for regret, before. Now, he contemplates the possibility that it was a blessing to have been so frequently stripped of the option.

I love you, he’d said, and Dean hadn’t been able to meet his eye. Castiel doesn’t blame him.

He imagines the tables turned, hearing those words spoken aloud—at last, at last—at a moment when nothing could be done with them. He imagines it with startling clarity, and feels a pang in his chest, aching deep.

Though he tries to tell himself that he’s only feeling a physical reaction to an emotional stimulant because he’s been weakened by the lance, he knows deep down that it’s more than that. Since his brief and ill-fated time as a human, the soul he grew has remained heavy at his core, lending an unshakable mortal weight to each moment he’s experienced. This is more of the same. A maddeningly human reaction.

(It does not escape his notice that he’s somehow retained most of the worst aspects of human existence, while losing the vast majority of the good ones. The trade off is one that he neither understands nor appreciates, and more than once he’s wondered if it’s been done to him on purpose as a punishment for his many transgressions against the will of Heaven. It would not be beyond Chuck to orchestrate something like this.)

At any rate, even if he hadn’t spent half the evening fighting back the toxic spread of poison under his skin, he’s certain that this particular brand of heartache would not be found on the long list of pains that his grace is capable of dulling.

Carefully, he presses his palm against the half-healed wound, hoping that the pressure might do something to alleviate the pain, but it only strengthens. He grits his teeth at the sharp twinge, blinking away the spots that dance in his vision, then sucks in an icy breath and resumes walking. Shuffling, really.

A little way ahead, the Impala is parked at an angle on the overgrown grass, and Castiel watches as Dean tosses the broken lance into the open trunk before staring down at his hands. After a moment, he wipes them against his jeans and sighs. Leans forward against the lip of the trunk to take a few steadying breaths.

As he does, Castiel senses a wave of need flowing out from Dean’s soul, so strong that he can see it.

It’s the silvery-warm color of pre-dawn sky, and it stretches out between them like a reaching hand. The sight, though not entirely unfamiliar, is arresting enough to make him falter in his step.

Dean’s love for him may be unspoken, but it is something he’s been aware of for almost as long as he’s been aware of his own love for Dean. It still leaves him rattled whenever he feels it surge. Whenever it grows large enough to spill onto a visible spectrum.

As though he’s somehow aware that Castiel is watching him, Dean glances up to meet his gaze for the briefest second before his eyes dart away again. It’s not subtle, the way he forces himself to focus on needlessly rearranging the weapons in the trunk, and finally Castiel’s meandering train of thought arrives at the next stop: what now?

He has no idea where on Earth they’re supposed to go from here. If he should try to play off what he said as nothing. If he should deign to address it at all.

He barely gives either option a passing glance.

Though he’s worked hard at suppressing the truth of his feelings and the knowledge of what they mean for far longer than he cares to think of, he can’t do that anymore. Not now. Not with the words out in the open like this.

Not now that he knows the taste of them, the shape of them, the weight of them on his tongue. Not now that he knows the feeling of simultaneous dread and relief that comes from standing on the precipice and leaping right off; of grasping at the nearest handhold at the last possible moment, too afraid to fall all the way, too afraid to fall alone.

I love all of you.

It was a desperate addition, but he knows that it was fruitless in the end. Dean had understood his meaning the moment he’d first spoken, and the plural of the second phrase only highlighted the singular of the first.

Pretending that neither of them know at this point is a pointless exercise in self-deprivation. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s been that way for a while now.

Whether they’re truly ready or not, it’s well past time to face this head on.

Tomorrow morning, he decides. He’ll invite Dean to take a drive—the car is the best place for this conversation, because when Dean inevitably panics, neither of them will have the option to run away—and they’ll talk.

They’ll talk, at last, and Dean will either tell him that he does not want to pursue the feelings that Castiel knows he has, or he’ll decide to take a chance. Castiel dearly hopes for the latter. He’s prepared for the former.

There’s a reason he’s never broached the topic with Dean before, after all, and it’s not because he’s ever doubted that their love was mutual. Dean is complicated. Castiel knows this, and he’s ready to deal with the potential fallout.

With new purpose, he continues forward, veering a little to the left on unsteady feet as he passes Mary and Sam and heads for his truck. He stops when he feels a loose grip around his arm. When he looks back, it’s to find Sam’s tired eyes regarding him with concern.

“This way, Cas,” he says, tugging him back toward the open rear passenger door of the Impala as though he thinks Castiel missed it. “C’mon.”

Castiel just frowns and looks at his truck where it’s parked beneath a massive willow, its sprawling branches dipping low as they’re weighed down with wet leaves. From here, he can see that the rear tire on the driver’s side is sagging, desperately in need of some air. Dean’s already told him to deal with it three times. He’ll have to do it before he gets back to the bunker to avoid an argument before their drive in the morning.

He slips his keys from his pocket. They jingle loud in the late night quiet.

“It’s fine,” he tells Sam. “I’ll meet you all back at—”

“No way in hell are you driving right now,” Dean cuts in. He’s still by the trunk, shuffling the arrangement of the weapons he’s already packed in such a way that Castiel knows he’s just trying to avoid eye contact. To keep his restless hands busy.

“I’m fine,” he insists.

Dean slams the trunk.

“You almost died in there.”

“But I didn’t.”

“He’s right, Castiel,” Mary adds, shooting a wary glance at Dean as he makes his way over to where the rest of them stand. “You can barely walk straight.”

“But my truck—”

“No, I’m serious. Gimme your keys,” Dean says before Castiel can argue any further.

“I’m—”

“Keys, Cas.”

He holds out his hand, expectant, and now that he’s close and actually looking Castiel in the eye, it’s impossible to miss the emotion in them. He looks scared but intent. Resolute. As though he’s reached the same breathless breaking point as Castiel and is determined to talk about what just happened before either of them loses their nerve.

Castiel hands him his keys. The brush of their fingers feels like jumping all over again. He’s so ready for the freefall that he’s wholly unprepared for someone to unceremoniously yank him back onto solid ground.

“Here, I’ll drive you back, Cas,” Sam says, snatching the keys right out of Dean’s palm. Dean looks just as bewildered by it as Castiel feels.

“But I—” Dean starts, clearly wanting to take a stand but uncertain how, and Mary looks on in confusion as he opens and closes his mouth like a grounded carp. He visibly swallows.

“We’ll meet you at home,” Sam tells Dean.

His hand settles heavily on Castiel’s shoulder. The grip that feels more like a command than comfort — combined with the forced cheerful tone of his voice — sets off alarm bells in Castiel’s mind.

But despite his best efforts, he can’t find even one good reason to argue that wouldn’t expose the truth before they’ve hashed things out in private. Neither, it seems, can Dean.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says at last, and looks back at Castiel. His hands shift at his sides, shoulders raising slightly in the prelude to a hug that never comes. “Just try to get some rest on the way, yeah?”

“Alright,” Castiel tells him, and lets Sam steer him into the passenger seat of his own truck.

At least this gives us both a little more time, he thinks to himself as he waits for Sam to get behind the wheel. If he’s being honest with himself, he needs it, to find the right words, the right approach.

He can feel Dean watching them as Sam starts up the car and pulls out onto the road. Can see him standing there in the rearview, gaze fixed on Castiel's truck and body held tense as Mary speaks to him and gestures back toward the house. It barely looks like he's listening.

His longing trails behind them, timid and shimmering gold as it strains after Castiel’s grace.

***

It’s unusual for Castiel to spend an extended amount of time alone with Sam.

Despite the fact that he considers Sam his brother and one of the best friends he’s ever known, Castiel has always found him a little harder to get a read on than Dean. Under normal circ*mstances, it’s not a problem, but at this moment, Castiel has no idea how to talk to him. How to look at him. How to even exist in his orbit.

Sam was there in that barn tonight, after all. He heard Castiel's words as plainly as Dean did. It takes Castiel far longer than he’d like to admit to realize that Sam’s insistence that he drive him home might be related to the very same topic he’d been hoping to broach with Dean.

The tension in the car is enough to make his stomach churn.

Sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, the radio crackling quietly as they slip through dark streets and onto the highway, Castiel watches Sam from the corner of his eye and wonders how long it will take for him to say whatever it is that he’s been struggling to verbalize since they left Ramiel's farm.

With every passing moment, the silence grows more obtrusive. Castiel is at a loss for how to breach it. They’ve been on the road for almost an hour before Sam finally speaks.

“You feeling okay?”

“I’m a little tired, but otherwise… yes, I think I’m okay. Loathe as I am to admit it, Crowley’s methods seem to have been effective.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Sam nods, jaw tight, and Castiel waits. He knows it’s coming. He thinks even the least intuitive being on Earth would be able to feel the tension.

“What you said back there,” Sam starts, finally, his hands shifting restlessly on the steering wheel as his eyes flick to the side. “You know we all love you too, right?”

Castiel’s shoulders sink with his relief, his whole body unwinding at the realization that he’s been worried over nothing, that Sam’s discomfort was merely concern over the thought that Castiel might not know how much the Winchesters care about him, and that his true meaning had gone over Sam’s head. He sinks back in his seat, finally letting go of the anxiety that’s been growing for the entire drive.

“Of course I do.”

“You’re our brother.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches before he can control himself. The tension comes back full-force. A third, overbearing presence in the cab of his truck.

“I think of you that way, too, Sam,” he says carefully. “Thank you.”

“Dean feels the same way,” Sam adds, his tone pointed as he glances over at Castiel again. His knuckles are turning white where he’s gripping the wheel. “He’s... he...” Sam sighs and shakes his head minutely, clearly giving up on his attempt at coming at the topic side-on. “Listen, I hope I’m not way off base here, but... you get how it came across, right? What you said? The way you said it?”

Castiel is tired and aching, and in this moment, he finds that he fervently misses the use of his wings. He wonders if lying about this is worth the effort when he knows it’s probably all going to come out tomorrow anyway. He decides against it. It’s not as though he’s betraying Dean’s confidence by simply confirming his own feelings, and he’d rather not lie any more than he absolutely has to.

Resolved, he turns in his seat to look fully at Sam as he answers.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

Sam’s eyes widen, as though he’d still half-expected otherwise.

“You—”

“I know how it sounded.”

Sam doesn’t reply, but Castiel can see him thinking. A crease forms in his brow as he gnaws insistently at the inside of his cheek. Castiel refrains from continuing until Sam has had time to process.

“So, when you— you meant that—”

He stumbles over his words in a way that Castiel has never seen him do. It makes him unbearably nervous, and he talks around the point in the hope that it will be enough to help Sam get his own thoughts in order.

“You’ve been a far better brother to me than any I’ve known," he says, sending Sam what he hopes reads as a kind smile. "And over the past months I’ve grown to love Mary through you and Dean. Her importance to the two of you makes her important to me, and we’ve become quite close in the time since she came back.”

The truck’s tires thwack over a carelessly discarded soda can, and the radio fades in and out, and Sam’s jaw tenses and releases in rapid succession. Castiel waits.

“And Dean?” Sam prompts after a few moments. It’s still tempting to deflect. Habit formed is difficult to shake loose, no matter how damaging, how foolish. Castiel pushes past the urge.

“I love Dean with everything I have.”

“You’re in love with him.”

The way Sam says in love makes it sound like the kind of work that people avoid at all costs, like shifting a boulder that’s far too heavy and more trouble than it’s worth. Castiel can’t help but bristle at the thought that what he feels for Dean could be anything but good.

It's the easiest thing he's ever done. The best. So;

“Yes,” he says simply. “I am.”

Again, Sam’s grip tightens on the wheel as he looks over at Castiel, a pained expression aging his features. Lines forming brackets around his downturned mouth.

“Cas...”

“You knew, though. Didn’t you? That’s why you wanted to drive me back to the bunker. You wanted to talk with me about it.”

“I mean... I didn’t really believe it until now. But yeah, I was pretty sure.”

Studying him thoughtfully, Castiel thinks over his behavior since they left the barn and finds himself smiling. Of course, he thinks to himself. The countless stories planted in his head by Metatron have been largely useless, but in this instance, they’ve finally given him some insight into an aspect of humanity he never expected to personally encounter.

“Sam, are you trying to give me an 'if you hurt him, I’ll kill you' speech?”

He raises his hands, making air quotes around the phrase, but Sam doesn't smile. In fact, his frown only grows more pronounced. His eyes unbearably sad.

“That’s not... Cas, what do you think is going to happen here? You think Dean is going to say he feels the same? That he’ll react well to this once it sinks in what you meant?”

Castiel has never been doused in ice water, but at once he’s certain that it would feel a lot like this.

“I—”

“I’m not trying to hurt you, but c’mon, man. He’s not—” Sam sighs, pained. “Dean loves you. He does. But he loves you the same way I do. You’re our brother. As soon as he realizes that you’re... that you have feelings for him? He’s going to freak out, and he’s going to lash out, and you’re both gonna be miserable.”

He blinks, dumbfounded, at the realization that Sam thinks so poorly of Dean’s character.

“You really think that?”

It’s almost funny how certain Sam is. If it weren’t such a clear violation of Dean’s trust, Castiel would tell him about the years of longing, the constant pull he feels from Dean’s soul, reaching for his grace. It’s been there since the averted apocalypse, though much like his own feelings, it’s only since he was human that Castiel has truly understood what any of it meant.

Sam just gives him a look of pity.

“Cas, I’m sorry. But for one thing, Dean’s not interested in men like that. He's straight. That’s not going to suddenly change just because you love him.”

To his credit, Sam does seem sincerely apologetic, like it does sadden him to have to deliver such devastating news. Castiel just can’t quite fathom how someone could spend their entire life living in close quarters with someone and be so blind to a fundamental truth of who they are. He does know that Dean downplays his interest in men—he’s not completely oblivious, no matter what some might say—but he’s always assumed that Sam saw through the charade as easily as he did. It’s disconcerting to learn that he was so wrong.

Although, it’s possible that Dean’s guard is a little lower around Castiel than it is around his brother.

Perhaps Sam hasn’t realized because Dean’s been careful not to let him see all of the clues that Castiel has been privy to; perhaps the close contact Castiel has had with Dean’s soul has made something well-hidden seem as though it’s barely under the surface.

“What if you’re wrong?” Castiel asks him. It’s a dangerous question, but he needs to know.

“I’m not.”

“Humor me, Sam. Please.”

Sam chews on his lip and flicks on the indicator, easing them off the interstate and into an empty weigh station. In the silence that follows after he parks, he turns in his seat to look Castiel in the eye.

“Even if I was wrong,” he says, tone careful and even, as though he's trying to talk a weapon out of Castiel's hand. “Even if Dean was interested in men, or if he felt the same way… Cas. You’re his best friend. You’ve been through so much together.”

“I was under the impression that relationships based on friendship were far more likely to be successful."

Sam huffs without humor, lifting his brow.

“Sure. With regular people, or people who are actually…”

“Actually what?”

“People who are... capable of maintaining mature relationships."

“And you think I’m not capable?”

“I think Dean isn’t. He’s just not wired for commitment. He’s tried it all of two times in his life, and both relationships crashed and burned. I wouldn’t want that for either of you.”

Sam sighs.

“And the two of you… you don’t just have history, Cas, you have baggage, and that only means it’d hurt you both worse. You’ve gotta see that. Look at how miserable you both are when you fight with each other now, just as friends, and think how much worse that would be if you tried to be something more to each other. But it's... like I said, he doesn't see you like that, anyway. And knowing you feel like that about him is just going to make him uncomfortable. The best thing you can do is just... leave it alone. Let him think you didn't mean it how it sounded.”

For a long moment, Castiel considers him. He can’t deny that it hurts to learn that Sam has so little faith in the two of them, but he does appreciate the fact that he cares so much.

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Of course,” Sam shoots him another apologetic look and reaches across the console to pat him on the shoulder. It’s infuriatingly patronizing, and Castiel uses every ounce of his self control to refrain from reminding Sam that he’s a celestial being several million years his senior. “I am sorry about this, Cas. I really… I'm sorry things aren't different. I am. But it’s gonna be a lot easier on you both if you just try to move on. Don't put this on Dean, okay? For all of our sakes.”

His hand squeezes Castiel's shoulder, and somehow, though he knows the action is meant to be one of comfort, Castiel finds it makes him furious.

He tempers his reaction as best he can. He means well, he tells himself, taking a moment to find the best way to respond without snapping. He only wants us both to be happy.

“I appreciate the advice, and your concern,” Castiel tells him.

“Anytime, Ca--”

“But,” Castiel continues, and Sam’s brows shoot up toward his hairline.

“But?”

“There’s no moving on from this."

Sam sighs.

“Cas--”

“I love him, Sam. I have loved him for a very long time. And while I won’t speak for Dean right now, I do intend to speak with him about this. If that conversation goes the way I’m hoping it will, I’m sure we’d both appreciate your support.”

Sam is quiet for a while. Tension is thick in the air.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he finally says. “I can’t give it.”

Castiel’s skin prickles cold, and once again he feels something lodged in his throat. I love you, I love all of you. The words are still there, digging in with claws he’d never known they had. He swallows around them, and turns away from Sam to stare out into the quiet dark of the weigh station. His own reflection stares back at him from the window, eyes betraying the deep hurt he feels, no matter how much he tries to tell himself that Sam’s opinion does not matter.

When Sam finally starts the car up again and eases them back out onto the road, Castiel closes his eyes and swallows down the feeling, dislodging the lump in his throat enough to speak.

“Then I’m sorry, too.”

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Sam parks carefully when they arrive at the bunker, unused to the size of Castiel’s truck and apparently wary of scraping the bumper against one of the pillars that separate the too-narrow spaces. Castiel doesn’t bother to tell him not to worry about it.

He’s fairly certain that Sam’s caution here has more to do with unease over their conversation and less to do with actual concern over the state of a truck that Dean has—more than once—referred to as a rusted-ass death trap.

Castiel doesn’t wait for him to shut off the engine before he climbs out. Sam scrambles to catch up with him.

“Cas?”

Castiel doesn’t reply; simply stops walking in the garage doorway and tilts his head to show that he’s listening. Despite his best efforts to consider Sam’s point of view, to understand and appreciate where he’s coming from, he’s still struggling to move past his impulse reaction.

He’s hurt.

Sam has hurt him.

It’s a deeply unpleasant feeling, and though this is far from the first time he’s felt this way, he’s not certain he’ll ever get used to it.

“Are we good?” Sam asks, finally, and Castiel feels an infinitesimal twitch below his left eye. He suspects this is one of those moments when a regular person might give a half truth to spare their friend’s feelings, but—as Sam so recently pointed out—Castiel isn’t a regular person, and he’s feeling considerably less charitable than usual right now.

“No,” he says. “We’re not.”

“Cas, you’ve gotta--”

“I don’t have to do anything, Sam. I… appreciate you sharing your concerns, but this is where your input ends. I’m going to speak with Dean, and if you think you have even the slightest chance of stopping me, you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”

Sam’s expression shifts then, his pleading eyes giving way to a look so cold that it takes Castiel back to those awful months after he pulled him from the cage, and he feels a rush of guilt alongside the umbrage that’s already hanging over him. No wonder Sam doesn’t think he’s capable of maintaining a real relationship with Dean—he didn’t even recognize that he’d only brought half of Sam back from Hell.

He waits for Sam to say something along those lines, but to Castiel’s surprise, Sam doesn’t say anything at all. He just tosses Castiel his keys and steps around him to stalk from the garage, hitting the lights on his way.

Standing alone in the dark, Castiel listens to his retreating footsteps as they echo up the stairwell.

Dean is already home — apparently having passed them at some point during the drive — and Castiel feels it the moment that Dean realizes they’re back. His longing flares like a fire that’s found new fuel, bursting up and out. Castiel follows it with his grace, all the way back to the bunker’s kitchen.

Sam is headed there, too. As tempting as it is to avoid spending any more time in his company, Castiel finds that he doesn’t want to risk him saying anything to discourage Dean before they’ve had a chance to talk. Steeling himself for the inevitably tense atmosphere that he’s headed toward, he swiftly makes his way up the stairs, catching up with Sam in the hallway outside the kitchen.

They share a brief moment of terse eye contact before they step inside.

Dean is alone, leaning with a faux-casual air against the kitchen counter while a huge pot of something that is either spaghetti sauce or chili bubbles away on the stovetop. It’s late—edging in on one in the morning—but the brothers had forgone dinner in order to deal with Ramiel, and Castiel suspects that Dean had needed to keep himself busy once he arrived back at the bunker.

His eyes dart toward Castiel’s stomach for a split second before skittering away to settle on Sam, and it takes Castiel a moment to realize that he’d never dealt with the blood that had soaked through his shirt and smeared over his trenchcoat. He cleans both with a thought, and sits at the table before the exertion can make him stumble, feeling his still-healing wound throb with the motion.

Even though he’s forced his attention elsewhere, Dean’s longing seems stronger than ever now that he’s laid his eyes on Castiel. Castiel feels almost dizzy with it.

“You guys take the scenic route?” Dean asks as Sam walks over to peer into the pot.

“Had to stop for gas, and then there was an overturned produce truck just outside Mankato. Got stuck waiting for the road to be cleared. I guess you missed it?”

Sam doesn’t mention their unscheduled stop at the weigh station, and the sharp glance he directs at Castiel says in no uncertain terms that Castiel had better not mention it either.

Castiel holds his tongue. It can wait. He can wait.

Dean, meanwhile, grunts in reply and takes a gulp from his beer, turning his attention back to the stove. “Must have. This is almost done.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“Said she had some loose ends to tie up in Belleville. Wanted to clear out Wally’s motel room and swing by his sister’s place to let her know what happened. I dropped her off at her car back near the diner.”

“She didn’t want any help?” Castiel asks, and Dean shakes his head.

“She said she’d handle it.”

He doesn’t look up from the pot.

“Well, is she coming back here when she’s done?” Sam asks, and Dean sighs. He sounds so tired. Castiel hates that he’s been here on his own, presumably stewing in self-loathing over his mother’s decision to take off again, and overanalyzing what Castiel had said to the point of madness.

“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe. Probably not. Who the hell knows what she wants to do.”

Dumping the spoon onto the counter, Dean picks up his beer. Castiel can feel him avoiding eye contact again, which only makes it more surprising when he finally stops. His gaze settles on Castiel, then flicks down to the now-clean cotton of Castiel’s shirt.

“You feeling okay?”

He is, more or less. The wound stings, and there’s still the echo of something toxic crawling in his veins, acidic and hot, but it’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as his conversation with Sam. He shrugs.

“I’ve been worse.”

Dean snorts.

“Considering some of the crap that’s happened to you this past year alone, that’s not exactly comforting.”

“I’m okay. Truly,” Castiel tell him.

“Good,” Dean says, and gestures toward the stove. “Any point offering you some of this, or—?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shoots him the kind of quiet, lopsided smile that never fails to make Castiel feel warm all over. He smiles back, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam frown.

“Don’t mention it.”

While the brothers eat, Castiel sits quietly at the end of the table and nurses the beer he couldn’t deny wanting. He doubts that he’s the only one who feels the growing tension as they slowly polish off second servings, but nobody says a thing.

Though Sam and Dean are both obviously desperate for sleep, they each seem determined to outlast the other. More than ever, Castiel is convinced that Dean finally wants to talk about things just as much as he does.

Around three o’clock in the morning, Dean yawns for the tenth time in as many minutes and pushes up from his seat to dump his bowl in the sink.

“Okay, I’m out,” he announces, and drums his knuckles on the table. “Cas, you still gonna be here tomorrow?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Castiel tells him, and Sam sends a not-remotely-subtle glare in his direction.

“Right. Well, I guess we'll pick up the hunt for Satan Junior then?”

"I'll start looking again tonight."

"Cool. Night, then.”

He gives an awkward little wave of the hand, thumps Sam on the back, and heads out of the room. Sam only stands up after they hear Dean’s bedroom door close a few minutes later. He pauses in the doorway on his way out.

“I am sorry, Cas,” he says quietly. “But please... think about this. Think about the position you’ll be putting him in. You really love him? Spare him the pain of hurting you.”

He leaves, then, and Castiel slumps in his seat. Angel or not, he’s exhausted by this day and everything it brought. He may not need sleep, but he does need to close his eyes and drift for a while, if only to keep from focusing on every negative thought that Sam has planted in his head.

His room in the bunker is sparse, though it’s more than he usually needs.

When he walks inside he finds that someone has needlessly changed the sheets since the last time he spent the night. The book he’d been reading and left open and face down on the side table has been closed, a card slipped between the pages to mark his place.

Castiel has no doubts about the identity of his mysterious housekeeper, and it warms him to the core.

He’s not alone in this, no matter what Sam believes. No matter how much Dean may have avoided the subject for these past years, he has been here. Dean has made his seldom-used bed, and he has marked the page of Castiel’s book with a phony business card for Special Agent Beyoncé, and has spent enough time just being in this room that his presence can still be felt inside it.

Castiel closes the door until it clicks, sliding his coat from his shoulders before hanging it on the hook and sitting down on the bed. The springs in the mattress squeak and groan as he plugs his cell phone in to charge.

He’s more certain than ever that the time has come to stop pretending, but as he sits in quiet solitude, the question of how to begin the conversation with Dean nags at him. If they’d been alone when he’d spoken in the barn, he thinks it would have been far easier. They could have addressed things then.

This extended pause has made things awkward. Feels like they’re both holding their breath. Growing dizzy from a lack of oxygen as they wait for the all clear.

Reaching out, he touches the book’s spine with his index finger as he tries to think of a viable course of action. It’s a thick and largely inaccurate treatise on the acolytes of Aphrodite, and briefly, he considers writing a note on the back of the business card inside and leaving it on Dean’s bed in the morning.

The idea comes attached to memories of teenaged film characters passing juvenile notes in their classrooms. Do you want to be my boyfriend? Yes, no, maybe?

He can almost feel Dean’s embarrassment just at the idea, and smiles to himself at the thought of Dean rolling his eyes to disguise a blush.

Alternative approaches occur to him as he reclines against the headboard of his bed, but ultimately he decides that it doesn’t matter. Dean wants to address this just as badly as he does. At this point, he’s better off just being blunt.

Castiel doesn’t need sleep, but he’s edging close to something like it when the buzz of his cellphone across the side table startles him back into awareness.

His stomach swoops when he sees that it’s a message from Dean.

Dean: Hey, are you busy?

It’s a little after 5am, and Dean’s message is far too casual and vague to be about anything other than the obvious. Castiel stares at it for longer than he’d care to admit before he carefully types out a reply and stands to leave the room, leaving his coat where it hangs.

Castiel: No. I’ll come to you.

Still, he pauses with his hand on the doorknob, knowing that once he and Dean cross this particular threshold, no matter what happens, everything will change. As misguided as Sam is in his belief that Dean does not share the feelings that Castiel has harbored for so long, his fear that their entire dynamic could be thrown into upheaval is not unfounded.

Castiel’s memory is filled with enough stories of star-crossed lovers to know that sometimes, loving someone is not enough.

Though it pains him to think it, Castiel decides then and there that if Dean wants things to remain as they’ve been, if he is unwilling to admit to the longing that Castiel feels as profoundly as he feels his own, he won’t try to convince him otherwise. If he must love Dean from afar to make him happy, he will.

He steels himself with a deep breath and steps out into the hallway to find Dean already waiting for him, his expression guarded.

Hey, Dean mouths, and glances toward Sam’s room, gesturing for Castiel to keep quiet before he nods in the opposite direction.

Silently, Castiel follows him through the halls until they slip outside into the chill February air. The moon is low, its light diffused by the overcast sky. Castiel’s feet sink into the damp earth as they trek up the hillside beside the bunker. The higher they go, the further they can see. The milky haze of approaching dawn is already starting to leech up from the horizon.

Dean doesn’t breathe a word, but Castiel can feel his determination with every step he takes.

At the hill’s peak, where the bunker’s flat rooftop emerges from the ground, Dean stops, turning in place to survey the view before moving to sit on the edge. Castiel perches beside him carefully, the brick and concrete cold and rough through the thin fabric of his suit pants. It only makes him more aware of how warm Dean is. How close his hand is, splayed out on the brick between them.

“How’re you feeling?”

Dean’s already asked him this, more than once, but Castiel assumes that the repeated question is intended to break the silence more than anything else. Out here, he feels compelled to answer more honestly than before.

“A little sore,” Castiel admits, shifting where he sits so as to stop the still-healing wound from twinging. “And somewhat worn out.”

“Do you need anything? Can I help?”

“It’s fine. Nothing that a few days of rest won’t fix.”

For a moment, Dean studies him, as though looking for some sign that Castiel is secretly dying, and Castiel studies him right back. He still looks as tired as he had earlier in the kitchen, but there’s an energy borne wholly of nervous anticipation thrumming under his skin, and it makes him come alive, more bright-eyed and kinetic than Castiel has ever seen him, even after a full night’s sleep.

“You’re really sure?” Dean asks, and Castiel nods.

“Really, Dean. I’m okay.”

“Good,” Dean blows out a breath. “You, uh. You had me kinda worried back there.”

“I’d gathered.”

Dean huffs, and they fall back into silence. It’s easier, now, though. The quiet more settled, less fraught.

Together, they watch an owl as it circles low, shrewd eyes seeking out some unlucky rodent in the grass below. It swoops, cutting a low arc before flying away with something writhing in its claws.

Dean exhales. Castiel sees his hand shift against the brick. His own fingers itch to bridge the distance.

“So,” Dean says after a while.

“So,” Castiel echoes, and sends him a sidelong look that has Dean laughing under his breath and glancing away to shake his head. “I assume you didn’t bring me out here just to watch birds.”

“Maybe I did,” Dean says.

“I’d be willing, if that was your intention,” Castiel offers, hating himself for giving Dean an out when they’re so close to actually talking, but knowing that it’s better than making him feel cornered, even if it was Dean who texted him in the middle of the night. As a compromise with himself, he adds; “But just so you know, I’d be equally willing to do just about anything else you were interested in.”

Dean looks at him slowly, and even in the moonlight his cheeks are visibly pink. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth before he speaks.

“I’m not, uh... I don’t really where to start, Cas. This isn’t… I didn’t count on any of this ever, y’know, being on the table.”

Even admitting this much aloud so quickly is more than Castiel really expected of him, and he raises his brow.

“Well, I’ve got some idea of where to start,” he offers, feigning confidence in the hope that some of it will transfer to Dean. “But if you’d rather work up to it—”

“Me, too,” Dean blurts out before he can finish, holding eye contact with such intensity that Castiel knows it’s taking a lot for him to do it. “What you said back there, I uh. Me too.”

Warmth spreads through Castiel’s chest. Fizzes under his breastbone, sweet and bright. He finds himself smiling.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Somehow, the words seem to hit Dean like a physical blow. He slumps immediately, face crumpling into a troubled frown that he directs at his own feet, trailing in the dirt and overgrown grass.

“Don’t— don’t thank me for that, Cas. That was— sh*t, that was the weakest goddamn—” He grits his teeth on a sigh, closing his eyes to rub at them with the heel of his palm. “You should’ve known already.”

“Would it help if I told you I did?”

Dean lowers his hand to stare at him.

“You knew?”

“Mm,” Castiel hums the affirmative and gives him the most reassuring smile he can manage. “Though it is nice to hear confirmation.”

“You knew,” Dean repeats, still staring at him, utterly stricken. “How— what the hell, Cas? Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Because you never gave any indication that you wanted me to,” Castiel says simply.

“But I did!” Dean exclaims, his expression nothing short of incredulous. Castiel narrows his eyes.

“I can assure you, you did no such thing.”

“Maybe I never spelled it out how you did last night, Cas, but I’ve done just about everything but roll out the goddamn red carpet for you.”

“When?”

“You want a list? Purgatory, for one. Or that time with the angel tablet. And last year, when I— Man, I told you I’d— I was gonna— and I mean, it’s not like it hasn’t been obvious that you felt something,” Dean rambles, barely coherent, but Castiel thinks back on the times he’d mentioned and realizes that he’s been misinterpreting Dean’s tentative approach for years. “But I just— you never said anything, and you never stuck around, so I figured you didn’t have the equipment to deal with it, if you even realized what it was, so I just… I dunno, man. I took what I could get.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to feel stricken, and he stares at Dean with as much incredulity as Dean had directed at him moments ago.

“You knew,” he says.

“Yeah, I knew. But I didn’t know you knew, y’know?” Dean shakes his head with a helpless laugh. “Jesus f*cking Christ. We are on the same page now, right? About... about how...”

“Will you panic if I speak frankly?”

Dean gives him a flat look.

“No,” he says. Castiel nods once and turns to face him more fully.

“What I feel for you—”

“Okay, stop.”

Castiel rolls his eyes to the sky.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t panic,” he says.

“Shut up,” Dean laughs. “I’m not panicking, this is just— Cas, this is so goddamn stupid. We’ve been dumbasses.”

“It seems to be an unfortunate trend for us,” Castiel says, and, feeling bold, he gives in to a years-old desire and stretches out the fingers of his left hand to touch the fingers of Dean’s right where they’re spread out on the brick between them. Dean does not pull away.

“Seems that way, yeah,” Dean says, verging on breathless as he stares down at their hands. “So what d’you— what do you want to do about it?”

He’s barely finished asking the question before he moves to skim Castiel’s knuckles with his fingertips. His touch is light and exploratory, soft in such a way that it almost seems unconscious, though Castiel can feel his intense focus in the way that his eyes are trained on the motion.

It’s not the first time Dean has touched him like this—gently, lovingly—but the times before had come after near deaths and actual deaths and—

This is different. This is Dean sitting beside him in the early-morning quiet outside their home. This is Dean in the slow-growing light of approaching dawn, saying with his fingertips what he struggles to say with words.

This is Dean free of pretense or fear or impending danger, touching him just to do it, just because he can.

Castiel turns his hand, slowly, and Dean’s fingers keep moving, tracing over the lines in his palm as though he’s following a path he already knows by heart.

Watching him, Castiel realizes that he was a fool to think he’d ever be able to walk away from this.

“What I feel for you,” Castiel starts again, and hears Dean let out a heavy breath beside him, as though he needs to prepare himself for affection the way most would prepare for a fight, “is more than I could ever put into words. But if you let me, I can show you.”

At last, Dean lets his fingers sink into the spaces between Castiel’s, pressing palm to palm.

“So show me.”

It’s easier than he’d ever anticipated to reach out with his free hand, to touch Dean’s cheek, to slide his fingertips back to sink into his hair and pull him close.

He feels something within him shake loose when their lips meet. Something that has been tightly coiled and suffocating him from within. It slips away with Dean’s quiet sigh, and for the first time in his existence, Castiel feels the relief of a craving wholly sated. That feeling doesn’t last.

Though their kiss is slow, it feels urgent in a way that Castiel has never experienced, and his own longing for more mingles with Dean’s until he’s dizzy with it, their combined want growing, building, until the need is somehow even more desperate than it was before they started.

Fleetingly, he wonders how it’s possible for a hunger to grow more ravenous once fed, but when Dean’s teeth tug lightly on his lower lip before his lips trail over his cheek, he finds he doesn’t care.

“There’s more,” he hears himself saying. “I’ll keep showing you for as long as you’ll let me, in as many ways—”

With a broken sound, Dean kisses him again, and Castiel grips him tighter, holding on even when Dean finally pulls away to look at him.

“So we’re really doing this, huh?” Dean asks, voice so much softer than Castiel has ever heard it.

“It would seem so.”

Grinning, Dean looks away, and Castiel takes in the deep flush spreading up the column of his throat and over his cheeks. He looks so happy that Castiel can hardly contain himself. He trails his fingertips over the pink skin to feel the warmth, and tries not to think of how much time they’ve both wasted. Tries instead to think of what they have to look forward to.

Under his touch, Dean’s chest starts to shake, and Castiel pulls his hand back in concern before he realizes that Dean is laughing.

“What?”

“I was pissed at you an hour ago,” Dean tells him, shaking his head. “I mean, seriously pissed.”

Castiel looks at him in confusion.

“You were?”

“I mean… The f*ck were you thinking, saying that when you were bleeding out? You could’ve died, you asshole, and I would have just had to live with knowing that I’d missed my shot for the rest of my life.”

Castiel blinks, horrified.

“I didn’t think of that,” he admits.

“Yeah, I know you didn’t,” Dean says, and squeezes the hand that he’s still holding onto. “Anyway, it worked out okay, so I’m willing to look past it.”

“I appreciate that,” Castiel says. “It would be a shame to have any animosity between us, now that we’re ‘really doing this’.”

Dean seems to be of the same mind, smiling as he leans in again to press his lips to Castiel’s cheek, his jaw, the skin below his ear, but even though they’re delivered with a laugh, his next words leave Castiel cold.

“Man, it’s been a while since I had anything more serious than a weekend fling. Wonder how long it’ll take Sam to notice what’s going on if we don’t say anything.”

He hadn’t exactly forgotten what Sam said, but since following Dean outside, it’s been so far from his mind that he might as well have. Now, it all comes flooding back with startling clarity.

Castiel had known he’d need to tell Dean eventually, but the thought of bringing it up right now is anathema. He should be grateful, he supposes, that they had even these few brief moments of uncomplicated happiness, considering the lives they lead. He should be grateful. He’s not. He wishes he could be entirely selfish, just this once, just for a little while, but he doesn’t have it in him.

Castiel sighs, closing his eyes and chasing Dean’s lips one last time before everything falls down around them. When he opens them, Dean is looking at him with a wrinkle in his brow.

“Cas?”

“Sam already knows.”

At once, Dean’s expression gives way to a look of such betrayal that it makes Castiel’s stomach sink. He drops his hands, preemptively giving Dean the space he assumes he’s going to demand once he’s heard everything that Castiel has to say.

“You told him?”

“He brought it up,” Castiel tells him quickly, and is immediately overcome with guilt that he tries in vain to quash. It’s true, after all. He shouldn’t feel guilty for being honest. But the knee-jerk reaction to shift Dean’s anger from himself to Sam has him feeling like a bad friend, as though he’s betraying Sam by passing the blame so easily.

“When?”

“While he was driving me back to the bunker tonight. He wanted to know if I realized how it sounded when I said what I said in the barn.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, as though he can tell there’s more that Castiel is leaving out.

“And?”

“You should really ask—”

“I’m asking you.”

Castiel sighs.

“I told him that I did, and that I’d meant it, and he said that you’d react poorly once you understood.”

“Wow. Okay.”

It would be easy to stop there, to allow Dean to think that the conversation had not gone any further, at least until Castiel has time to find a way to convince Sam that this isn’t a mistake. It would be easy to buy himself that time. Castiel isn’t sure that it would be wise.

Tentatively, he reaches out to touch Dean’s wrist, looping his fingers around it loosely. He’s relieved when Dean lets him.

“When I told him that I didn’t believe that he was right, he said...” Castiel trails off, still reluctant to repeat Sam’s words even though he’s already made up his mind to do it. He only continues when Dean prompts him again with a raised brow. “He said that even if you did return my feelings, we’d only hurt one another. That you’re not capable of maintaining a relationship. That it would inevitably fall apart, and we’d both be worse off for it.”

“That all?” Dean asks, his tone flat and angry, and Castiel feels a desperate need to fix it. He lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“He’s also under the impression that you’ve never been interested in men. I didn’t disavow him of that belief, though I must admit that I expected him to be a little more observant than that.”

Dean snorts, and Castiel is relieved to see the hint of a smile on his face.

“Yeah, I dunno how he still hasn’t caught on. I barely even hide it.”

“It’s almost impressive.”

“Straight people are wild,” Dean says mildly, and the barely-there smile flickers and fades. His voice is too quiet when he finally speaks again, as though he’s afraid of the answer he’s going to get. “Do you think he’s right?”

“No, it seems fairly clear at this point that you’ve got at least a passing interest in men,” Castiel says wryly, and allows another small smile at Dean’s amused huff before he answers seriously. “I think… I think that over the years, we’ve hurt one another to a spectacular degree as friends, so I don’t see how allowing ourselves a little happiness could possibly make things any worse than they’ve ever been before.”

Dean stares at him.

“You really suck at pep talks, you know that?”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying, I’d rather take the risk. I don’t wish to ignore this any longer.”

“Yeah, I’m with you there.”

Sighing, Dean lies back against the roof and presses a hand to his brow as though his head is aching, and Castiel lies beside him, turning his head to watch for some sign that Dean has come to some decision. He’s not expecting it when Dean reaches out and takes hold of his hand again, but he’s thankful for it regardless.

“I just need to talk to Sam,” Dean says finally. “I think… look, you said it yourself. He thinks I don’t feel the same about you. He thinks I’m not even capable of it. I just have to tell him the truth, and once he understands, he’ll come around.”

“I hope you’re right,” Castiel tells him, and Dean pulls his hand up to rest on his chest before tilting his head to look at him. Castiel can feel his pulse, steady beneath their entwined fingers.

“I’m right,” he insists.

“But if you’re not. If you speak with Sam, and he still thinks this is a bad idea… if being with me is going to cause a rift between the two of you, I—”

“Not gonna happen, Cas.”

“But if it does?”

Dean sighs again, then turns his head to stare up into the clouds above, stained pink by the rising sun. He squeezes Castiel’s hand.

“Then we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

There’s a new synchronicity to them as they rise together, dusting themselves off in the pink light of dawn before starting back toward the bunker’s door without a word between them. Dean walks slightly ahead. Castiel watches him move with an interest more open than he’s ever allowed himself before. He’s beautiful—that much isn’t a revelation—but there’s something easier about him now. Less tense. His shoulders are lower, his muscles loose and sinuous, comfortable in a way that Castiel has never seen.

He’s still admiring the casual grace with which Dean moves when they reach the steep final stretch, and Dean lets out an undignified squawk, his arms pinwheeling as he slips and scrambles on loose earth. “sh*t,” he grunts, taking the rest of the decline at a half-run before coming to an abrupt halt once he reaches the flat roadside. The way he tries to mask his fluster, as though he’d intended every moment of what has just transpired, endears Castiel to him more than he’d thought was still possible. He smiles, delighted at the realization that no matter how much he loves Dean, there’s somehow always potential for more, and Dean turns to look at him. The tips of his ears burn red.

“Shut up,” he says, trying—and failing—to glare at Castiel, and Castiel just grins wider, sidestepping the loose stones and making his way down to the road with ease.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Sure you didn’t, chuckles. You’re just lucky I was in front or it would’ve been you sliding downhill on your feathery ass instead.”

His feigned offence is bizarrely provocative, and obliquely, Castiel wonders if everything will be like this now that he’s felt Dean’s lips on his own—if every moment between them will be charged in this way, so that Castiel will be unable to carry on a conversation without feeling the overwhelming need to bridge whatever small distance he must to feel them again. It’s a good thing, he muses as he takes the last few steps toward Dean, that he’s allowed.

As though he’s thinking the same thing, Dean’s eyes drop down to his lips as he nears, visibly distracted even as he lifts his chin, defiant in his attempt to play offended.

Castiel just lifts his brow and slots one foot between Dean’s, pulling him close to kiss the look away. Only when he feels Dean begin to melt against him does he stop, and Dean’s painted-on frown is back within seconds, even less convincing than before.

“That’s not gonna work every time you want to distract me,” he says.

“In that case, it would behoove me to test the limits,” Castiel replies.

Dean snorts, and Castiel is oddly relieved to realise that not everything Dean does is wildly attractive, after all. He finds he wants to kiss Dean again anyway. He does. Dean lets out an amused hum against his lips, and Castiel swallows the sound, humming right back.

“Can’t argue with that,” Dean murmurs when he pulls away, and glances up as a few stray raindrops begin to fall. He sighs. “Probably our cue. We should go back in before Sam gets up, anyway.”

Even if Castiel does want to spend a little more time out here in the peaceful morning haze, rain or not, he knows Dean is right. If they wait too long, Sam will catch them walking back inside together, and though Dean is an adult and Castiel is several million years beyond even that, he can’t help but feel apprehensive at the notion of being judged. Once the brothers have spoken, Castiel will gladly deal with whatever consequences arise. Until then, he’d rather steer clear of any further confrontations with Sam.

Reluctantly, they separate and descend the steps to the bunker, stepping inside just as the sky opens up. They both pause and look out as the rain moves in, a clearly delineated wall that is swallowed up quickly by the downpour as the clouds move across the sky.

Dean’s hand brushes Castiel’s before he closes the heavy door, sealing the noise of pouring rain outside and plunging the bunker into silence. As they make their way down the stairs into the map room, Castiel sees Dean’s shoulders tightening with every step, all the casual comfort from outside draining out of him, and by the time they reach the floor he’s every bit as tense as usual. It breaks something in Castiel to see, and he wishes that he could risk some small touch, if only to bring back a little of the ease he’d seen before.

The silence only seems more intense as they move through the bunker. Every footstep seems thunderous; every squeaking hinge an alarm designed specifically to raise Sam from slumber, to send him barrelling out into the hallway to tell Castiel in no uncertain terms that he’s fooling himself if he thinks he and Dean can have this, that they’re making a mistake, that this is doomed from the start, destined for failure, destined to crash and—

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is pitched low, but it pulls Castiel from his spiralling thoughts all the same, and he lifts his gaze to realise they’ve made it as far as Dean’s room without his notice. His own room is back the way they’ve come. He looks over his shoulder toward it, then back when Dean’s fingertips brush against his own. “You good?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” he admits, and rocks back on his heels. “I should rest.“

Dean’s hand closes around his own before he can move any further. Castiel looks down at it in surprise.

“Dean?”

“Just—c’mon,” he says, and pulls.

They’re inside Dean’s room before Castiel has time to consider why following might not be a sensible decision in this moment, and then the door is shut firmly, and Castiel learns just how firmly when he’s pressed between it and Dean. Between one moment and the next, Dean’s mouth is sealed over his own. This kiss is deeper than before, more frantic, and Castiel feels it resonating through his entire being—the warmth of Dean’s lips on his, the scratch of his stubble, his callused palm curving around Castiel’s jaw, Dean’s thumb touching the place where their mouths are joined. His tongue, his hips, his soul. Castiel feels everything at once. It’s overwhelming. He wants more.

When Dean pauses for breath, Castiel makes a sound of protest.

“You can rest in here,” Dean tells him, but Castiel only nods, dazed. He tilts his chin up until Dean takes the hint and dips forward to kiss him again. By the time Dean’s words register, they’ve moved halfway across the room.

“This isn’t resting,” he says, but makes no effort to stop, instead sliding his hands up under the hem of Dean’s shirt to grip him more tightly, skin to skin. Dean’s teeth close briefly around his lower lip at the touch.

“You can rest after.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, and Dean hauls him impossibly closer, only shifting out of reach when they suddenly arrive at his bed, and he sits heavily. For a moment, he just stares up at Castiel and longs, the feeling spilling out of him with such intensity that Castiel is breathless with it. Helpless.

“I’m here,” he says, voice raw as Dean finally reaches out to touch him, his hands tugging at Castiel’s shirt and slipping underneath. “I’m right here.”

His fingers trail electric heat from Castiel’s lower back around to his sides, thumbs pressing lightly into the skin of his hips as he pulls Castiel closer, pulls him to stand between his knees, toys with the buttons of his shirt. He leans in and presses his mouth to Castiel’s stomach, breath hot through the thin cotton, and for a time, Castiel is lost in the sheer indulgence of it, but then—

Pain. Liquid fire shooting through his veins, out out out from the still-healing wound left by Ramiel’s attack and spreading, shattering, splintering like shrapnel that reaches the very edges of his body and beyond, into the ether, where even his wingtips curl with it, aching. Burning.

Dean yanks his hand back so fast that Castiel almost thinks he feels it, too.

“Cas, what— did I hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” he says on impulse, but the pain continues to radiate even as it dulls, like the reverberating hum of a church bell. He feels it from toes to teeth.

“Bullsh*t. You flinched.”

Dean’s eyes are sharp with worry despite his flushed cheeks, and Castiel touches the warm skin, trying to bring Dean back to him, trying to bring himself back to the moment before. He focuses on the warmth. It helps.

“Really, Dean. I’m fine.”

For a moment, it seems as though Dean believes him, but then he hesitantly touches the buttons of Castiel’s shirt before dropping his hands away.

“So you won’t mind if I take a look.”

Castiel knows, without a shadow of doubt, that if things were the other way around, Dean would make some joke about Castiel only wanting to get him out of his clothes. Dean looks so stricken that Castiel can’t even bring himself to attempt humor. He sighs, unbuttoning his shirt until Dean takes over, and then he just waits as his skin is exposed to the cool air.

Beneath Dean’s hands, his stomach muscles jump and twitch with every millisecond of accidental contact, but despite Dean’s undivided attention, he gains no enjoyment from any of it. Dean is staring. He looks horrified.

“Cas…”

He lifts his hand, almost touching but stopping just shy, and Castiel can’t help but wonder if he’s reliving the previous evening. If he’s seeing beyond the raised red flesh of the lance’s point of entry, his mind’s eye supplying vivid memory of the toxic black bile that had bled sluggishly from him last night.

“It barely hurts,” Castiel reassures him when he doesn’t say anything else, and Dean glances up with a doubtful look in his eye.

“It hurts some, though, right?”

“Barely,” Castiel repeats.

“I hardly even touched you and you flinched."

“I hardly even touched you and you damn near jumped out of your skin."

“Don’t give me this 'just a flesh wound' crap,” Dean snaps. “I’ve seen you shake off a dozen bullets without breaking a sweat, so why hasn’t this already healed?”

Before Castiel can answer, Dean pulls him down to sit beside him on the mattress. Castiel sighs. He looks down at his stomach to take in the broken skin.

It doesn’t look good, and it really is taking a long time to knit back together, but Castiel felt the poison purged from his system before they’d left the barn with only the echo of that pain remaining, and he has no doubt that he’ll be fully recovered within another day or two.

Still, Dean is looking at him as though he’s still bleeding out. It’s not an expression that Castiel wants to see on his face.

“The poison wasn’t just eating into my body,” he explains carefully, reaching out to catch hold of Dean’s hand before he can shift it too far away. “It affected me on a metaphysical level, and I have to allow my grace to heal a little more before I repair my physical wounds. That’s all. It shouldn’t be longer than a couple of days for the wound to heal, and only a day or two after that for my grace to fully regenerate.”

Dean frowns at him.

“You said you needed rest,” he says, and shakes his head at himself. “sh*t. And here I am trying to—“

“I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t want to be.”

“Still. You’ve gotta tell me sh*t like this.”

“You couldn’t have done anything to help.”

“Not the point, Cas. If you’re serious about… about this, us, about showing me? This is how you do it.”

“By telling you that it’s taking longer than I’d like for an injury to heal?”

“By letting me take care of you, you dick.”

Castiel can’t help but smile. He lifts his palm to press against Dean’s chest. His heart thumps hard beneath Castiel’s palm.

“I hope you realise that that will have to go both ways,” Castiel says, and Dean huffs.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Castiel echoes, and slides his hand up to Dean’s face, cupping his cheek and stroking his lips with his thumb. His heart swells when Dean presses a light kiss to it, then flops back against his pillow.

“Look at us,” Dean says, looking up at him. “First kiss, first fight, first make-up, and it’s not even eight in the morning. That’s gotta be a new record.”

Castiel just levels him with a dubious look.

“That was hardly our first fight. It wasn’t even our tenth.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know,” Castiel smiles at him, and looks toward the door. “It might be wise to go get some rest in my own room.”

“In a minute, just—” Dean falters for a moment before he finds his footing and continues. “Before you go. Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Let me…” Dean chews his lip, looking down at Castiel’s still-exposed stomach. “Can I stitch you up? Hell, even just let me slap a bandage on you. I know you said it’s gonna heal on it’s own, but— I just— I can’t—“

“Of course.”

Dean heaves out a breath, his eyes shifting away as though he’s embarrassed to have even asked, and Castiel catches him before he can stand. He kisses the corner of his mouth, then the rise of his cheek, letting his hand linger against his jaw after he pulls away.

“Thank you,” he says.

Shrugging, Dean pushes up from the mattress and heads for his still-packed duffel, digging through it until he finds the old first-aid kit inside. Though he’s making every effort to appear nonchalant, Castiel can see how much he needs to do this. How much he needs to do something. It’s there in the way he sorts through the contents of the kit, picking things out and reading labels before tossing them to the side; in the way he carefully sets the bandages he wants on his desk. He’s focused. Determined.

Moving slowly to avoid the possibility of straining his stomach, which has resumed hurting constantly now that his attention has been drawn back to it, Castiel shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor. It takes Dean a while to return with the things he needs, and when he does he seems to debate with himself of the best angle to approach this from. Finally, he kneels by Castiel’s legs, tossing bandages onto the mattress beside him.

Looking down at him, Castiel smiles. Dean glances up and flushes redder than the morning sky.

“What?” Castiel asks.

Dean clears his throat and glances away, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s probably too soon for the joke I was just gonna make.”

“I don’t think ‘too soon’ could reasonably describe any aspect of our relationship, Dean.”

Dean snorts.

“I’ll give you that,” he says, and shuffles a little closer, resting one hand on Castiel’s leg for balance. “Still didn’t plan on bein’ on my knees for you this morning.” He squeezes Castiel’s thigh and bites the inside of his cheek, eyes flashing in the low light as he meets Castiel’s gaze. “Or maybe I did.”

At once, Castiel feels his own face heating. He swallows convulsively.

“Point taken.”

Dean seems thrilled by the reaction, and he laughs to himself as he uncaps a tube of antiseptic. He’s the picture of smug satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself for making Castiel flush. Like many moments they’ve shared over the past nine years, it feels like a challenge. For once, Castiel decides to take it.

“Would you like for us to engage in fellati*, Dean?”

Dean stops laughing.

“You did not just ask me that,” he says, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Castiel’s knee in defeat. “fellati*. Jesus Christ.”

“I’ve wondered about it,” Castiel tells him, ignoring his comment. “Whether it would be as enjoyable to give as to receive. If you’d be amenable to try it sometime, I’d be—”

“Cas, can we maybe have this conversation when I’m not ten inches from your infected-looking stomach wound?”

Blanching, Castiel gives a tight nod.

“Apologies.”

Dean squeezes his thigh again.

“Not saying I’m not interested, Cas. I, uh. I’m very interested. Just…” He looks at the wound again, a pained expression on his face. “Staring at the evidence of your near-death experience is kind of the opposite of a turn on for me.”

“I can’t say the same for my current vantage point. You look very good from this angle.”

Closing his eyes briefly, Dean seems to steel himself.

“Okay, new rule? Quit saying hot sh*t while I’m doing this. It’s confusing my junk.”

“I’ll save it for later.”

“Good plan.”

Carefully, Dean dabs the ointment onto the worst areas of Castiel’s stomach, his fingers gentle as he uses tape to fix a square bandage over it. He doesn’t get up right away when he’s done, taking a moment to trail his fingers over Castiel’s skin. The touch is undemanding, and Castiel is certain that Dean is merely aiming for comfort—his own, and Castiel’s, in equal measure. Proving to himself that Castiel is alive and warm beneath his hands; proving to Castiel that Dean is here for him.

His soul is in his fingertips, and Castiel feels it shifting beneath his skin. It’s overwhelming. Castiel wonders if Dean feels it, too.

“Thank you,” he says again, and hopes Dean hears everything in the words, because his gratitude is not enough, but even love falls short.

When Dean meets his eyes, Castiel is certain that he’s understood.

He’s reluctant to leave after, though he knows he should, and they spend several long minutes kissing by the door until Castiel finally pulls away to head back to his own room. Dean’s fingers trail down his arm as he goes, leaving fire in their wake, and Castiel carries the feeling with him, almost floating down the hall even though his stomach still stings.

***

Sam is waiting in the hallway when Castiel makes his way out of his own room later that morning, leaning against the wall and looking at something on his phone. The way he seems to force his gaze to remain locked on the screen rather than acknowledge Castiel’s arrival is a dead giveaway that his presence here is calculated.

So is the fact that he’s been standing here for almost twenty minutes. It might be childish, but Castiel has been letting him stew. He’d only been back in his room for an hour when he’d heard Sam’s door creak open, and since then, he’s been laying back and playing out dozens of variations of the argument they’d had in the car. Half of the fantasies had led to him saying something so profoundly convincing that Sam changed his mind and apologised for his initial reaction. The other half involved him telling Sam, in increasingly colourful ways, to go f*ck himself.

Now, he pulls his door shut sharply, relishing the way that the heavy thud startles Sam into lifting his gaze.

“Morning, Cas,” he says with forced cheer, and the dishonesty of it needles at Castiel almost as much as their entire conversation the night before. He grits his teeth and does not give in to his desire to start an argument. Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever told anyone to go f*ck themselves, before, and he’d really rather not start with Sam.

“Good morning,” he says instead.

Dean’s bedroom door is closed when they pass it, and Sam clings to him like a shadow all the way to the kitchen. He doesn’t protest when Castiel starts up the coffee—by some strange twist of fate, it seems that Castiel is the only one who can coax the ancient percolator to make anything remotely potable. The water bubbles. Sam doesn’t say a word; just waits for Castiel to pour a cup, and then moves to get his own.

Dean finds them in the library an hour later, shuffling in with his gray bathrobe hanging loose around his shoulders, his slipper-clad feet dragging on the floor. For a moment, Castiel tenses. It’s entirely possible that after he left Dean alone, he’d started to second guess himself, and he braces for the possibility that Dean regrets the shift between them. The worry doesn’t last.

Dean’s eyes seek his out, and they’re just as full of love as they were when they’d parted. He walks right over and puts a warm hand on Castiel’s shoulder as he reaches past to pluck his recently-refilled mug from the table.

“You better not have been up this whole time,” he says.

“We can’t all sleep until noon,” Sam says, eyeing Castiel’s mug as Dean downs half of the contents in one go. “There’s a fresh pot in the kitchen.”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel says.

“See? Cas doesn’t mind,” Dean says, and puts the mug back down before he squeezes Castiel’s shoulder. “What’re you reading?”

“We’ve been looking into possible leads on Kelly Kline.”

“Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, well… I’m gonna grab some more coffee. You guys want refills?”

Castiel shakes his head, but Sam stands, picking up both mugs.

“I’ll give you a hand,” he says, practically herding Dean out of the library. He’s being about as subtle as the moose Crowley likes to compare him to, but Castiel doesn’t react. Instead he stands, too, pushing his chair in before picking up the laptop he’s been working on.

“I’ll be in my room,” he says.

Sam looks surprised, but he can’t feel what Castiel can. There’s tension rolling off Dean in waves, and the squeeze he delivered to Castiel’s shoulder communicated everything that he couldn’t say out loud—he’s still all in, and he’s going to talk to Sam. He’s going to tell Sam. Now.

Making his way back toward his room, Castiel tries to dampen his angelic hearing as much as he can, but it’s easier said than done. In spite of his efforts, he hears Sam putting their two mugs down on the counter; Dean opening the cabinet to take out another; the scrape-whine-rattle of the top drawer as one of them pulls it open to fetch a teaspoon.

All the while, Castiel feels Dean’s nerves ratcheting higher and higher. His fear is all tangled up with an involuntary longing for Castiel to be with him through this, but he’d been adamant that he do this alone, so although it pains him, Castiel does not go to him. He just waits.

The silence between Dean and Sam stretches on for so long that Castiel almost flinches when Sam speaks.

“I spoke to Mom this morning. She’s spending the rest of the day with Wally’s sister, but she said she’d head back here tonight.”

“Assuming she doesn’t line up another hunt by then,” Dean says. He sounds resigned, as though he’s moved beyond disappointment and into acceptance that he’ll never get the relationship with Mary that he needs so deeply, and it breaks Castiel’s heart to hear. He’s sure Mary will settle eventually. He just hopes it’s not too late. “I’m thinking pancakes. You want?”

“I already ate.”

“Yeah, but did you eat pancakes?”

There’s a pause.

“Fine. I’ll take one. Singular.”

“Deal.”

The fridge opens. Closes. Dean plonks something—a whisk, Castiel thinks—onto the counter, and starts cracking eggs.

“So. Last night,” Sam starts a few minutes later, as Dean starts mixing. The whisk sings against the sides of the metal bowl. “That was a lot.”

“Astute observation there, little brother. That college education really picks its moments to shine through.”

Castiel doesn’t bother to suppress his eye roll at Dean’s knee-jerk sarcasm, and from Sam’s flat reply, he’s not the only one. He suspects that Dean is probably rolling his eyes at himself, too, if his recent tendency to give honest responses even when they’re difficult is anything to go by.

“Dean,” Sam says.

With a sigh, Dean stops whisking.

“Yeah. I know,” he says, and his voice shifts, as though he’s turned around. Castiel can’t tell if it’s to face Sam or to hide from him, though at a guess, he thinks—for once—it was the former. "It was a lot.”

“Look, you probably don’t want to hear this, but… what Cas said last night in the barn. I was talking to him on the drive, and—“

“Yeah, I know. He—”

“You know?”

There’s a dull thump as Sam sits on one of the swivelling seats at the table.

Dean flicks on the gas stove, igniting one of the burners, and his voice shifts again—he’s definitely turned away, now. The cast iron pan clunks down onto the stove.

“Yeah. We talked.”

The strangest feeling comes over Castiel, then—something restless, anticipatory but terrified, and he can’t quite tell where Dean’s nerves end and his own begin, because this is it. Not for the first time, he wishes he could suppress his angelic abilities to a far greater degree than he is able. He should not be listening to this. He doesn’t know if he can listen to this. Not without wanting to be there at Dean’s side, where he belongs.

“When?”

“This morning. You weren’t up yet.”

There’s a long pause, and in it Castiel can feel Dean’s fear growing. His uncertainty as to how to continue this conversation gets bigger, grows teeth. It’s almost a relief when Sam speaks again, directing the conversation.

“That explains it,” Sam says.

“Explains what?”

“All the—“ there’s another pause, and Castiel imagines that Sam is gesturing, searching for words. “Y’know. How you were acting out in the library. Whatever that was with the coffee.”

“Oh,” Dean says, and takes a shaky breath. “Yeah, so about that, the thing is—“

Sam doesn’t let him finish.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m relieved you’re taking this so well. Kinda expected you to lose it the second you found out.”

“Wow, nice to know how little you think of me.”

“No, I don’t— I just thought you’d be, y’know… all ‘Dean' about it.”

“The hell is that supposed mean?”

“Dean, every time a guy hits on you, you freak out. Remember Aaron?” There’s silence for a moment. Castiel can practically hear Dean screaming in his head, because true as it may be, he suspects that the freaking out that Sam has witnessed has been less panic and more fluster. “Not to mention how grossed out you get every time some motel clerk mistakes us for a couple.”

“Dude, you’re my brother, of course that grosses me out.”

“Yeah, and Cas is family, so... I dunno. I figured you’d be just as skeeved.”

“Cas isn’t my brother.”

“Still didn’t think you’d be so chill,” Sam says, still sounding infuriatingly condescending as his next words make Dean’s soul shrink in on itself in shame. “Anyway, I'm glad he seems to be taking it okay, but I've gotta admit it’s probably a good thing you don’t swing that way.”

“Why’d you say that?”

“Seriously? Dude, you and Cas are a mess just as friends. But together? God, that would be a trainwreck.”

Sam lets out a short laugh, and Castiel grinds his teeth. He’s making things so much worse, and he’s completely oblivious. Even through the walls, he can feel Dean’s anger seething close to the surface, but Sam’s cell phone starts to ring before he can find the words to respond.

As he answers the call, Dean’s longing reaches a fever pitch, and it’s only seconds before hurt and anger and confusion and fear all wind together to wrap around it, turning his need to something bitter and awful. When Castiel unravels it all he’s ruined by what he finds. Dean wishes the longing weren’t there at all.

On some level, he’s thinking that his life—that all of their lives—would be easier if he didn’t feel this way about Castiel in the first place.

Castiel can barely breathe for the way it crushes him. To be loved and wanted and needed but simultaneously wished away.

He looks over at his coat, still folded neatly where he left it late last night, and knows that he could leave right now. He could spare Dean the pain of asking him to go by leaving before he’s forced to.

It’s tempting to just do it. A year ago—even a week ago—he might have. But he’s done with making decisions on Dean’s behalf. They’re in this together. If Dean truly wants to call things off, if he wants their parting kiss this morning to be their last, if he’s considered the cost and determined it greater than he’s willing to part with, then Castiel will respect that and walk away. But he won’t decide alone.

Crossing the room, he picks up the coat and shakes it out before slipping it back over his shoulders, then unlocks his cell phone. He types out a hasty message as he walks down the hall.

Castiel: Come to the garage when you're done with Sam. We should talk.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

During the apocalypse that never came, Castiel met a man whose heaven was a vast library.

Bao Jianhong had been a scholar in life—a perpetual student even once reaching the top of his field—and his hunger for knowledge, for the joy of learning, did not ease once he passed through to the afterlife. The little corner of heaven that was his library was cluttered but comfortable, and the light that shone through the tall windows was gold as the hour before sunset, glittering off dust motes and making the whole space warm and welcoming. Even the smell of the place was soothing—lignin permeating the air with a faint hint of vanilla as the books on all their rows of shelves aged according to Jianhong’s memory.

Castiel had not intended to enter.

Sam and Dean had died mere minutes before, shot point-blank in a tacky motel room by two misguided hunters, and Castiel had been trying to weave himself through the ether and into the moving target that was Dean’s heaven. It was reckless to attempt it, considering his own standing among the angels at the time, but he’d hoped he could manage to reach the Winchesters before the other angels realized he was there. Of course, the moment he passed through the ether he felt the other angels stirring. If he didn’t find Dean’s heaven soon, he knew he’d need to find another way.

His previous three landings had been obviously wrong within milliseconds, but when he’d seen the books he’d paused. Perhaps this was Sam’s heaven; perhaps it was Dean’s. They’d both spent enough time in libraries for it to be a possibility that they had good memories of one like this, and despite Dean’s claims to the contrary, Castiel knew for a fact that he often read for pleasure.

So he’d checked the spines of the nearest books for their authors, hoping he’d find novels with familiar names like Vonnegut or Kerouac, or texts on supernatural beings and urban legends, or something that would tie this place to Dean or Sam. Instead, he found books on world history, scientific journals, and countless biographies of every influential artist and writer under the sun. Every imaginable topic was covered—from molecular physics and evolutionary theory to the history of the piano and the social habits of birds of prey. Every subject but the occult.

Bao Jianhong had been halfway up a ladder when he’d noticed Castiel, and he descended fluidly, a book with a green cover tucked under one arm.

“Do you need help to find something?” he’d asked, evidently under the impression that this was his workplace, and Castiel shook his head, trying to dispel his disappointment.

“Nothing that can be found in a book,” he’d replied as he reached out with his grace, trying to find some hint of Dean’s soul that could lead him to the right heaven.

Jianhong smiled, his eyes crinkling around the edges.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Perhaps some other time,” Castiel had offered, and Jianhong nodded, holding the book close to his chest before telling Castiel that he’d find something interesting for him to read on his next visit. Castiel had no intention to ever return, but he’d thanked him anyway before he finally latched on to what felt like it might be the right location and flew.

The angels caught wind of his presence shortly after that, and he’d been forced to flee to Earth and contact Dean through a difficult-to-maintain spell instead. Jianhong and his library disappeared from Castiel’s mind immediately. The memory didn’t return to him until years later, walking into a library with Metatron to find his grace tucked into a copy of Don Quixote.

It held that same smell of old books, deeper than in the bunker’s library for the sheer number of stacks that filled the space, and it washed over him at once. In his mind's eye, he’d seen Jianhong’s library as clear as day. He’d remembered exactly how he’d felt in the moments he’d spent there—the unfamiliar panic, his desperation to find a way to reach Dean, the sense of impending disaster that had hovered like a fog over everything back then. He remembered the layout of the furniture; the pattern of the carpet on the floor; the copy of The Vercelli that Jianhong had been retrieving from the high shelf.

In the library with Metatron, he’d known the name for this kind of vivid association immediately, thanks to the unceremonious delivery of every book, film, and TV show into his mind a year earlier, but he’d been too preoccupied with the discovery of his long-lost grace to think too deeply on it.

Today, standing in the bunker’s garage almost two years on, he finds himself experiencing the phenomena of olfactory memory once more.

The warm, metallic scent of motor oil lingers over everything here, and it’s soothing in a way that Castiel is uncertain how to quantify until he identifies the common thread between countless memories attached to it. Days spent on the road with the Winchesters, or hours in the scrapyard outside Bobby Singer’s house, or anywhere at all with Dean’s hand on his shoulder. He can imagine all of them at once as soon as the scent reaches his senses.

It’s home, that smell.

Even a few years ago, the idea that he should have an opinion on something as human as the intangible truth of knowing you’re home would have struck him as utterly absurd. Now, he finds he doesn’t care, so long as he can feel it. So long as he can let it wrap around him and settle the restless feeling in his chest at moments like this one, when he’s anticipating a difficult conversation with someone he loves.

Standing with one hand on the hood of his truck and his eyes on the glossy black paint of the Impala, he breathes deeply and lets himself sink into the feeling. He wants to stay here. He wants it so badly that his chest begins to ache all over again at the sound of Dean’s rapidly approaching footfalls in the hallway outside.

When Dean rushes into the garage a few seconds later, Castiel meets his panicked eyes and reminds himself that home is not confined to this place, even if he’d like it to be.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks before Dean can say anything, and though he steps a little closer he stops short of where he’d like to be. There’s space between them that he’s not certain he should cross until after they’ve spoken. Dean’s brows knit together.

“Depends. You bailing?”

His voice comes out harsh and accusatory. Castiel can’t help but flinch a little to hear it.

“I don’t want to,” he hedges.

Dean huffs and shakes his head.

“But?”

“But I will if you want me to,” Castiel says. “And I suspect that you do.”

For a brief moment, an incredulous look passes over Dean’s face, as if he’s going to argue that he would never ask Castiel to leave, but then—

He tenses. Guilt sinks his shoulders. Castiel feels the burden of it on himself for inadvertently dragging open an old wound.

“Perhaps want isn’t the right word, but… I could hear you. Talking to Sam,” he explains, lifting his hand from the hood of his truck to wave vaguely in the direction of his room. Dean grimaces. “I know this is difficult, but Dean—”

“I wanted to tell him,“ Dean cuts him off.

"I know you did."

“He just…”

Dean falters, trails off, and Castiel regards him for a moment before he speaks.

“Can I ask you something?”

Dean nods.

“Are you sure? About this?” he clarifies with a gesture between them, and Dean frowns.

“Thought I made that pretty clear last night.”

“You did, but Dean…” Castiel weighs his words carefully. “Do you know how prayer works?”

Dean frowns at the apparent non-sequitur before he shakes his head, and Castiel explains. “Not all prayers are the same. There’s the formal kind—prayers that begin with a name and end with an amen, or at least the impression of one. You’ve directed a lot of those to me over the years.”

“I’ve never said amen in my life.”

“Yes, you usually substituted with some reference to my ‘feathery ass’,” Castiel says, and Dean snorts a low laugh. A little of the tension seems to leave him with it. “But it was a clear sign off on a formal prayer, all the same.”

“Mm, I guess,” Dean agrees, and crosses his arms over his chest, rocking on his heels. “So, what’s the other kind?”

“The other kind… In some circ*mstances, longing can work the same way as a prayer.”

It’s the truth, but saying as much out loud makes Castiel’s ears grow hot with embarrassment that he’s still not certain he should be capable of feeling. Dean doesn’t fare much better, his cheeks flushing pink. Castiel tries not to enjoy the sight so much, given what he’s about to say.

“Huh,” Dean says.

“There can be intent in the feeling, and direction in the name, even if you don’t speak it out loud. It’s not like mind reading—it’s less solid than that, less structured—but when you… when you have craved my presence, I have felt it as clearly as if you had prayed to me directly.”

Dean shuffles on his feet and clears his throat.

“In that case, you should know that I, y’know, want you here,” he says, a little awkward in his admission. “That hasn’t stopped since yesterday. Hell, if anything—”

“I know,” Castiel assures him, and reaches out to touch his shoulder, just once. Just while he still can. “But just now, while you were talking to Sam… you wished that you didn’t.”

Dean looks up at him, startled and hurt, as though he’s been punched in the stomach, but Castiel goes on, needing to clear the air between them as much as he possibly can.

“You might not want me to leave, but a part of you—a big enough part that it overwhelmed every other feeling you were subconsciously projecting toward me—wished that we’d left this alone.” He shoots Dean a smile, hoping that it comes across more comforting than it feels. “I don’t know if it’s wise to ignore that, especially considering the strain that this is already putting on your relationship with Sam.”

“And this is your solution? You’re just gonna give up?”

“Dean—”

“No. Look. I’m not gonna lie—it probably would be a hell of a lot easier if neither of us wanted anything more here. But easier doesn’t mean better, Cas. If I wanted easy, I would’ve kept my mouth shut last night. I’m tired of easy.”

“I just can’t help but feel as though this might be too much to ask of you.”

“One? It’s not. And B? You’re pretty clearly not asking. If I didn't know better, I'd be worrying that you'd changed your mind with how f*ckin' keen you are to call the whole thing off at the first sign of trouble."

"I'm not keen--"

"Yeah, like I said. I know better. But my point is... hell, I don't even know what my point is." He sighs, pressing the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Look. Here's the thing-- I'm all in. This is it. No amount of stupid, impulsive, panic-induced half-baked thoughts of wouldn't it be easier can even touch how much I want you here with me. Okay?"

Castiel nods on an exhale, and Dean bridges the distance between them to pull him close, pressing his lips to the skin below Castiel’s ear as his fingers curl in his hair.

“Want you here,” Dean repeats, firm but quiet, and Castiel lets his eyes close as he breathes in the scent of motor-oil and Dean’s shampoo. This memory, he knows, will become as inextricably bound as all the others. He can’t help but hold on a little tighter at the thought, if only to catalog every aspect of Dean’s embrace in as much detail as possible.

“What now?” he asks when they separate. Dean rubs the back of his neck, chewing his lip as he thinks it over.

“I need to try again with Sam, obviously. Maybe take the day to butter him up first,” he says, and hesitates. Castiel already knows what he’s going to say.

“And that would be easier if you didn’t have to worry about me overhearing or Sam dragging me into the conversation,” Castiel says. Dean nods, shame all over his features. “It’s alright. I can give you some space.”

“I really don’t want to ask you to leave.”

“It's okay. I’m offering.”

“Just… don’t go far. I’ll come find you as soon as I get this sh*t with Sam squared away.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

“Alright.”

“There’s a truck stop in Red Cloud,” Dean suggests. “The Red Robin. I’ll meet you there tonight.”

“Will that be enough time?”

“The longer I put this off, the harder it’s gonna be.”

“As long as you’re sure.”

“I am. And I’ll try to keep a lid on my dumbass thoughts while you’re gone,” Dean adds, before looking at Castiel hopefully. “There’s no way you can, y’know… turn it off?”

“Not without suppressing my grace entirely, but that would also mean I’d stop healing. So,” he shrugs, then smiles. “And if I’m being entirely honest, it’s usually… nice. Having that connection. Knowing that you’re thinking of me.”

“Seems a little unfair, if you ask me.”

“Dean, trust me when I say that I am almost always thinking of you.”

Dean responds to the earnest declaration with a level of embarrassment that Castiel is unaccustomed to seeing on his face, making a low pshh sound as he looks away, and Castiel catches hold of his chin, turning him back for a kiss.

They only pull apart when they hear Sam’s voice echoing through the bunker.

“Dean? Cas?”

Dean shoots Castiel an apologetic look before he calls back, “Garage!”, then lowers his voice. “Red Robin, tonight. Yeah?”

“I’ll be there,” Castiel tells him, slipping his keys from his pocket to unlock his truck.

Perhaps it’s a little cowardly, but he’d like to already be on his way out when Sam reaches the garage. As it turns out, he’s barely got the door open when Dean clears his throat, and he looks back to see him pointedly eyeing the half-deflated rear tire.

Castiel gives him a sheepish smile. “I meant to fill it,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean replies, heading toward the workbench where he keeps an assortment of car maintenance tools. “Just give me a minute.”

Dean’s maneuvering the heavy air compressor off of its shelf when Sam steps inside, typing something into his phone. Castiel doesn’t miss the way he schools his expression into something passably civil when he slips it into his pocket and meets Castiel’s eye.

“What did Jody want?” Dean asks before Sam can say anything, and Castiel moves to help him with the compressor. “Thanks, Cas.”

“Just checking in,” Sam says, watching them with a frown. “You going somewhere, Cas?”

“Not until this thing is less of a deathtrap,” Dean says. He lets out a grunt as they settle the compressor near the truck, and stands to wipe his dusty hands on his jeans. Castiel rolls his eyes.

“One slightly flat tire doesn’t make it a—”

“Better safe than sorry,” Dean cuts him off, and Castiel sighs before he looks at Sam.

“I thought it might be easier to track Kelly if we were a little more spread out,” he lies, hoping that it will be enough to stop him asking for more details.

“Yeah, makes sense,” Sam says.

It’s only a handful of minutes before Dean has the tire full and the truck ready to go, and with Sam present, Castiel regrets being unable to say goodbye the way he’d like to. Instead, he climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the ignition. Dean knocks his knuckles against the hood.

“Drive safe,” he says.

“Keep in touch, okay?” Sam adds, and in spite of everything, Castiel finds that he’s glad to hear it. He’s known since this started that Sam’s heart is in the right place—that his reservations and his reactions, as hurtful as they have been, have all come from a place of love--but it’s still a relief to be reminded that Sam doesn’t hate him. They might not be okay right now, and they might not be okay again for a while, but Sam still cares. Their friendship, however strained, is salvageable.

He smiles, as much as he’s able, and shifts into gear.

“I will.”

—

Castiel isn’t sure that he’s ever hated an inanimate object quite as much as he hates the bell over the door at the Red Robin truck stop. Each time it rings, he feels a low, anticipatory swoop in his stomach—a hopeful flutter that is repeatedly followed by dismay when every newcomer is revealed to be a stranger. It happens a dozen times, maybe more, but he still looks up every time and curses the bell for each disappointment.

He’s already been waiting for several hours, but though he knows it’s likely that Dean won’t be here until much later in the evening, he can’t help but count the minutes as they pass.

The coffee is burnt and bitter, the particles rearranged into a pattern that makes him wrinkle his nose, and he adds an unreasonable amount of sugar to counter the taste. When he takes another sip, he thinks of Nora back at the Gas N’ Sip in Idaho, constantly confused as to how they could possibly need to refill the sugar packets already.

Thoughts of his time in Rexford always seem closer to the surface when he drinks coffee. Combined with his anticipation of Dean’s arrival, Castiel can’t help but think of that day when he’d arrived at the Gas N’ Sip unannounced. At the time, Castiel had been harboring almost as much resentment for Dean as love, and though he had set a little of it loose, he’d still been far too happy to spend time with Dean to let his anger spoil it.

His spoon clinks against the mug as he thinks of the way Dean had grinned at him, eyes shining under the convenience store fluorescents. He’d looked wonderful. Most people looked sickly and pale under those lights; Dean looked like a dream.

Now, Castiel realizes that he may have been slightly biased in that assessment, but he doesn’t particularly care.

With a small smile, he adds another packet of sugar to his mug, and looks up as the bell over the door chimes again. Another stranger. This time, it’s a harried-looking young father, two small children hanging onto his legs as he shuffles across the diner’s checkerboard floor.

All three have the beginnings of a nasty cold, and Castiel instinctively stretches his wings out in the ether, brushing the very tips of his primaries over each of them and destroying the virus before it can fully take hold. Thanks to the injuries he’s still recovering from, the action takes more out of him than it usually would, but as he watches the small family visibly gain energy, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

It’s a small mercy that though his grace is weak and glacial in its efforts to heal his own wounds, it’s still powerful enough to help those in need.

He zones out a little as he’s watching the family take their seats, and after a moment the father notices him staring. He frowns, not-so-subtly lifting his shoulders, and Castiel looks sharply away to focus on his cup of what is, at this point, basically syrup. He knows he shouldn’t stare. Dean has told him countless times, as has Claire. Even Sam has mentioned it once or twice.

He only wishes that he could show them all what he sees. They’d understand, he’s certain of it, if only they could see how endlessly fascinating the human soul can be.

He’s still musing on that thought when he feels the distant ache of Dean’s longing for the first time since he left the bunker. It lasts a few seconds before being suddenly truncated, and then Dean is praying to him. Just a sheepish little sorry that makes Castiel’s heart warm to hear. It’s been hours already, and he’s unsure as to whether or not Dean has even spoken to Sam yet, though he’s inclined to think not. Though he’s growing more apprehensive and impatient with every passing minute, he can’t blame Dean for needing to build up to the conversation. After his attempt this morning went so far off track, he knows that Dean will be second guessing every sentence.

Several more hours pass in much the same way.

Before he knows it, Castiel is on his eleventh cup of coffee and his fourth plate of dessert, ordered purely because a waitress had politely informed him after three hours of nothing but refills that he’d need to order something to eat or vacate the seat for another customer. She’d seemed uncomfortable bringing it up, particularly considering that there were no less than eight unoccupied booths available at the time, but as a being who has been subjected to the compulsory enforcement of arbitrary rules by both a minimum-wage employer and the echelons of Heaven itself, he’d seen no point in arguing.

Right now, he’s making his way through a dense slice of German chocolate cake. As he methodically chews each molecule-flavored mouthful, he tries to recall the taste he’d enjoyed so much when he’d had occasion to try a cupcake sample at a market shortly after his arrival in Rexford.

He’s remembering the way the sweet frosting had made the roof of his mouth feel oddly ticklish when he suddenly senses Dean’s presence, and looks outside just in time to see the Impala pulling into a space near his own truck. Castiel watches through the window as Dean climbs out of the car, taking in the way he checks his hair and adjusts his green jacket in the reflection on the window.

He waves to a nearby waitress as Dean approaches the door.

“Could you bring another cup of coffee? My… friend has just arrived.”

If the waitress notices him stumbling over what to call Dean, she doesn’t acknowledge it, and merely gives him a smile and nod as she heads toward her station.

The bell over the door tinkles again, merry and bright where before it had seemed shrill and piercing. Castiel doesn’t hate it anymore.

Standing in the doorway, Dean’s gaze sweeps from table to table before it finally settles on Castiel, and a smile flickers over his face, but it’s weak at best. He’s visibly distraught. It would be obvious even if Castiel couldn’t see the way his soul is pulled in tight, like an animal trying to hide. It’s no wonder Castiel hasn’t felt him reaching out since that one brief instance earlier in the evening—Dean’s tamping down on feeling anything at all, deliberately repressing every emotion in what Castiel can only assume is an attempt to keep him from being hurt.

He frowns as Dean crosses the floor. Even the way he walks betrays his anxiety—limbs stiff, each movement strangely measured as he slides into the other side of the booth. It makes Castiel deeply nervous.

“No ‘Hello, Dean’?” Dean asks, barely disguising the unease in his voice. Castiel slides the rest of his cake across the table toward him.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and Dean’s tense shoulders lower, just a little. He smiles back just as the waitress arrives with his coffee.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Can I get you anything else?” The waitress asks.

Dean gestures at the cake. “I’m all set, thanks.”

Reaching across the table to grab Castiel’s fork, Dean prods at the cake and waits until the waitress is out of earshot before he glances up to meet Castiel’s eye. Under the table, their feet bump together.

“Sorry I took so long,” Dean says.

“It’s alright,” Castiel tells him. “Did you…”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Dean chews the inside of his cheek and lifts a shoulder, far too casual.

“Guess,” he says, and Castiel’s chest aches.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t say you didn’t warn me.” Dean slumps back in his seat, dropping the fork onto the plate with a clatter and rubbing at his forehead. “I should’ve listened, but I just… man, I really expected better from him. Some of the sh*t he said…”

He trails off, shaking his head and looking out the window.

“What did you tell him?”

Dean shrugs.

“Everything,” he says. “Told him that this thing between us is mutual, and that we’re going for it, and he just… he blew up. Said everything you told me he said to you, and a few other things that I’m not planning on repeating because they pissed me off so much, and just…” He sighs. “This is f*cked, Cas.”

“I know.”

“No, seriously. It’s f*cked. How is it that we finally figure this out, and Sam, of all people, is putting up a roadblock?”

“He thinks he’s protecting you,” Castiel tells him. “He thinks he’s protecting both of us.”

“Yeah? Well he’s kinda being a dick about it.”

Castiel huffs, a humorless laugh that makes him feel more human than he has in years. “I won’t debate that.”

Picking up the fork, Dean pokes at the cake again.

“This any good?” he asks. It’s a fairly obvious attempt to change the subject, and Castiel appreciates it, even if his own response is lacking.

“I don’t know. I can’t exactly taste it.”

“Right. Molecules.” Dean frowns. “We gotta work on that.”

“I think we have bigger problems to focus on right now.”

“I’ll just add it to the list,” Dean says, and takes a bite. He moans. “God. We really need to find you a molecules workaround, though. You’re missing out.”

“Seeing you enjoy it is almost as good as enjoying it myself,” Castiel assures him.

“Good to know,” Dean winks and takes another bite, and Castiel has the distinct impression that he’s just made another double entendre without intending to.

He’s inordinately proud of himself when he figures out what it was after only a few seconds, but he doesn’t draw any attention to his linguistic success. Instead, he just watches Dean slowly eat the decadent slice of cake, and thinks about how he might get the chance to witness Dean derive pleasure from any number of things now. The thought is thrilling to the point of distraction, and as Dean hums in enjoyment of another bite, Castiel has to bite down on his own cheek to keep from echoing the sound. If this is the level of satisfaction Dean gets from eating a dessert that isn’t even pie, Castiel finds he can’t wait to find out how he’ll react in moments of true sensual pleasure. Even considering such things in an abstract way is more than he’s allowed himself before, but now that he’s started, he finds he can’t stop. Doesn’t much want to stop.

It’s not as though he’s new to the experience of physical desire. He’s felt it before, as an angel and as a human, and even acted on it as recently as this morning when he’d been seconds from climbing onto Dean’s lap before his injury had thrown a figurative wet blanket on the moment they were sharing. But that had been instinctual, almost involuntary in how deep-seated the compulsion was. In every instance, it’s been an indecipherable kind of hunger. A vague, restless need that he’s only ever managed to satisfy through trial and error. This is different. This desire is conscious, and specific, and agonizing beyond belief.

Castiel wants, and for the first time in all time, he knows precisely what it is that he’s craving.

He stares at Dean across the table, at the way his throat moves as he swallows the final bite, and feels his fingers curl against the table top.

“Man, that was good,” Dean says, and pushes the plate away, pressing his forefinger against the remaining crumbs and lifting them to his mouth as he meets Castiel’s eyes across the table. Castiel clears his throat.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Sucking a barely-there smudge of frosting from his thumb in a move that Castiel suspects is not nearly as unconscious as Dean wants him to believe, Dean smiles. The effect is alarmingly similar to the sensation of being thrown free of his body. It must show on his face, because Dean just smiles wider.

“So. What now?”

Castiel, feeling altogether out of sorts after what he’s fairly certain was the latest-in-life sexual awakening that anyone has ever experienced in the history of consciousness, has no earthly clue. The bunker, while only a short twenty minute drive away, would force them to either separate or risk another confrontation with Sam while they’re both too mentally exhausted to navigate their way to a solution. He’s not sure that going home is a viable option.

“Yeah, I kinda don’t feel like heading back just yet anyway,” Dean admits, and looks back out the window. Castiel follows his gaze, and his eyes settle on the building across the street. It’s one of Red Cloud’s two motels—a dingy little place that seems mostly occupied by truckers taking the opportunity to sleep in a full-sized bed before they get back on the road, if its parking lot is anything to go by. It’s likely less comfortable than most of the places the Winchesters have stayed in over the years, but it would afford them the privacy needed to talk, so Castiel thinks it would do just fine.

Before he can make the suggestion himself, Dean nods toward it.

“We could, uh… get a room?” He asks, voice hesitant as though there’s any chance at all that Castiel would refuse. It’s only a split second before he seems to play back the phrase in his head, and he burns red to the tips of his ears. “Not that we— I just figured, it’s late. We could just hang out, or talk, or—“

“Or?”

Castiel raises his brow, challenging, and Dean purses his lips in an attempt not to laugh. He fails, and shakes his head.

“God, you’re an asshole.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” Dean says, then frowns. “You were thinking it, right?”

“Thinking what?” Castiel asks, though he can feel his mouth twitching into an involuntary smile. He can hardly deny it, given his thoughts only a few minutes ago, but he sees no harm in feigning ignorance as to Dean’s meaning. If he’s lucky, maybe Dean will spell it out for him, and he’ll know better where to begin once he has the chance.

Dean doesn’t bite.

“Don’t try to be coy, it doesn’t suit you.”

At that, Castiel lets his smile break free, and Dean shakes his head with an embarrassed laugh. It’s absurd that he’s so self-conscious about the mere suggestion of what Castiel knows he wants to do. Dean’s always painted himself as more of a lotus-eater than a shrinking violet, and even knowing how little truth there was to his self-styled image of an uninhibited libertine, Castiel never expected him to be this nervous. Certainly not now that he knows that Castiel is a sure thing.

“I don’t understand why you’re suddenly acting so reticent,” Castiel says.

“I don’t understand why you’re not,” Dean counters. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you were like at that—what did you call it? A den of iniquity? And now you’re giving me all these sly looks, and this morning you’re just casually offering fellati*, for chrissake. Who even says that?”

“Is that not what it’s called?”

Dean stares at him. “I’m not having this conversation here.”

“You’re right. This topic is far better suited to a motel room,” Castiel agrees, ignoring Dean’s wide-eyed reaction as he stands. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah.” Dean pulls out his wallet, and Castiel waves his hand away to drop his own dubiously acquired cash on the table.

“I ordered a lot while I was waiting,” he explains.

Dean grimaces.

“Sorry. I really didn’t think it’d take so long, and then I, uh… I waited until Sam went to bed,” Dean says. He actually looks a little ashamed to admit it. “Kinda felt like a teenage girl sneaking out to meet the hot quarterback.”

“Am I the hot quarterback in this scenario?”

Dean just clears his throat, cheeks burning even redder than before as he walks away from the table. Castiel tries not to feel too smug about it.

—

The man at the motel check-in window gives them a twin room without asking, and Dean’s discomfort is palpable.

Castiel can’t tell if it’s because of the man’s assumption that there’s nothing between them, or because he doesn’t know if or how he should correct him. He suspects it’s a little of both. Though Castiel isn’t exactly expecting anything when they get into the room—mostly he’s assuming that they’ll spend the next few hours trying to come up with some way to get through to Sam—he’s not naive enough to presume that Dean hasn’t been thinking about what they did the last time they were alone together, especially after their conversation at the diner.

He’s also, as it turns out, not above hoping that they might pick things up where they left off.

Their room key is a thin plastic card—weird for one of these tiny, middle-of-nowhere places, Dean remarks—and Castiel watches him flip it between his fingers as they approach the far end of the building. It’s a noticeably nervous gesture, and he fumbles it at the door. Castiel picks it up and opens their room easily, holding the keycard out for Dean when they step inside.

Between leaving the diner and now, Dean has only grown more flustered, and Castiel wonders what it’s going to take for him to unwind. If his nerves are something to be concerned about, or simply the result of years of repression taking time to shake loose. Either way, he thinks that given Dean’s usual aversion to difficult conversations—and the fact that they’ve already had several of those in the past day—his best course of action is likely to take action. If he can show Dean that he’s got nothing to fear, that he’s truly not alone in his desires, then maybe he’ll relax.

So once the door has closed, before Dean can move too far away, Castiel catches hold of his wrist. He’s relieved when Dean lets him. His pulse races under Castiel’s touch, suddenly twice as fast as it was, and Castiel tilts his head to watch his reaction as he links their fingers together.

In the decade he has spent tethered to this body he has never felt more connected to it. Even while he was human, he’d felt slightly out of place, off center and wrong. With Dean’s hand in his own, he feels something within himself click into place, and knows, without doubt or reservation, that this is what it is to belong. He hopes Dean can feel it, too.

He squeezes his hand, and Dean’s lip twitches. He looks as though he’s going to say something, and from the tilt of his mouth, Castiel thinks it must be a joke. But he meets his eyes, and something in them softens, and whatever attempt at deflection Dean was about to make dissolves into nothing. Castiel has the distinct impression that Dean had been acting on instinct himself, so used to forcing himself to make light of whatever he was feeling that now that things have changed he doesn’t know what to do.

Taking action, it seems, was the right decision.

Stepping in close, he tugs Dean closer to him and lets the fingertips of his free hand skate down over Dean’s side. Like this, he can feel the warmth of Dean’s skin through his clothes. The relief of it washes over him so wholly that his eyes slip closed. Dean’s breath is soft against his lips, close but not touching.

“Missed you today,” Dean murmurs, and it seems as though the words spill from him without his control. His walls crumbling away, nerves already dissipating even with this one small gesture. Castiel smiles.

With a tilt of his head, he grazes his nose along Dean’s.

“I missed you, too.”

Laughing, Dean trails his hand up over Castiel’s shoulder to grip the back of his neck, and the light press of his thumb against Castiel’s skin is as grounding as it is dizzying. “So stupid. Was just a day. Not even a whole day.”

“Still too long,” Castiel argues, and Dean makes a small sound of agreement, or need, or something else, and Castiel can’t stop himself from answering it. He kisses him, hard, as though their lips pressed together now will be enough to rid them of the hours, the years of longing that they’ve endured.

Dean seems to be of the same mind.

Not even twenty-four hours have passed since they first kissed outside the bunker, but as Dean’s mouth moves against his own, Castiel feels as though he’s been missing this forever. As though kissing Dean is something he’s been trying to find his way back to since before he knew his own name, blinking into awareness in the bright, holy light that made him.

They should take their time, he thinks as Dean tilts his chin to kiss him deeper. They should savor this moment. Draw it out. Make it last.

But, like this morning, his self restraint is all but rendered null by the touch of Dean’s hands. They glide over his back, into his hair, down his sides, and then--

Stop. Dean pulls back, flushed and breathless.

“How’s your stomach?” he asks, and Castiel frowns, unsure what he’s even talking about until Dean lifts his brow, and—of course. His wound. The lance. He’d completely forgotten about it.

“It’s better,” he says, and it doesn’t feel like a lie, or even an exaggeration. He hasn’t looked at it since Dean insisted on bandaging it, but it also hasn’t bothered him in several hours, and the few times that it has twinged haven’t been even half as painful as this morning.

Still, Dean’s brow raises further.

“Better for real, or better as in admitting that I’m still hurt isn’t convenient right now?” he asks, and Castiel gives him an unimpressed frown. It’s tempting to point out that of all people, Dean shouldn’t be throwing stones over someone downplaying an injury, but he knows that arguing won’t get him anywhere. So he changes tack.

“Why don’t you take my shirt off and find out.”

Dean’s laugh is carefree and delighted, and Castiel beams when he realizes that the nerves he’d been impeded by are gone.

“I can’t tell if you’re actually that smooth, or if it’s just a side effect of you having no filter.”

Castiel opens his mouth, ready to suggest that if Dean wants to know how smooth he is, he’s more than welcome to feel for himself, but Dean’s hand lands over his mouth before he’s past the first syllable. The temptation to bite his palm is strong and sudden. Castiel refrains.

“Don’t,” Dean says, eyes bright with mirth. “Just—whatever innuendo you were about to attempt, just. Don’t.”

“Too much?” Castiel asks when Dean shifts his hand down to cup his jaw instead, thumb stroking over Castiel’s lower lip.

“Nah,” Dean says. He leans in, kissing Castiel once, before pulling away and gesturing toward the nearest bed. “Just don’t want you distracting me. Sit down?”

Castiel does, and Dean follows, kneeling in front of him the same as he did back at the bunker. His fingers are slow and careful as he unbuttons Castiel’s shirt, and Castiel waits, dreading the moment when Dean sees the still-healing wound and decides that Castiel is still too fragile to touch, nerves or not. But when he pulls the bandage away, a shiny pink line of new skin is the only sign that he was ever hurt. Dean traces over it with his thumb.

“See?” Castiel says. “Better.”

“You have a scar.”

“It was a powerful weapon.”

Dean hums, almost transfixed as he touches Castiel’s stomach, and only shifts away from the scar to touch the tattoo on his ribs.

“Didn’t even notice this,” he says.

“I’ve had it for years,” Castiel tells him.

“Yeah, well I guess I’ve been too distracted by the recurring stab wounds to be checking you for ink,” he says, then looks up, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he meets Castiel’s eyes. “I like it.”

“It’s warding against angels. I got it when I was human.”

“Mm.”

Shifting forward, Dean’s chest bumps against Castiel’s knee, and he tilts his chin up as Castiel leans down to meet him.

“Remember Rexford?” Dean asks against his lips.

“Of course.”

“That night at the motel, I almost...” Dean trails off, pushing at Castiel’s open shirt until it slides down his arms.

Swallowing, Castiel pulls his arms free so he can touch Dean’s face, and Dean looks up at him. He looks so open.

“I was awake the whole night, just… imagining it. What would happen if I got out of my bed. Got into yours. If I kissed you when you came out of the bathroom in the morning.”

Shuffling closer, into the space between Castiel’s splayed legs, Dean runs his hands back down over his chest and presses his mouth to Castiel’s throat. Something swoops in Castiel’s pelvis at the feeling of Dean’s lips, warmth spreading as Dean kisses him again and again, trailing to his shoulder and then his chest as Dean’s hands wander low over his stomach.

“I would have kissed you back,” Castiel tells him.

“Mm,” Dean hums. He sweeps one hand a little lower, thumb tracing the waistband of Castiel’s pants. The muscles of Castiel’s stomach and thighs twitch as he feels his arousal shift into high gear, heat pooling in his groin. He shifts, restless.

“I would have—”

Any hope of telling him what he would have done is lost as Dean’s lips alight on his chest again, so instead he touches Dean’s hair, sinking his fingers into it and holding on. Dean’s hand comes up to rest on top of his own almost immediately, and the touch is encouraging. He’s not sure what Dean is encouraging until Dean squeezes his fingers and lets go to slide both palms down Castiel’s thighs to hook behind his knees, pulling him closer to the edge of the bed as his mouth travels low across Castiel’s abdomen, under his navel.

Oh, he thinks, and perhaps even says, but the dim light of the motel sign outside is catching on Dean’s hair, making his edges glow, and his hands are soft and far, far, too gentle, and Castiel’s entire being thrums with it. A bass note that runs through his bones to make him weak all over, so that if he were standing he’d end up on the floor.

It only intensifies with the touch of Dean’s tongue, darting out over the tattoo on Castiel’s hip before his teeth scrape over the same place. He can’t help but follow the movement, rocking forward, and Dean makes a quiet, pleased sound, tightening his grip on Castiel’s leg with one hand as he drags the other back toward his fly. He looks up, meeting Castiel’s gaze, and in his eyes there’s something so self-assured that Castiel’s throat finally makes a helpless sound without his permission. They’ve traded places, somehow. Dean is as confident as he’s ever pretended to be, and Castiel is a timorous fool, desperate to be touched but lost for the words to ask for what he wants.

“Okay?” Dean asks, and Castiel nods. Swallows until he can speak again.

“Yeah. Yes. Okay.”

He feels it, then—Dean is longing for him again, aching for him as though they’re miles apart instead of touching in half a dozen places—but this time Dean doesn’t cut it off. Instead, he seems to focus on it. His soul catches hold of the feeling and lets it grow, build, swell like a wall of sound and sensation before he pulls on it like a leash.

Castiel says his name like it’s equal parts curse and praise, and Dean’s mouth splits into a wide grin before he ducks forward to mouth over his hip again, deft fingers working open the button of Castiel’s suit pants.

“Just testing,” he murmurs, and slides the zipper free before he pauses. “Help me out with these?”

Though his hands are steady, Castiel feels as though they should be shaking as he lifts his hips to slide his pants free. He feels jittery. Every facet of him is buzzing with tension, or anticipation, or joy, or some borderless amalgamation of all three.

“On second thought—” Dean pushes to his feet with an undignified grunt and kicks off his shoes. “Too old to be kneeling on the floor. Scoot back.”

He gestures toward the headboard, and Castiel does as he asks, shuffling to lean against it. It’s only when it digs into his shoulders that he glances back to find that it’s been made from half of an old wagon wheel, fixed to the wall. It’s just tacky enough to be absurd, and Castiel looks back at Dean to see him eyeing it with humor.

“Weirdly not the kitschiest motel decor I’ve ever seen,” Dean says, kneeling on the bed and moving closer. By the time he’s reached the end of the sentence, he’s settled between Castiel’s legs, and Castiel has forgotten what they were talking about. His hands skim over Castiel’s bare knees, up his legs. Castiel’s breath hitches when they stop, thumbs stroking over white cotton, pulled taut where Castiel’s erection is slowly filling out against his thigh. Dean sucks his lower lip between his teeth. “Still good?”

“Good,” he agrees.

“Just checking in.”

Dean shifts even closer then, and the denim of his jeans is rough and cold where it brushes against Castiel’s thigh. It’s just distracting enough that the feeling of his hand settling fully over Castiel’s rapidly filling erection comes as a complete surprise, and Castiel draws in a sharp breath, one hand lifting to grip one of the rungs of the bedhead behind him.

“Not such a stupid bedhead after all,” Dean says. His voice tighter than before, and it’s only when he hears it that Castiel realizes his eyes have closed. He forces them back open and watches Dean’s hand shifting over him, slow but deliberate over his underwear before he stops completely to squeeze him at the base. Castiel’s knees raise to bracket him, and he doesn’t know whether it’s his body trying to keep him there forever or make this toomuchnotenoughplease feeling stop.

Dean releases him before he can figure it out, teasing his fingertips back and forth a couple more times as he leans in for another kiss, and Castiel clings to him through it. He’s vaguely aware of lifting his hips again as Dean tugs his underwear down, and then Dean’s rough palm is wrapped around him, stroking, his thumb gliding over the wet head, dragging down to smooth over—

“Please,” he gasps out, arching into Dean’s hand, and Dean kisses him harder, sucking in a breath as he does. Castiel's hands tighten at his shoulders, twisting the fabric of Dean’s jacket. He hates this jacket. He hates it almost as much as he hated that damned bell.

“Hate this jacket,” he gasps, and Dean laughs, breathless and beautiful against his lips.

How he came to be stripped bare while Dean has not lost a stitch of clothing is both a mystery and a grave injustice, and he’s about to say as much when Dean’s fingers wrap back around him completely, and he loses his grasp of every conscious thought he’s ever had. He bucks forward on instinct, slipping through the circle of Dean’s fingers.

Dean kisses him once more before he pulls away to watch Castiel rocking into his hand. He lets Castiel do all the work for a moment, just keeping a loose fist in place while Castiel’s body arches off the mattress, and then shuffles down to press his mouth to his thigh, nosing along the crease of his leg so his breath washes warm over Castiel’s erection.

“Wanted to do this for years,” he says, delivering a nip to his heated skin.

Watching him edge closer, Castiel sees the slightest hint of his nerves returning, and it’s enough to ground him. To make him want to make Dean blush and laugh and flirt, to tease Castiel back until he’s forgotten why he was embarrassed to begin with. Shifting up on his elbows and trying not to let Dean’s hand pull the words out of reach, he lifts an eyebrow in Dean’s direction.

“I knew it,” he says. “You laughed at me, but you’re just as interested in fellati* as I am.”

For a moment, Dean just stares, but then he squeezes Castiel in his hand again, and grins, and says, more bluntly than Castiel was expecting, “I’m interested in sucking your co*ck.”

Castiel gulps. He can’t believe that only an hour ago, he’d been worried that Dean might be too embarrassed to touch him. Now that the dam has broken, he wonders if he’ll be able to keep up.

“That’s what I said.”

“You’ve probably never said the word co*ck in your life,” Dean grins, and Castiel glares at him. He could say co*ck if he wanted to. “So. Can I?”

“I have no doubt that you’re more than capable,” Castiel tells him, voice far more measured than he thinks it should sound, considering, but Dean’s eyes only darken at his words. Maybe he will be able to keep up, after all.

“God, why the f*ck is it so hot when you talk like that?”

Castiel doesn’t get a chance to answer, because between one moment and the next, Dean’s mouth is sealed over him, tongue teasing lightly at the sensitive skin of the glans. The heat of his mouth is almost unbearably good. Castiel can’t keep still as Dean sinks lower, the ridges of the roof of his mouth dragging over him. He grips Dean’s hair tighter, and shifts his hips in helpless movements that he couldn’t control if his life depended on it. Dean makes a pleased sound that vibrates through his skin.

The sensations alone would be enough to bring him close to the edge, but combined with the sight of Dean kneeling over him, his free hand spread over the blankets and moving in sympathy with the one wrapped around the base of Castiel’s erection, his eyes looking up to watch Castiel watching him, it’s too much, too much, too much, and he’s going to lose control, and Dean is—

“Dean,” he gasps out, pulling on Dean’s hair until he takes the hint, and even though he’s the one who pulled Dean off of him, his hips still rise to chase his mouth. The air of the motel room makes his spit-slick skin rapidly cool.

“What’dya know,” Dean says, his mouth pink from the stretch, voice a little rougher than usual, “I am more than capable.”

He grins, and it’s a wild, feral thing that makes Castiel want him all the more. His hand is still in Dean’s hair, and he uses his grip to pull him up.

“Come here,” he says, and Dean goes without protest.

His mouth is hot, and it tastes different than before. Bitter and slightly salty. That’s me, Castiel realizes, and though the taste isn’t exactly something he’d seek out on its own, knowing the reason it’s there makes him want to chase it. Wants to know Dean’s taste, too, to find out if they’re the same or similar or completely different.

“Now,” he says, briefly forgetting that Dean has not been privy to any of his thoughts, and when Dean doesn’t immediately respond Castiel pulls at his still frustratingly present jacket, at his brown plaid overshirt, his t-shirt, his jeans, his underwear. Low, impatient sounds rumble in his chest when every item of clothing removed seems only to reveal more. It’s ridiculous that anyone should wear so many layers, and he tells Dean as much as he watches him stagger loose-limbed from the bed to pull his socks off.

“Moot point now,” Dean laughs, flinging them blindly across the room before he crawls back over him, sinking down into a kiss so deep that Castiel’s toes curl.

Despite Dean’s mouth having already been wrapped around him, it’s only when he feels the soft skin of Dean’s bare stomach pressed against his own that he truly realizes how enormous this moment is for them. How intimate this is. He supposes it must be something primal, something animal, wired into the genetic makeup of his body. Something to do with the most vulnerable part of themselves, their weakest points, exposed to one another willingly.

“Thank you,” he hears himself saying, and Dean leans back a little to look at him like he’s lost his mind.

“We’re not done yet,” he says.

“I’m serious, Dean. You’re wonderful. I love you. I need you to know that.”

Dean blinks at him, evidently lost for words in the face of Castiel’s love.

In any other circ*mstance, he might be ashamed of himself for taking advantage of Dean’s temporary stupor to gain the upper hand, but here, now, he’s willing to overlook it. He flips their positions swiftly, moves down Dean’s body, and slides his mouth over Dean’s straining co*ck before Dean knows what’s happening.

“f*ck,” Dean wheezes, his hand flailing sideways and knocking one of the pillows onto the floor. Dean, to his credit, manages to keep himself from thrusting into Castiel’s mouth, but after experiencing the compulsion himself, Castiel quickly decides that it simply means he’s not trying hard enough.

He bobs his head, teases with his tongue, tastes the bittersweet of Dean’s arousal, so similar to his own, and then takes Dean deeper than is likely advisable for a first attempt. When he swallows experimentally around the head, pressed to the back of his throat, the sound Dean makes is high-pitched and startled enough that he pulls off completely to make sure he hasn’t done something wrong.

“Dean?” he asks, hand tense on Dean’s knee. Dean just shakes his head, reaching down to grip himself around the base, hard, as he catches his breath. “Did I hurt you?”

Dean starts giggling at that, breathless little gasps as his eyes water.

“Jesus,” he says eventually, and pushes himself up, pulling Castiel until they’re side by side at the head of the bed. His eyes are bright. He’s smiling like he can’t believe his luck. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Good.”

“Just… didn’t wanna… we should do it like this, yeah? This time, I mean. Want to see you.”

Saying so takes a lot out of him. Castiel can feel it in the way his soul hums and reaches out, so close to the surface that he can almost see it. His own soul, still there from his time as a human, reaches back.

“Show me how. Show me what you want.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding as he shifts forward to slot one leg between Castiel’s, using it to pull him closer as he shows Castiel how to make it good. “Like this.”

With their hands together, spit-slick and wrapped around the two of them, the sensation is somehow more than the sum of its parts. Castiel doesn’t only feel skin against skin against skin, or the wet slip-slide of their combined arousal, or the static of air between them, or even electrons bouncing away from one another. He feels something more, something deeper, something in a dimension that he cannot place.

He’s known the mechanics of sex for eternity; has even had occasion in recent years to put some of his knowledge to the test. None of it has prepared him for the way it feels to be taken apart and put back together by someone who loves him.

Dean kisses him as they move together. It’s unhurried at first, deep and luxurious as each roll of their hips, but every moment that passes makes the need for release grow more urgent, and any desire to take their time is replaced by an insistent need for more, faster, now. Slow thrusts become frenzied, and though their mouths are still pressed together, they’re soon doing little more than sharing breath.

Through it all, Dean calls to him. A building current of longing that simmers low until it boils over, all at once, in an endless moment that leaves Castiel breathless despite only feeling its echoes. It’s dizzying in its intensity, and he’d know Dean had reached his peak even if he couldn’t feel the evidence on their joined hands.

Dean sighs into the hollow of his throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Wanted you to come first, but—”

Castiel doesn’t have the words to tell him that he feels as though he has, so he kisses him quiet, and squeezes Dean’s fingers where they’re still wrapped around him. It’s not long before Dean helps send him over the edge, and his back bows, and his lungs burn, and he spills over Dean’s fingers.

His entire body feels liquid. Formless. Reaching out beyond his edges, beyond his physical presence and all the way out to his wing tips in the ether. He’s trembling electric, sound and color. He presses his eyes closed, his forehead resting against Dean’s, and breathes.

“Can I thank you now?” he asks once he’s able, and Dean’s chest shakes in a silent laugh that Castiel hopes he’ll witness a thousand more times.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the mini fridge and the distant rumble of traffic on Route 281, and Castiel feels at peace for the first time in a long time.

On the bed beside him, turned inward with his hand splayed over Castiel’s bare stomach, Dean has been floating in a state of sated oblivion for a little over an hour. Though his lips still betray a hint of the smile he’d had before he drifted off, his features are relaxed. He looks calm. Serene. Beautiful.

Castiel wishes desperately that he could join him in sleep, but he lost the ability when his grace was restored. As a compromise with himself, he meditates.

It takes more effort than he thinks it should, but once he does manage to reach a state of relative tranquility, it’s easy to let himself believe that things will work out for them. That every one of their problems—Sam’s hurtful and unexpected disapproval, their tenuous alliance with the British Men of Letters, Kelly Kline’s whereabouts and the Nephilim she carries—has an easy solution, and that he’ll be able to find the answers somehow in his meditative state. That everything will seem simple and unthreatening by the time the sun rises.

Of course, one of the problems doesn’t wait long enough for that to happen.

Castiel is drifting as close to unconsciousness as he’s able when he’s pulled abruptly back to full awareness by Dean’s cellphone. It buzzes loud, the bright light of the screen flaring outward and casting a hazy blue-white tinge over everything in the room. Dean startles at the sound, lurching upright and blinking dazedly as he stretches to pick it up from the floor.

Castiel misses their close physical contact almost immediately, and Dean must feel the same, because his hand shifts back to briefly squeeze Castiel’s wrist before letting go to thumb at the screen.

He braces himself before he speaks. Any doubt Castiel had about who’s calling falls away.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you?”

Sam’s voice is muffled and tinny through the cell phone speaker, but Castiel can still make out every word. He doesn’t sound worried, which is a relief, but the note of tense anger in his tone is a warning signal that has every last one of his senses on high alert.

“Donnie’s bar,” Dean lies easily. Castiel gets the distinct impression that he’d planned for this eventuality and had the location picked out ahead of time. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d come shoot some pool.”

There’s a long pause before Sam speaks again. When he does, Castiel experiences the strange phantom sensation of his throat closing up.

“I know you’re with Cas.”

Dean’s entire body seems to go rigid, and he glances over at Castiel, meeting his eyes in the dark. Though Sam can’t see them, Castiel suddenly feels incredibly exposed. He pulls the blankets higher over his bare hips.

“What?” Dean asks, too caught off guard to come up with a convincing enough lie. There’s barely even a pause before Sam responds.

“GPS, Dean. I checked. Your phones are showing up in the same place.”

Dean narrows his eyes.

“So why’d you ask?”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Dean hesitates, his eyes flicking over to Castiel. As they’ve been talking, his muscles have been tensing, preparing for a fight. Sam might not realize it without being able to see for himself, but he’s treading on dangerous ground. Dean looks like he’s one wrong word away from breaking something.

Castiel just hopes that it’s not something they can’t fix.

“I think you’ve said enough to him.”

“Dean—”

“No. You want to talk to Cas, you can call him yourself, and you’d better start with a goddamn apology. And you can forget about calling me back until then.”

To Castiel’s relief, Dean jabs at the screen roughly with his thumb, ending the call before he can get any more furious. He drops back against the pillow with a heavy sigh, tossing the phone toward the foot of the bed. It bounces, just shy of falling off, and lands on top of a dark shape that might be Castiel’s suit jacket.

For a moment, Castiel just listens to Dean breathe. Slow and measured, trying to calm himself down as he presses his hands over his eyes, thumbs rubbing at his temples.

“Are you alright?” he asks. Dean exhales heavily.

“Not really.”

Lying back down beside him, Castiel waits for some signal, for some hint as to what he should do. Dean’s tendency to push people away when he’s hurting is one that Castiel is all too familiar with, and the thought that he might do it now is one that Castiel can’t stand. He’s relieved when Dean lowers his hands to look at him. The relief only lasts until he sees the expression on his face; his tense jaw, tilted brow, the unmistakable brightness of unshed tears.

“He’s supposed to stick by me,” Dean says.

Reaching out, Castiel slides his palm over Dean’s chest, up to his shoulder, and Dean’s hand rises to settle over it.

“It’s always— it was just me and him, for so long. I raised him, Cas. I did that. And now he—”

Dean lets out a shuddering breath, squeezing his hand tight around Castiel’s, before he lets go and sits back up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. His bare shoulders are hunched forward, his freckled skin almost glowing in the filtered fluorescent light of the vacancy sign that seeps through the thin curtains.

Even now, he’s beautiful. Castiel aches.

“Is there anything I can do?”

With a broken laugh, Dean shakes his head.

“You know the most f*cked up thing? I had the thought today—just for a second, but… I had the thought that you could just make him forget he ever knew.” Dean doesn’t look back at Castiel when he says it. He doesn’t need to. Castiel can sense the shame rolling off of him like heat waves from a desert highway. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this relationship sh*t. One bump in the road and my first instinct is to ask you to mindwipe my own brother.”

“It was an instinct, yes. But you didn’t ask.”

“Right. Except I’ve asked you to do it before, remember? Not with Sam, but— I’ve asked you to do it before.”

“I know.”

The memory of what he’d taken from Lisa and Ben still haunts Castiel, even years later, and he knows that even talking about it obliquely is more than Dean can usually stand.

For a while, when his wings were still intact and he was able to move through the world unseen, he’d flown to check on them from time to time.

His last visit had been near the beginning of 2013, about four years ago now.

Ben had been trying to convince Lisa to let him get a dog, and while Lisa had already been in the process of adopting one from a local shelter—Castiel had overheard a phone conversation about a Staffordshire bull terrier named Beanbag shortly before Ben had entered the room—she’d seemed set on pretending that it wasn’t going to happen. Preparing for a surprise, he’d assumed.

“Maybe we could start with a goldfish,” she’d said, and Ben had flopped dramatically onto the couch with a groan that made her laugh, bright and bubbly.

Castiel didn’t stay long after that. The purpose of his silent visits was purely to ensure that they were safe, after all, and once he’d determined that they were, and that the subtle protective warding he’d placed around their home was still working, there was no need for him to remain.

Dean’s guilt is not unreasonable, and if he’s being honest, Castiel carries plenty of his own. But still… his request that he be erased from Lisa and Ben’s lives had not been made easily or selfishly. Castiel knew that then, and he knows it now.

“That was a vastly different situation, Dean. You asked because you believed it would be better for them, even though it hurt you.”

Dean seems unconvinced, and Castiel kneels on the bed behind him, unsure whether or not it would be wise to touch him or leave him alone. In the end, he stops trying to guess.

“Dean, do you want… personal space?”

The words might as well be a bucket of ice water. Dean snaps his head around to look at Castiel like he thinks he’s about to walk out and not come back.

“No, don’t— don’t go.”

Reaching out, Castiel fixes his hand to Dean’s shoulder, relieved when Dean leans into the touch.

“I won’t,” he promises. “I just—Dean, it’s difficult to know what you need from me. And I want to be what you need.” Castiel spreads his hands helplessly between them. “I just don’t know how.”

“Just c’mere,” Dean says, but he moves himself before Castiel can do as he’s asked, turns and crawls back to wrap his arms around Castiel’s waist, tucking his face against his collarbone. Castiel raises a hand to run through his hair. Presses his lips to Dean’s temple.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel tells him.

“Nothing for you to be sorry for, man. I mean, this is f*cked, obviously. But it’s not your fault.”

They stay like that a long time, kneeling and wrapped around one another, just holding on. It’s only when Dean yawns heavily against Castiel’s shoulder, almost fifteen minutes later, that Castiel leans back a little to meet his eyes.

“Are you tired?”

“It’s like four in the morning, Cas,” Dean says with a quiet sigh. “Course I’m tired.”

“Will you be able to go back to sleep?”

“Mm. Eventually.”

“I could…” Castiel raises two fingers between them, and Dean huffs a laugh as he shakes his head, gently batting his hand away.

“No, that’s— look, I know you’re offering to zap me to sleep, but uh… for future reference? Sleep isn’t exactly the first thing that comes to mind when you make that gesture. Not that I’d complain, but, uh.”

Dean winks, clearly making some joke, and Castiel squints until he figures out what he’s implying. He raises his brow.

“Would another org*sm help you sleep?”

“Why, you offering?” Dean laughs again, rolling his eyes, and Castiel presses his palm to his chest.

“Lie down.”

Thrown a little off-balance by Castiel’s response, Dean just looks at him for a few seconds before a flush creeps up his neck and onto his cheeks. But he doesn’t ask any more questions. Just says, “Yeah, okay,” and does as Castiel asked.

Castiel shifts and settles over him, claiming his mouth before can say another word. When Dean’s hands wander to his hips, squeezing lightly, Castiel hums against his lips and pulls them away, pressing them to the pillow beside his head instead.

“Let me do this for you,” he says, and Dean just nods.

“Yeah, ‘kay.”

He takes his time, breathes against Dean’s skin. Darts his tongue out to taste the salt of him. Bites and licks and strokes over his chest with his fingers until Dean is breathing heavily and gripping the pillow to keep his hands occupied.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Dean says, his voice tight as Castiel presses his teeth into the warm skin of his left pectoral, strumming the pad of his thumb over Dean’s right nipple as he does.

Castiel looks at him with a smile.

“No,” he captures his mouth once more before shuffling back and pushing at Dean’s thighs to make room for himself between them. “I’m just going to suck your co*ck.”

“Cas,” Dean wheezes a laugh that turns into a moan as Castiel takes him into his mouth, sliding down as far as he can before pulling back to tongue at the tip. “Yeah. Okay. f*ck. Point taken.”

Castiel never would have expected that doing this would make him feel so powerful, but it does. Dean is a babbling mess as he swallows around him, and he all but yelps when Castiel slips the spit-slick fingers of one hand between his legs, pressing firmly at sensitive skin. Dean’s hips rock down against them, then sharply back up into Castiel’s mouth, before he seems to forcibly inhibit the motion. His entire body is a taut line of tense muscle, trembling with the effort. Castiel wraps his other palm around the base of Dean’s erection, working it up and down as he lets him fall from his mouth.

“Don’t hold back,” he says.

“What?”

“I can feel you restraining yourself, but you don’t have to,” Castiel tells him, and bites gently at Dean’s hip. “I want you to take what you need from me, Dean. And at the risk of you making fun of my verbiage, I want to make you ejac—”

“Jesus, Cas. Just say come.”

“I want to make you come,” Castiel says pointedly, pressing his fingers more firmly against Dean’s perineum, sliding them back until the tip of his middle finger catches at his rim. Dean arches into the feeling. “Just. Like. This. So don’t hold back.”

He doesn’t give Dean a chance to say anything else—just wraps his lips around him again and sucks, drags his tongue over the head and works his hand smoothly over the rest until Dean’s legs are shaking, until his hips are lifting, rocking in deep, rapid, desperate thrusts, until he finally seizes up and cries out, his release flooding down Castiel’s throat.

Castiel hums around him, a deep sense of satisfaction settling in his chest at knowing he’s brought Dean this moment of joy, and slides down as far as he can before he swallows.

“Cas—” Dean whines after a moment, hips twitching and sensitive as he reaches down toward him. “Stop— too much— I—”

Pulling off, Castiel looks up at him, and Dean finally lets go of the pillow to reach down and touch his face. When he swipes his thumb over Castiel’s lower lip, Castiel catches it with his teeth, biting down gently. Dean’s eyes focus on the action as if he’s committing it to memory. Perhaps he is. Castiel can’t help but hope so.

“C’mere,” Dean says, pushing himself half-up on one elbow, and when Castiel does, Dean draws him into a slow, lazy kiss. When he pulls away, his expression is loose and happy. It warms Castiel to see, and he kisses him once more before settling beside him.

Dean’s hand drifts down to settle between Castiel’s legs almost as soon as he’s lying down, and his touch is slow and soft and perfect. It takes an incredible level of self-restraint for Castiel to catch his wrist and pull away. Kissing Dean again is the compromise he allows himself.

“I told you,” he says when Dean whines against his lips, and he’s surprised by how hoarse his own voice is. He swallows, feeling a phantom sensation in the back of his throat. “This was just for you.”

Dean frowns.

“You don’t want—?”

“Believe me, I always want you. But you’ve barely slept in the past four days, and I don’t think I need to tell you how bad that is for your wellbeing.”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess,” Dean sighs, and hooks their legs together. “Just feel bad leaving you high and dry.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Well, also. Maybe I’m kinda… I dunno,” Dean chews at his lip. Drums his thumb against Castiel’s collarbone. “Kinda frustrated that I didn’t get to see you get off again.”

“Next time.”

“Mm, yeah. Next time. Can’t wait.”

“You’re still incredibly talkative,” Castiel says, tilting his head to look at Dean with a frown. It certainly seemed as though Dean enjoyed himself, but— “Was the fellati* satisfactory?”

“Yeah, it was f*ckin’ satisfactory, you weirdo.”

“Good,” Castiel relaxes back against the pillow. “Then go to sleep.”

Dean laughs, the muscles of his back jumping under Castiel’s palm, but he doesn’t argue. Just curls up under the covers that Castiel pulls back over them both.

“Okay,” he says through a yawn, lips brushing Castiel’s chest as he presses close. “Tomorrow, though. Gonna make up for it. Probably twice.”

He’s asleep within minutes, his breathing slow and even against Castiel’s chest. For a second time, Castiel lets himself drift.

Dean’s cell buzzes again a few hours later, and Castiel seriously considers kicking it off the bed. He’s never spent so much time being irritated by inanimate objects as he has over the past twenty-four hours. Before he can act on the impulse, Dean sits up to grab the phone, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he reads the message that’s come through.

“Holy sh*t,” he says.

“Is something wrong?”

“No— it’s actually—” Dean yawns, blinking a few times as he reads the message again. “It’s good news for once, if you can believe it.” He quickly types something in reply before he looks up, still a little sleep-bleary. “It’s Donna. You haven’t met her yet, I don’t think.”

“No, but you’ve mentioned her several times.”

“Well, she’s been keeping an ear open for anything that seems nephilim related, and it paid off. She has a lead on Kelly Kline.”

The sense of relief that rushes through Castiel’s senses is short-lived—a lead is just the first step, after all, and they still don’t know what they’re actually going to do once they catch up with her—but Dean’s excitement is enough to buoy him.

“What did she say?”

“Not much yet, but she said to call her in half an hour.”

He tosses his phone back onto the bed as he looks around for his clothes. Castiel points out his boxer briefs, hanging off the back of one of the chairs by the window.

“Thanks,” Dean grins, and practically bounces from the bed to go retrieve them. Castiel leans on his side to watch him, propped up on one elbow. When Dean glances back, he doesn’t look away. Dean puts his hands on his hips, raising his brow as he turns to face Castiel fully. “See something you like?”

“Yes, actually.”

The flush that spreads over Dean’s cheeks and chest is beautiful, even if it is an absurd reaction considering what they spent the night doing together. Castiel just smiles at him.

“Flatterer,” Dean says.

“I haven’t even begun to flatter you,” Castiel tells him.

For a moment, Dean just stares at him, cheeks growing redder by the second, but finally he shakes his head and stoops down to pluck Castiel’s shirt from the carpet. He throws it across the room. It hits Castiel directly in the face.

“Get dressed,” Dean says as he heads for the bathroom, scooping his jeans and t-shirt up as he goes. “I’m not calling Donna back while you’re lying there doing your best Kate Winslet impression. No matter how much I like it.”

Castiel isn’t entirely sure that he knows who Kate Winslet is, but as he pushes out of bed and gathers the rest of his clothes, he mentally adds it to the list of references he needs to look up when time allows. He’s been doing that more, recently—taking note of all of Dean’s strange little turns of phrase and entering them into his phone’s web search until he can figure them out.

Sometimes, Dean’s comments are too arcane even for the internet to help him with, but it’s still worth the effort.

When Dean emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam a few minutes later, Castiel is dressed and sitting on the end of the unmade bed, holding a paper cup of substandard instant coffee from the vending machine outside their room. Dean’s eyes zeroes in on it like there’s a spotlight on Castiel’s hands.

“Is that coffee?”

Nodding, Castiel stands, holding it out.

“I don’t think it’s very good, but I thought you might need it.”

Dean takes it with an appreciative hum, his thumb brushing against Castiel’s hand in the process.

“It can’t be that bad,” he says, but almost as soon as he takes his first sip, he wrinkles his nose and lets his mouth fall open so it sloshes noisily back into the cup. Just for a moment, Castiel genuinely wonders what he sees in him.

“Eugh,” Dean says, giving a little shudder at the lingering taste before ducking into the bathroom to pour it down the sink and rinse his mouth. “I stand corrected. You wanna head across the street, call Donna over breakfast?”

Castiel doesn’t bother reminding Dean that he doesn’t actually need to eat. If it means spending time in Dean’s company, he’d gladly sit through a million meals and never taste a single bite.

“I noticed maple-bacon waffles on the menu yesterday,” he says, and Dean’s eyes light up at the concept.

“What are we still doing here?”

The Red Robin truckstop is busier at this time of day.

Several booths and tables are taken up by groups of teenagers killing time before they head over to the nearby high school, and the counter is full of truckers and locals alike, some chatting, some hunkered down with newspapers and ignoring the people around them.

It’s noisy enough that they won’t need to worry about anyone listening in on their call, and when Castiel spots a solitary empty booth by the swinging kitchen door, they make their way over side-by-side. Under the table, Dean hooks his foot around Castiel’s ankle. It’s incredible how much the casual touch does to Castiel’s ability to concentrate.

He doesn’t even realize that there’s a waitress at their table until Dean is ordering his breakfast.

Several million years of practice at being a vigilant observer of humanity, capable of detecting even the slightest change in air pressure or the quietest sound from rooms away, and yet the cool leather of Dean’s boot pressed against the back of his ankle is all it takes to allow a not-remotely-stealthy waitress to walk right up and pour him a cup of coffee without his notice.

The thought that he could be so distracted is more than a little disturbing. What if this happened on a hunt? He wonders. What if he’s so preoccupied with some tiny, casual brush of Dean’s hand that he falters, and Dean is hurt, or worse.

“Can we get an extra side of bacon?” Dean asks the waitress, completely oblivious to Castiel’s internal crisis. “We’re gonna share.”

He winks at Castiel as he says it, though they both know full well that Dean is intending on eating the whole lot himself.

At some point, Castiel is going to have to let Dean know that the only reason he doesn’t have heart disease is because he’s been quietly maintaining his arterial health whenever he’s healed an injury for the past decade.

If something should ever happen to prevent him from being able to continue doing so… Well, Castiel doesn’t much want to think about that possibility. He’s already had one minor panic to contend with in the past few minutes.

For now, he decides he’ll just go ahead and steal half of Dean’s breakfast. He’s fairly certain Dean will let him get away with it. He told the waitress they’re sharing, after all.

“There’ll be a bit of a wait on the waffles,” the waitress says with an apologetic grimace. “Morning rush is a killer today.”

“All good,” Dean says, and the waitress's shoulders loosen just a little. Once she walks away, Dean takes a long, satisfied sip from his coffee mug, and pulls his phone from his pocket to make the call.

Donna answers on the first ring, and her voice is bright and bubbly despite the hour. Dean smiles at the phone on the table between them.

“Hey Donna, you’re on speaker. Cas is here, too.”

At Dean’s gesture, Castiel leans forward to speak, angling toward the phone so that he can be sure it hears him.

“Hello, Donna. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All lies, I’m sure,” she laughs.

“Why would they be lies?”

Castiel squints at the phone, then up at Dean, who is looking at him with the kind of fond expression that always makes Castiel suspect that he must have inadvertently said something strange.

Dean just waves his hand.

“Figure of speech, Cas,” he says, before returning his focus to the call. “How’s things, Donna? New Doug treating you right?”

“He is. I’ve actually been thinking about telling him.”

“About hunting?” Dean asks, surprise clear in his voice. “That’s a big step.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t love lying to him every time I help you fellas or Jody on a hunt. Something’s gotta give, y’know? But enough about me, let me give you the intel before I have to head in to work.”

“Alright, what d’ya got?”

“Right. So, this morning I woke up to a voicemail from an old friend of mine over in D.C.” She pauses. “Well, technically Nance was Old Doug’s old friend, but I kept her after the divorce.”

“Another loss for the jackass,” Dean says, and Castiel tilts his head, mouthing Old Doug?

Long story, Dean mouths back.

“Guess so!” Donna says, laughing. “Anyway, Nance works for the MPD, and she knows a few of the detectives who’ve been working with the Secret Service on Kelly’s case. I told her Kelly is an old family friend. Asked her to let me know if she heard anything.”

“So she heard something?”

“Yup. Turns out Kelly called up a guy she went to high school with a couple of days ago. Completely out of the blue. Apparently he hadn’t spoken to her in years—I mean, they weren’t even Facebook friends.”

“Then why did she—?”

“He’s a doctor,” Donna says, and there’s the sound of shuffling paper, and a loud slurp as she takes a sip of something on the other end of the line. “Uh… Dr Parker Thompson. She wanted to know if he could run some tests on her baby without it going on any official records.”

“Bet that went over well.”

“Mm. Well, lucky for us, he’d heard she was missing, so he played along, agreed to meet with her, then reported the call. That’s how Nance got wind of it.”

“When are they supposed to meet?” Castiel asks.

“Yesterday,” Donna says, and Dean deflates a little. “But Kelly never showed.”

“I doubt she could’ve gone far,” Castiel points out. “Her state by now is most likely analogous to a regular pregnancy in the second trimester at this stage, so I can’t imagine that it’s easy for her to be ‘on the run’ in a literal sense.”

“Do you think she’s okay?” Donna asks, concerned, and Castiel meets Dean’s eyes over the phone, an uneasy look passing between them.

“It’s hard to say,” Castiel hedges.

“This isn’t exactly a common situation,” Dean says.

“Alright. Well, I’m emailing you everything I could get my hands on. The doctor’s address, a couple of police reports, some CCTV footage. It’s not a lot, but—”

“Are you kidding? This is more than we’ve found in weeks.”

“It’s a great help, Donna,” Castiel says.

“Well, I sure hope so. You fellas gonna head over?”

“Yeah, we’ll hit the road today. Should get there by… uh. Noon tomorrow I think?"

"Okay, well you'd better be careful. It hasn't been too long since your last run in with the feds, and I don't want to find out you've been taken into custody again."

"We'll figure something out," Dean assures her, though Castiel has no idea what he's planning. "Your friend Nance in the know, or—?”

“Not even a little,” Donna says quickly. “Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”

“You got it.”

“Let me know how it goes, okay?”

“Will do,” Dean says.

“Thank you, Donna,” Castiel adds, and smiles when Donna replies.

“You betcha. And hey, come visit when you can. It’d be nice to put a face to the name, and Dean—don’t forget you promised to make me one of your world-famous burgers sometime.”

“Soon,” Dean says.

“I’ll hold you to that. Stay safe, fellas.”

Dean stretches after he ends the call, tilting his head from side to side until his muscles loosen and his joints pop. He groans at the sensation.

“Hope you’re up for a long drive,” he says.

“Always. Though…” Castiel grimaces a little, but knows he needs to make the suggestion, even if it does feel futile. “Perhaps we should tell Sam first? He’ll probably want to come along, but even if not... it would be wise to at least inform him where we're going.”

While Dean considers his point, their waitress comes by to refill their mugs and tell Dean his waffles are on their way. Once she’s gone again, he sighs, rubbing at his brow with his knuckles. His hand falls down onto the table, making the cutlery clatter against the ketchup in its little wire basket.

“Honestly,” Dean starts, and stops, and takes another breath. “Honestly, I don’t think I can stand to work a case with him yet. He said some really messed up sh*t to me last night. But,” he sighs. “You’re right. We’re gonna need to swing by the bunker, anyway. I didn’t exactly pack for a hunt, and as much as I want to strangle him right now, we should at least let Sam know where we’re headed.”

“Alright,” Castiel nods. He hates that things are so strained. “In that case, I’d like to leave my truck in the bunker’s garage, if that’s alright. I suppose I could leave it in the parking lot here, but I don’t want to risk it getting towed.”

“You’re really attached to that thing, hey?”

Castiel raises his brow.

“Are you, of all people, really going to make fun of me for appreciating my car?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sunshine.”

Dean smirks, eyes glinting with amusem*nt, before he seems to have some idea that has him biting down on the inside of his cheek and looking Castiel up and down. Castiel knows that look by now. He’s seen it several times since yesterday. He narrows his eyes.

“What?”

Shrugging, Dean picks up his coffee and takes a sip.

“Was just thinking… I should show you how to look after it sometime. Teach you how to change the tires, check the oil, buff out dents and scratches.”

“And this is an arousing thought to you?”

For a moment, Dean looks incredibly caught out, but it shifts quickly into a grin that’s almost prideful.

“What can I say?” Dean wriggles his brows. “You’d look real nice bent over the hood, getting your hands dirty.”

Before Castiel can reply, the waitress is back, delivering Dean’s breakfast with an embarrassed look on her face that can only mean she overheard the last part of their conversation.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

“Perhaps just some cold water for my friend.”

Dean makes an indignant noise, and the waitress grins. She points toward the two glasses she’d apparently left for them when they first sat down.

“Let me know when you need a refill,” she says with a wink.

After she’s gone, Castiel looks back at Dean, whose face has turned a lovely shade of pink.

“You’re such a dick,” Dean tells him, though the ache of want that flows from his soul as he says it takes the sting out of his words. Castiel smiles back, and tugs gently at Dean’s leg where their ankles are still linked under the table.

“Will you forgive me if I let you teach me how to do basic vehicle maintenance?”

Laughing, Dean shakes his head and starts in on his waffles.

“Drink your damn coffee.”

The twenty-seven minutes it takes to drive from Red Cloud back to the Bunker are among the most nerve wracking Castiel has ever experienced. Following the Impala in his truck, his mind spirals around a thousand different scenarios, each ending more horribly than the last.

Sam telling Castiel to get out. Sam telling Dean he’s delusional, that Castiel isn’t even human, that what they’re doing is reckless and foolish and pointless. Sam telling them both that they’re making a mistake.

Worst of all, Sam saying nothing at all; just looking at them with pity or disgust.

Castiel hates this. He hates that this has become another problem for them to solve. That he’s driving to the only place he’s ever come close to thinking of as home, and instead of being happy to be headed there, happy to be on his way to see Sam, whose friendship he values deeply, he’s dealing with this.

It’s exhausting, and painfully unfair.

Finally being open with Dean feels like exhaling; like some long-tangled Gordian knot in his chest slipping free. He just wants to be able to bask in that. Wants Dean to be able to have everything he needs, and not feel pulled in two directions.

Halfway to Lebanon, Castiel turns on the radio for the distraction, but the only station that will tune in all the way is playing nothing but a series of advertisem*nts for farming equipment, thinly-disguised as a radio show segment.

While he can’t help but be impressed by the ceaseless agricultural innovation of humankind, he’s quite simply not interested in hearing a five minute discussion about the merits of an internet application for optimizing the management of soybean fields.

Pressing the volume button to turn off the radio, he sighs and focuses on the silhouette of Dean in the car ahead. Whatever confrontation is waiting for them in the bunker, he has no doubt that they’ll get through it. He just hopes they get through it together. All three of them.

Pulling into his usual space in the bunker’s garage a little while later, Castiel feels coiled tight as a spring.

Dean is waiting for him by the door. He looks just as tense.

Reaching out, Castiel touches the crook of his elbow.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just…” he trails off, shrugging.

“I know the feeling,” Castiel agrees.

With a weak smile, Dean leans forward and kisses him, quick and gentle. It’s enough to bolster them both.

“Here goes, I guess,” Dean says, and together they head inside.

It doesn’t take long for them to realize that Sam isn’t home. The bunker is silent, and as they make their way through room after empty room, Castiel finds that he is equal parts relieved and disappointed. This only means that their current predicament is getting drawn out.

Peeking his head into Sam’s room, Dean confirms that his sneakers are missing, along with his headphones.

“Guess he must’ve gone for a run.”

“Should we wait for him to come back?”

Dean thinks for a moment, then shakes his head.

“Let’s just get ready to go. If he gets back before we leave, fine. If not…” Dean shrugs.

While Dean goes to his room to pack a duffel bag with a few changes of clothes, Castiel heads for the library to assemble the meagre collection of relevant books they have.

As they’d told Donna, nephilim aren’t exactly a frequent occurrence, and the amount of lore available on them is negligible at best. Still, he wants to be sure they have as much information as possible if there’s a chance they’re going to catch up with Kelly soon.

Regret weighs heavily on Castiel’s shoulders as he thinks of her. He can’t imagine what she must be going through. He’s no stranger to the pain of learning that what had seemed like a moment of tender connection was in fact, cold-blooded manipulation, but he never had to carry a reminder of that betrayal with him. Thanks to Gadreel, he didn’t even have a scar.

Kelly must be terrified.

Pulling a cloth-bound book of Enochian Magic from the shelf, he notices a thick volume on demigods and pauses, thoughtful.

The offspring of an archangel and a human might be all but unheard of, but there are dozens upon dozens of accounts of deities who’ve taken human lovers. Not to mention the countless instances of demons who lie with humans with the express purpose of creating powerful cambion offspring.

There are ways, he’s sure, to neutralize a cambion before it is born. Perhaps there are ways to neutralize a demigod.

Perhaps those ways would work against a nephilim, too.

Scouring the shelves, he pulls out a few more books. He’s got more than a dozen stacked in a haphazard tower on the table by the time Dean makes his way into the library with his duffel on one shoulder and a weapons bag on the other.

Dean eyes the books with more than a hint of bewilderment.

“Little light reading for the road trip?” he asks, dropping his bags on the floor and coming closer. The sharp, sweet scent of toothpaste lifts on the air as he gets closer, and Castiel has the wildly distracting thought that he’d like to find out if mint still tastes cool on Dean’s mouth, or if his warmth cancels it out.

Blinking, he mentally replays Dean’s question before he answers. There’ll be plenty of time to kiss Dean later. Focus.

“I just thought of another angle that might be worth pursuing,” he says, and puts another book on the pile. “I can tell you about it while we drive. Do you have everything you need?”

“Yeah, just…” Dean glances around the room, eyes settling on a notepad that Sam has been using as a coaster. He shifts the empty coffee mug away and grabs a pen. “Gonna leave a note, I guess.”

“You don’t want to call him?”

“No, not really.”

Irrational, suffocating guilt claws at Castiel’s throat. He thumbs at a loose patch of cloth on the cover of the book he’s holding.

“Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Told you, Cas,” Dean says, scribbling in the corner of the page until the ink starts flowing. “You’re not the one who needs to apologize here.”

When he writes the note, the message is blunt. Short. Lacking any sense of the warmth or humor that usually permeates everything Dean does. Though Dean keeps insisting that Castiel has nothing to apologize for, seeing such stark proof of the rift he unintentionally caused still hurts.

Dean drops the pen on the table, turning to look at Castiel with a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You want me to grab you a bag for all that?” he gestures at the books.

Castiel sighs and shakes his head, separating out the four he thinks will be most relevant.

“No, I think I’ll leave most of them for Sam. These should do for now.”

Before they leave, he takes the pen that Dean had been using to add his own message to the bottom of the page.

“You ready?” Dean asks from the doorway as Castiel hesitates, trying to decide whether or not he should say anything else. Whether it would be wise to broach the topic they’re apparently all avoiding.

There’s a crease between Dean’s eyebrows that Castiel wishes he could smooth away, but he knows that until things with Sam have been fixed, it’s something he’ll have to get used to. But he can’t fix it with a note.

Time, Dean had said before. Sam just needs some time to get used to this new development, and Dean just needs some time to get past his initial hurt. Castiel supposes he needs that, himself.

With a sigh, Castiel signs his name at the bottom of the note and leaves it to rest on top of Sam’s closed laptop so he won’t miss it when he gets home.

“Yes,” he says, gathering the books. “Let’s go.”

Within minutes of leaving the bunker, Dean is already planning their pitstops.

“So it’s pretty much a straight-shot east,” he says, leaning forward over the steering wheel to check for traffic before he turns left onto US-36. “There’s a diner I like just outside Munroe City that should work for lunch, assuming it’s still there. Best Gerber sandwich I ever had, hands down. Or there’s this real good burger place in Hannibal. Always remembered it ’cause the name makes you think twice about what’s in the patty.”

Dean chuckles, and Castiel is glad to huff a low laugh of his own without having to look up the reference or rely on knowledge gained second-hand through Metatron. Though the films about a cannibalistic serial killer aren’t exactly cheerful, his memories of watching them in the bunker with Dean and Sam certainly are. Dean interrupts his thoughts with a thoughtful sound, apparently still planning out the day’s meals.

“Mm, except we’ll be passing through Danville by like eight, and I’m definitely gonna want to stop by that burger place for dinner. So maybe the diner is a better bet. What d’ya think?”

“All I’m going to have is coffee,” Castiel points out. “So it’s up to you.”

“Right. Yeah,” Dean frowns. “I was serious yesterday, you know.”

“About what?”

“Finding a molecules workaround. I bet I can track something down. I’ll make it my post-nephilim project.”

“Something to look forward to,” Castiel smiles, and Dean grins over at him.

“Anyway. We can probably make it about halfway through Ohio tonight. Maybe stop somewhere on the other side of Columbus so I can catch a couple hours sleep. ”

“You need more than a couple of hours, Dean.”

Dean grunts.

“Not like I haven’t survived on less sleep before.”

“But you don’t need to survive on less sleep right now.”

“I sure as hell don’t want to risk the trail going cold again.”

“You’re ignoring a very obvious solution.”

“What?”

“I can drive.”

“Whoa, no. No way.”

Castiel squints at him.

“Are you suggesting that I’m a bad driver?”

“No, you’re good.”

“Then what?”

“I just,” Dean flounders, waving his hand vaguely in the air. “It’s. I don’t know. I never let anyone drive my car. I don’t even really like Sam driving my car.”

“If it really bothers you, we can stop for the night.”

“No. It’s—” he sighs. “I’m just being an idiot. You can drive. I trust you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You can drive. I want you to drive. Sorry,” he huffs a laugh, rubbing at his neck. “I told you I’d probably f*ck this up with knee-jerk bullsh*t.”

“You also told me not to let you,” Castiel points out. Dean hums in agreement. “But,” he adds, “If something truly bothers you, it’s not bullsh*t. And I’d prefer you told me. Don’t try to spare my feelings by diminishing your own.”

Reaching out, Dean squeezes Castiel’s knee, and Castiel skims his fingertips over his knuckles. It might never stop amazing him that they can do this now. Just touch. Just for the sake of it. No life-or-death threat facing them down.

Dean gives Castiel’s knee another firm squeeze before pulling his hand back and settling it on the wheel.

“Why don’t you find us something to listen to?” he says, gesturing with his chin toward the shoebox in the passenger side footwell. From anyone else, it might seem like a brush-off, an avoidance of their previous conversation. From Dean, it’s just further confirmation that he meant it when he said I trust you.

Leaning down to pick up the box, Castiel shuffles through the cassette tapes until he finds one with a peeling label. Long Ass Drive is scrawled across it in black marker. Fitting, he thinks, and slots it into the tape deck.

As they cut through the flat stretch of farmland with the windows down, Dean sings along quietly, and Castiel watches him from the passenger seat.

“You have a beautiful singing voice,” he says after a while.

Dean snaps his mouth shut, casting a sidelong glance toward him.

“What? No, I don’t.”

“You do. Admittedly, the other times I’ve heard you sing, you’ve been doing it to make fun of yourself or someone else. But you weren’t doing that just now. Your voice is quite lovely.”

“You’re biased.”

“Why? Because I’m in love with you?” Dean flushes. Clears his throat. Castiel rolls his eyes. “Believe me, Dean. I’m more than capable of recognising your flaws.”

“Hey!”

“What?”

“What flaws?”

“Your eating habits, for one. You chew with your mouth open. And I could do without seeing you spit bad coffee back into the cup ever again.”

Mildly chagrined, Dean purses his lips and gives a half-shrug.

“Okay, fair.”

“My point is that you, objectively, have a beautiful singing voice. I’d like to hear it more often, if you’ll let me.”

Squirming a little with the compliment, Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel and stares hard at the road ahead. Castiel tilts his head.

“Are you embarrassed?”

“No. Maybe. A little.”

“I can list some more of your flaws if that would help,” Castiel offers, and smiles when Dean looks at him sharply.

“Asshole,” Dean mutters without heat.

Castiel only smiles wider.

They’ve been on the road for just over four hours, and the faded two-lane surface road out of Kansas has given way to a four-lane freeway in Missouri, flanked by sporadic patches of pin oak and silver maple.

The cassette in the tape deck has been switched out three times—now, they’re listening to Zeppelin IV—and Dean is idly drumming the fingers of one hand on the seat between them as he sings along, a little louder than before.

For the past fifteen minutes, Castiel has been wrestling with Dean’s laptop. Its fan whirs noisily on his legs as it tries in vain to keep itself from overheating as it fruitlessly searches for a stronger signal.

Castiel grunts a low sound of irritation and hits the refresh button.

“Just let it do its thing,” Dean says without looking at him.

“I’ve been letting it do its thing.”

On the screen, the brief text of Donna’s email slowly loads again, but the attached video and image files that constitute the actual information are still appearing as blurry thumbnails, overlaid with a circular symbol that Castiel has come to recognise as an infuriating sign that the computer is trying to do something it is currently incapable of.

“Nothing is happening,” Castiel says after another few frustrating minutes, and Dean glances over at him from the driver’s seat. “Why doesn’t Sam ever have this problem?”

“Probably made a demon deal to make his hair function as a satellite.”

Castiel lets out a quiet laugh. Dean grins over at him.

“Anyway, don’t worry about it,” he says, reaching over to close the screen with one hand. “We can check when we stop for lunch. We’re probably about two hours out from Monroe City.”

Sighing, Castiel twists to put the laptop in its bag on the back seat and eyes the books he put there before they left the bunker. He pulls one from the stack at random—an ancient black volume titled Tractatus de Forma et Spiritus Daemonum—and turns it in his hands.

“I suppose I could start that research.”

“Hm? Oh, right. You said you thought of a new angle?”

“I was thinking that the main reason why there’s so little information available on nephilim is because they’re so rare. And they’re rare because angels are forbidden from engaging with humans sexually—”

“Always knew you were a rebel,” Dean interrupts with a rakish grin, wriggling his brow.

Castiel ignores him, deliberately suppressing his body’s near-instantaneous attempt to flush as he continues, “—not to mention actually procreating. But demons and deities aren’t beholden to any such dogma.”

Slowly, Dean nods.

“Right. And even if they were, forbidden doesn’t mean a whole lot if you’re evil. Or a god,” he gestures loosely. “Or both.”

“Exactly.”

“So, what are you thinking—we should be looking at the lore on demigods?”

“And cambion.”

Dean glances at him with a worried tilt to his brow.

“That’s not exactly comforting, Cas. Remember what happened the last time we tangled with a cambion? Kid turned you into Fiscal Responsibility Ken, and he really didn’t want to turn you back.”

“In Jesse’s defense, I had been trying to kill him.”

“And we’re planning on what, taking the nephilim out for a burger and a milkshake?” Dean scrubs at his face, reaching out to flip the tape that’s just ejected itself from the player. “You might be onto something, though. Can’t hurt to check it out.”

Almost as soon as music starts to play, Dean’s cell phone starts buzzing, and he tilts his hips up from the seat to dig it from his jeans pocket. Glancing at the screen, he hands it over to Castiel.

“It's Mom. You wanna answer on speaker?”

Castiel taps the screen a couple of times, and after a few awkward moments of asking back-and-forth whether they can be heard, Mary gets to the reason for her call.

“Sam said you were heading to Washington?”

“Yeah, Donna reached out. Friend of hers caught a lead, so we’re gonna see what we can see.”

“Is everything okay? Sam is…” her voice drops a little, like she doesn’t want to be overheard, and Castiel thinks she must be in the bunker. “I don’t know. He’s acting strange. When I asked him where you were, it was like pulling teeth trying to get information out of him.”

“Everything’s fine. Just brother stuff, you know? Living out of each other’s pockets for our whole lives gets a bit much sometimes. We just need some time apart.”

“You’re sure that’s all it is?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing serious.”

Dean’s stiff expression makes Castiel’s chest ache, and he can’t help but reach out to touch his hand where it still rests on the seat between them. Tension visibly drains from Dean’s shoulders. He shoots Castiel a grateful smile.

“Okay. Well, let me know if you need any help with Kelly.”

“We will.”

“Oh, and Castiel—how are you feeling? Are you doing okay?”

“My grace is still regenerating, but the wound has healed. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course, Cas,” she says, a relieved tone to her voice. “I’m so glad. I hate to think that you got so badly hurt on a hunt I pulled you boys into."

"It wasn't your fault," Castiel assures her, and there's a heavy pause before she speaks again, voice still tinged with guilt.

"Still. I'm sorry. But you said your grace is regenerating? Are you at risk while it's still healing?”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got an eye on him,” Dean says, directing a sly wink toward Castiel. Castiel shakes his head.

“Well, good. Maybe keep an eye on each other for me, okay?”

"We will," Castiel tells her, shaking his head at Dean as he wriggles his eyebrows even more. "Though right now I wish I didn't have to--your son is making ridiculous faces at me."

Mary laughs.

“Some things never change. I’ll talk to you soon, Dean. Love you boys.”

The warmth Castiel feels at being included, at being so accepted by Dean’s mother as a part of the family, even if she doesn’t yet know what the two of them are to one another, is so overwhelming that he doesn’t manage to say goodbye. It’s only when Dean squeezes his hand that he realizes he’s still holding the phone out between them with nobody on the other end.

“You good, Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel tells him, and puts the phone in the console under the radio, turning his hand under Dean’s and linking their fingers together. “I’m good.”

Less than thirty minutes pass before Dean steers them off the highway and into a gas station, and while Castiel is inside waiting to pay for the sixty dollars worth of gas that Dean is filling the Impala with, he feels the buzz of a text message in his pocket.

When he digs it out, a message from Sam lights up the screen.

Sam: Tell Dean to call me.

A knot forms in Castiel’s throat as he contemplates a reply. He feels like his hands are tied. In the end, he ignores the message and grabs a bag of tortilla chips and a bottle of water from the fridge by the counter.

When he gets back to the car, Dean is sitting in the passenger seat, feet resting on the asphalt. Castiel lifts his brow as he comes to a stop in front of him.

“You want me to drive now?”

“Getting used to a different car is easier in the daylight,” Dean says lightly, then catches hold of Castiel’s tie, pulling him down for a brief kiss. “Plus, it occurred to me that seeing you behind the wheel of my baby might actually be kinda hot.”

“I’m beginning to think you might have an unhealthy attachment to this car.”

“What can I say? She’s my best girl.”

Dean grins, spreading his fingers against Castiel’s chest and pushing lightly as he takes the chips and water. He seems happy and carefree. Castiel hates to bring his mood down, but he knows he can’t avoid it. By the time he rounds the car and pulls open the driver’s side door, he’s decided that he simply needs to get it over with.

“I got a message from Sam just now.”

Looking over at him from the passenger seat, Dean looks almost hopeful, and Castiel realizes he should’ve just shown him the message.

“What did he say?”

“Just that he wants you to call him.”

Dean’s face falls.

“That was all?”

“Yes. I haven’t replied yet. I wasn’t sure what to say.”

“I’ll write him back,” Dean says, and pulls his phone from its place in the console. Castiel doesn’t ask what he’s typing; just starts up the car and carefully pulls out of the gas station, following the signs to get back onto US-110.

From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees when Dean gets another message and writes another reply. A moment later, his phone lights up again. Dean snorts.

“Coulda fooled me,” he mutters.

“Is everything okay?

“Yeah,” Dean says, and types something else before locking the phone and sticking it back in the console. “Just more of the same bullsh*t, and honestly…We need to be focusing on the nephilim. Let’s just get through this job, and we can deal with Sam when we’re done.”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, and risks a quick glance away from the road to look at him. His eyes are closed, his head tilted back against the headrest. “Do you want to choose another tape to listen to?”

“Nah,” Dean says, and opens his eyes. “Watch the road.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Dean huffs.

“Can you just,” Dean hesitates, clicking his teeth together. “I dunno. Tell me about one of your f*cked up brothers. Help me put this crap in perspective.”

With a snort, Castiel glances at him again, and Dean points emphatically at the road ahead.

“Don’t make me kick you out of the driver’s seat before I’ve had time to commit the sight to memory.”

“Do you really want to listen to me complain about Lucifer for the next hour and a half? I could do it, but I think you’re going to get bored.”

“Yeah, maybe not. What d’ya want to talk about, then?”

Castiel hums to himself, thinking, before he settles on a topic that’s bound to distract Dean from his worries for at least as long as it takes them to get to Monroe City.

“I’d like to talk about all of our almosts.”

“Our almost-whats?”

“All the times when we came close to admitting that this—” he gestures between them, “—was more than either of us were letting on. All the times when we nearly did something about it.”

Dean makes an incredulous sound.

“Like when?”

“Well, let’s start with the time you told me that you weren’t going to let me die a virgin, and go from there,” Castiel says, his mouth lifting into a one-sided smirk.

Dean groans and laughs, thunking the back of his head against the window.

“Admittedly,” Castiel says, flipping on the indicator to overtake a slow-moving camper van, “I had absolutely no clue what I was feeling at that point. But in retrospect… did you really not notice that I didn’t hesitate to follow you?”

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

They don’t talk about Sam.

It’s deliberate in a way that ultimately just draws more attention to his absence, and Castiel wonders how long they’ll be able to keep it up. How long they’ll manage to avoid the topic before the vacuum it creates pulls them both to pieces.

A not insubstantial part of him wants to pick at it. He thinks it’s a sign of personal progress that he refrains.

Instead, over the hours it takes to get them to the diner in Munroe City, then onward toward Danville, they talk about almosts and formulate their plan for DC—a far easier task now that the laptop has loaded everything Donna sent.

While most of the evidence doesn’t offer much more detail than what she relayed to them over the phone, the CCTV footage pulled from a parking lot in Arlington is another story.

The grainy clip is only a few minutes long, but it shows Kelly and an unknown woman emerging from a gray sedan and making the call to Parker Thompson from a payphone on the edge of the lot. The car is angled in such a way that the license plate isn’t visible, and it blocks the sight of Kelly from the chest down.

As brief as it is, and as little information as it holds, the video is the first solid proof they’ve seen in two months that Kelly is even still alive. The woman she’s with never faces the camera, but it’s clear from Kelly’s body language and the tight grip the woman maintains on her arm that she’s not a friend.

“What are the chances that she’s an unusually friendly angel keeping an eye on things?” Dean asks, playing the video for the eighth time in case they missed something when they watched it in the diner booth. Though his tone makes it clear he’s under no illusions that they’d be so lucky, Castiel points out the unfortunate reality that any of the few angels still living would have destroyed both Kelly and the nephilim on sight.

“So, not great then.”

“Not great,” Castiel agrees.

“In that case, looks like the smart money’s still on our mystery chick being a demon.”

Castiel hums in agreement.

“But is she working for Lucifer, or is she looking for leverage over him?”

“For all we know, she’s playing both sides,” Dean says, and shuts the laptop with an irritated groan. He pokes it back into the bag at his feet. “At least we’ve got something to go on, I guess.”

“It’s more than we had yesterday.”

“Yeah. But we’re still sh*t outta luck on the ideas front. Say we do catch up with Kelly… what then? ‘Cause I don’t know about you, but I’m not exactly thrilled about holding a pregnant woman captive while we figure out whether or not we have to kill her freakin’ baby.”

Castiel is just as disturbed by the thought as Dean is, but if it comes down to it, he’ll do what needs to be done. He’ll do what Dean cannot. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to set his personal principles aside for the greater good, though he wants to believe they’ll find a solution before he’s forced to do it again.

Perhaps, he thinks with a reckless kind of hope that he tends to avoid out of self-preservation, there’s some way that everyone will get through this in one piece. Perhaps their research on demigods and cambion will pan out. He wonders if Sam has had any luck yet, and hates that the simple act of calling and asking him feels like another insurmountable task.

“So I don’t think the FBI pretext is gonna cut it this time,” Dean says a few minutes later as Castiel drives them across the Mississippi River, and with it, the Missouri-Illinois state line. Castiel raises his brow but doesn’t look away from the slow-moving truck they’ve somehow managed to get stuck behind.

“I assume you’re not suggesting we tell the truth,” he says.

“Glad you’ve learned a thing or two since that time in Maine,” Dean replies with a smirk, then drops his voice to a lower register as if impersonating Castiel. “Demons are skirmishing all over the planet.”

“I never said that.”

“You absolutely did, and you know it.”

Castiel sighs in defeat—he did say it, though he recalls slightly different verbiage—and Dean reaches across the seat to prod him in the side.

“Truth hurts, pal,” he teases. “Anyway, I’m thinking we should take the Secret Service angle on this one. They’ve been leading the investigation into Kelly’s disappearance so far because of her connection to the president, so it makes more sense that they’d be the ones following up. I’ll put together a couple of new ID’s in the morning.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Hm?”

“Donna did make a good point about your recent imprisonment. It’s only been a couple of months since you and Sam escaped—shouldn’t we be worried about potentially drawing the attention of the people who captured you?”

Clicking his teeth together, Dean takes a moment to think.

“Maybe,” he admits. “But if we stick to interviewing civilians and avoid actually running into any feds or local cops, we should be fine. And really… I’m not sure what else we can do. This guy Parker has already spoken to an agent—“

“Special Agent Maree Burns,” Castiel recalls, having seen the name appear in several of the reports Donna sent them.

“—so it’s gonna raise questions if some other agency is suddenly showing up to give him the third degree, y’know?”

Considering, Castiel nods before he has an idea.

“Or maybe we should just tell him the truth.”

“Sure, I bet that’ll work. Nice to meet you, Doc! Your friend from high school got knocked up by the devil!” Dean huffs. “He won’t think we’re crazy at all.”

“Obviously, this isn’t something I think we should make a habit of doing,” Castiel says, ignoring Dean’s sarcasm. “But considering the fact that this nephilim could very easily destroy the world if we don’t find a way to deal with it in time, I think it’s reasonable to make some exceptions if need be. And don’t you think it would be wise to prepare this doctor in case another angel or demon finds out that Kelly reached out to him? Or if she contacts him again?”

Reluctantly, Dean nods.

“Yeah, but it’s not like this is a ghost case or something where the victim saw Casper smashing sh*t in their living room. This is a dude who had a weird phone call from some woman he hasn’t seen in twenty years. Why would he believe that anything we tell him is true?”

“We can prove it.”

“How?”

“Dean. You’re ignoring an incredibly obvious solution. Again.”

“What solution?”

Lifting one hand from the wheel, Castiel gestures at himself.

“Angel,” he says flatly. “I don’t understand how you seem to forget this fundamental aspect of my nature almost once a day.”

“Okay, one? Both hands on the wheel. And B? I don’t forget, asshole. You just spend so much time acting like a human that I get used to treating you like one. And it’s not like I’ve ever seen what’s hiding under the trenchcoat.”

Castiel’s smirk at that is involuntary.

“Well, that simply isn’t true.”

“Hilarious. But you know what I meant.”

“Mm. Though that’s not entirely true, either.”

“Uh, yeah it is. Unless you’re counting the whole peaco*cking thing you did with your wings that time.”

“I wasn’t,” he says, bristling a little at Dean’s description. Not that he isn’t right about it—Castiel had been trying to impress him, after all. “Do you not recall the time before that?”

“In Hell, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry,” Dean says somewhat awkwardly, and Castiel looks over at him in confusion.

“Why are you apologizing?”

Dean doesn’t answer right away; just reaches over, pushing at Castiel’s chin with two fingers until he’s facing the road again. Castiel knocks his hand away and waits.

“I don’t really remember much of anything about… y’know. Getting out.” Dean gestures loosely, his hand tracing an arc in Castiel’s peripheral vision. “I guess we never really talked about it, but. Yeah. I’ve got all of the sh*tty parts that came before, and none of the rescue. Go figure.”

“Oh,” Castiel frowns. “I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you’ve forgotten even a second of what you went through in Hell, even the escape, that’s probably for the best. It’s certainly not something you should feel sorry about.”

“Still. I… man, this is why I—“ Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head, and—somewhat inexplicably—an aching wave of longing stretches across the space between them. He lets out a heavy breath and returns to their previous topic. “Anyway. The Secret Service route is still our best shot at getting in the door, but maybe we can call the truth plan B? We’ll be prepared to tell him if we need to, but avoid giving the guy an existential crisis if we can.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“What exactly would you do to prove you’re an angel, anyway? I know you don’t like using the mind whammy on people, but I don’t think letting me stab you to prove you’re not human is going to go over too well this time.”

“From my perspective, it didn’t go over particularly well the first time, either.”

“sh*t,” Dean laughs.

“I suppose I could just ‘peaco*ck’ again, as you put it,” he adds, shooting Dean a narrow-eyed look for the phrasing. “Or there are a variety of minor miracles I could perform… but really, it will depend on how receptive he is to the existence of angels in the first place.”

“You know, this might be the first time in my life that I’m almost hoping someone turns out to be a fundamentalist.”

“Well. Let’s not go that far,” Castiel says.

_______

Just outside Decatur, Dean directs Castiel off the highway and into a well-kept rest stop. It’s late in the afternoon, and though it’s been overcast and drizzling for most of the day, a brief break in the clouds makes the trees that line the parking lot seem to glitter in hues of subtle gold.

Castiel stops in a space beside a beige utility truck similar to the one he’s been driving all year, and as he leans against the hood of the Impala while Dean uses the restroom, he’s shocked by the sudden realization that he actually misses driving it.

He’s grown used to the weight of the Impala over these past few hours; has become familiar with the way it moves; the perfect pressure to exert upon the gas and the brake to make it handle as smoothly as it does under Dean’s control.

It’s been deeply enjoyable, and something about being able to feel the subtle grooves in the steering wheel where Dean’s hands have rested more often than they haven’t, about knowing that he’s being trusted with something that Dean is so attached to when Dean has always had so little to call his own, has made Castiel feel close to him in a way that he never anticipated.

But he misses driving his own truck.

It’s absurd how happy the realization makes him, but he feels as though he’s unlocked some heretofore untapped aspect of himself; a capacity for enjoyment in small things, in parts of existence that for the larger portion of his life have been nothing more than background noise.

“Were you serious about teaching me to perform vehicle maintenance?” he asks Dean when he returns from the restroom a few minutes later.

“Yeah, why? Did something—“

“The Impala is fine,” Castiel assures him, making his way back around to the passenger seat so Dean can take over for the last leg of the drive to Danville. “I was just thinking of my truck. It seems I do have an attachment, as you said.”

Looking at him over the roof of the car, Dean grins.

“Man after my own heart,” he says.

Castiel squints at him.

“Yes, I thought I’d made that clear by now.”

Dean snorts.

“Get in the car, Cas. I wanna get to Danville before the dinner rush.”

_______

It seems that no time passes at all before they’re pulling into the cracked parking lot of an unassuming burger joint called Danburger. To one side of the building is a busy Culver’s restaurant; to the other, an auto parts store with a marquee board out front that reads I learned to play piano by ear, but now I use my hands.

Castiel points it out to Dean, who laughs, “There’s a different joke up there every time I come through,” before leading him into the squat brick building. Inside, he orders a burger so enormous that the fries come served on their own separate plate out of sheer necessity.

Castiel isn’t exactly jealous of the satisfied sounds he makes while he eats it (that would be ridiculous, after all) but he does find himself wishing Dean would have agreed to stop for the night so that he might be granted the pleasure of hearing something similar from a closer vantage point than the other side of a diner booth.

“How are these always better than I remember?” Dean wonders aloud with another satisfied hum, and holds the burger out. “Want a bite?”

Castiel shakes his head and picks one of the fries from the plate instead, biting through it with an audible crunch. As he chews, the potato splits into an uneven mix of amylose and polysaccharides while the salt dissolves into sodium and chloride ions on his tongue. It’s not altogether unpleasant, but it’s not all that enjoyable, either.

Until Dean brought it up, Castiel hadn’t given all that much thought to finding a way to circumvent his molecules problem. Now, watching Dean, he thinks he understands why it’s become such a fixation.

Food is a comfort to Dean. He wants to share it. And maybe, just as Castiel has come to realize that he likes being witness to Dean’s satisfaction in any form it takes, Dean also likes seeing Castiel enjoy himself. His reaction to learning that Castiel likes driving certainly gives credence to the theory.

So, while he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to appreciate food in quite the same way Dean does, he thinks he can make a point of signalling his enjoyment of other things. Making himself comfortable even if it’s not completely necessary; speaking his happiness aloud when he can.

When they leave the restaurant a little after eight o’clock, Castiel pulls off his coat and jacket and rolls up his sleeves before he slips back behind the wheel.

If Dean were to ask why, he’d say that the coat bunches up uncomfortably when he sits on it. He wouldn’t add that it’s also because he’s noticed in the handful of times he’s worn fewer layers that Dean seems to appreciate the sight of his forearms. If he’s going to make a new habit of doing things for pleasure alone, he sees no reason why that shouldn’t include things that make Dean look at him a little longer.

Evidently, his recent string of sexual and sensual epiphanies have come with a healthy dose of vanity on the side. He isn’t complaining. From the look he sees Dean give him as he takes his place in the passenger seat, he doesn’t think Dean is complaining either.

As they continue on, Dean quietly hums along with the tape in the cassette deck and points out things he sees along the roadside, and so long as Castiel doesn’t allow his thoughts to drift to the empty space left by Sam, everything continues to feel remarkably comfortable.

It hasn’t even been three days since Castiel made his breathless confession in Ramiel’s barn, and he’s amazed because all through this day, being by Dean’s side feels easier than it has ever been. But then—no. In every way that matters, it feels exactly as it always has.

It feels right.

As though Castiel is precisely where he should be in time and space; as though this moment, and this moment, and this moment are all at once the perfect summation of who they are to one another; of what and who he is.

Not a pawn, or a tool, or a weapon in some Heavenly arsenal, but just himself. Just Castiel. An angel of the earth, on wheels instead of wings. An angel who stopped seeking revelation in God when he found it in the man at his side. An angel who has fallen in every way but the proverbial, because he didn’t so much fall in love as grow into it.

He smiles at the thought, imagining his love for Dean as a seed in the ground, spreading roots and sprouting. Himself, a flower turning to the sun; reaching upward and out as Dean taught him to love the whole world, too.

Years ago, he feared that he was losing his capacity for faith; that whatever part of him was capable of holding such conviction had been damaged beyond repair. But now, he feels certain that it never left him at all. It was simply transforming into this. He wasn’t falling from grace or losing a part of himself. He was growing, blooming, becoming.

“What are you grinning at?” Dean asks, and Castiel’s smile widens at the question.

“Sometimes, I pray to you,” he says. The quiet that follows is not unexpected.

Castiel sneaks a quick glance at him, wary of inviting another reminder to keep his focus forever trained on the road ahead. He finds Dean wide eyed and startled into silence.

“The first time was years ago. The raising of Samhain,” he explains, surprising even himself with the revelation. “I told you then that I had been praying for you to save the town… but I didn’t realize at the time that it wasn’t God that I was praying to.”

Beside him, Dean takes an unsteady breath, and Castiel goes on, rescuing him from having to form a reply.

“But the first time I prayed to you consciously was in Purgatory. When you prayed to me, I prayed back. Of course I knew that you couldn’t hear me, but I recall hoping that you’d feel it somehow. That you’d sense that I was thinking of you.”

He remembers the way it felt; breathing Dean’s name out into the dry heat and promising that he would keep him safe, even if that meant giving him up. How he’d wanted so desperately to fly back to his side. How there in that endless wilderness he’d first noticed the slowly unfurling tendrils of feeling that could no longer be dismissed as the protective instincts of an angel toward his charge.

“I don’t believe I’d ever felt hope before then. Not truly. Not with any measure of wanting, and I think now that desire must be necessary for hope to exist. Something about that place drew it to the surface in a way that was unavoidable. So I answered your prayers to me with words, even if I couldn’t answer them the way that either of us truly wanted, and I hoped that you knew how much I wanted you to hear me.”

Outside, the traffic on I-74 slows a little, two lanes haphazardly merging into one to avoid a broken down camper in the center lane ahead. A tow truck slowly makes its way closer among the rest of the cars. Castiel flicks the indicator on. The steady tick-tick-tick counts out the seconds, punctuating the quiet as his words settle around them.

“It became a habit, after a while. Even after you found me, and after you returned to Earth, and then still when I was finally pulled free of Purgatory by the angels. It was a way to remain connected to you when circ*mstances outside my control kept me away.”

He smiles again, letting out a quiet laugh.

“You know… for millennia, I prayed to God for help and guidance, because it was what I was supposed to do. But he never answered. Not even once. But you—“

He pauses as he brings the car to a stop, the traffic outside at a standstill as the tow truck driver hops out to set up several orange cones. Castiel takes the opportunity to face Dean fully. The truck’s blinking lights reflect in Dean’s eyes. Castiel aches at the disbelief he still sees there.

“—you always answered. Even if you didn’t realize you were doing it. Even if your answer wasn’t always what I wanted to hear. In a lot of ways, putting my faith in you is the single most important thing I’ve ever done, because it was the first time in my existence that it was an expression of my own will. Faith became an act of love where before it had always been an act of forced deference. It changed me. You changed me.”

“You’re gonna give me a God complex,” Dean jokes, though his voice betrays how overwhelmed he is, and Castiel reaches out to touch his fist where it’s clenched on the bench seat between them. The contact seems to shake something loose. Dean’s hand turns under Castiel’s to squeeze it.

“If I could ever manage to convince you so wholly of your worth, I’d consider it a success.”

Rubbing at his mouth, Dean lets out a quiet, helpless sound and conks the back of his head against the passenger side window.

“Y’know, when I asked what you were grinning at, I figured you’d drop some weird fact about rabbits, or… I dunno. What was that old joke you found? The one about Caesar?”

Castiel lets out a low huff of a laugh as he recalls the joke he’d read aloud from a copy of Saturnalia he’d found during a rare window of downtime last year. They’d all just been passing time, sorting through one of the bunker’s storerooms, and Dean—high-spirited and several beers deep after a successful salt-and-burn—had laughed so hard he’d cried.

“Touring his empire,” Castiel recites from memory, “Caesar saw a man who bore a striking resemblance to himself. ‘Was your mother ever in service of the palace?’ he asked the man, who promptly replied, ‘No, but my father was.’”

“The more things change…” Dean snickers, shaking his head.

“As for a fact about rabbits,” Castiel goes on, pleased when Dean’s laugh shifts into something that can only be described as delighted. “I don’t have a strange fact to share, but I recently discovered a family of cottontails living in the field behind the bunker. They tend to hide when they hear the Impala coming, but I think they’re rather fond of me. I can show them to you sometime if we go on foot.”

“That’s some Disney princess sh*t, Cas.”

“So you don’t want to see them?”

“Well, I didn’t say that.”

Castiel feels the corner of his mouth tick up.

“To answer your original question, though… I was smiling because I was imagining myself as a sunflower,” he admits, and Dean lets out another, wheezier laugh that Castiel chooses to interpret as affectionate. “And you as the sun I’m drawn to.”

Dean’s laugh fades, and he squirms as he pulls his hand back to cover his face, too slow to hide the flush that spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“Jesus, Cas.”

“What?” Castiel asks, feigning cluelessness that Dean clearly doesn’t buy. He drops his hands to level Castiel with a sceptical gaze.

“You know what. You keep saying sh*t like that. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I like how it affects you. You’re stunning when you blush.”

“Oh my god.”

“You’re stunning all the time, actually.”

“Cas,” Dean groans.

The sound is anything but an incentive to stop, and Castiel briefly entertains the idea of torturing Dean with compliments for the rest of the drive. It’s incredibly tempting. He could carry on for hours, and Dean would be helpless to stop Castiel from talking, and then when they finally reach their destination he’d channel his frustration into the kind of kiss that reminds Castiel what flying feels like.

Before he can let his imagination fall too deep into the possibilities, the driver behind them lays into their horn. Castiel looks ahead, surprised to see the road clear and the traffic already getting back up to speed.

“Told you to keep your eyes on the road,” Dean teases, and Castiel rolls his eyes as he shifts back into drive.

“I can’t help it if you’re more interesting to look at.”

“Yeah okay, reign it in, Casanova.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Dean makes a low pfff sound, just as his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. He digs it out and taps at the screen.

“Any news?”

“Mom’s just checking in,” he says, typing out a reply before he locks the phone. “You sure you don’t mind driving overnight?”

“I’m sure. Unless you’ve changed your mind about stopping somewhere.”

“I haven’t.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Gonna try.”

“Should I turn off the music?”

“Nah, you can leave it.”

Shifting in his seat, Dean twists to find a comfortable position. He rolls his neck until it makes an audible pop. Castiel frowns over at him.

“What?” Dean asks.

“If you insist on us driving through the night, at least let me—“

He reaches a hand out, and Dean lightly swats it away.

“I’ve told you, Cas. I don’t need you wasting your mojo on every little thing.”

“I don’t consider it wasteful.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re the idiot who likes me anyway. Deal with it. Ten and two, by the way.”

With a huff, Castiel returns his hand to the wheel, and doesn’t bother to point out that Dean’s hands rarely stay in place when he’s the one driving.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Dean parrots, closing his eyes and leaning the back of his head against the window, arms crossed over his chest. One handed, Castiel reaches into the back seat to grab his coat and jacket. He tosses them onto Dean’s lap.

“You’ll get a stiff neck,” he says when he feels Dean’s questioning gaze lands on him. “And seeing as you presumably won’t let me fix it for you in the morning—“

“Because it’s a waste,” Dean interrupts, and Castiel narrows his eyes as he continues.

“—you should try to avoid making it hurt in the first place.”

Dean grumbles out a reluctant thanks as he bunches the coat and jacket up into something resembling a pillow and wedges it behind his head.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel snaps back.

Dean snorts.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” he says, but then he shrugs. “Is it weird that I’m glad you still piss me off?”

“That’s very flattering, thank you.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean. I was kinda worried that things would be different if we ever did this, but we’re the same. Still us, just… more. I dunno. I’m just glad nothin’s really changed.”

“I was thinking the same thing earlier,” Castiel admits.

“Yeah?”

“Mm. You’re just as infuriating as ever.”

“Love you too, sweetheart,” Dean says, and while the words are delivered with humor, the truth of them is clear in the way Dean’s soul opens up, reaching out to brush against him like a wordless prayer. It’s warm and sweet and grateful. Castiel smiles, and Dean smiles back.

It’s the first time he’s actually said it in so many words, and Castiel knows it doesn’t come easily. He chooses not to draw attention to it.

“Go to sleep, Dean,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dean drops off to sleep about half an hour later, just as they’re passing by a sign for Salt Fork State Park in eastern Ohio, and Castiel turns the tape deck’s volume down as quiet as it will go without switching off. As Dean sleeps, occasionally snuffling his face against Castiel’s coat, Castiel listens to the steady thrum of the road and the low melodies of a Pink Floyd cassette.

The road is near empty out here after midnight, with only the occasional beam of approaching headlights to cut through the thin haze of fog. Gentle slopes rise and fall away on both sides of the road, scattered with bare-limbed trees that glisten with dew. Castiel wishes they had the time to stop, if only so that he could properly appreciate the peaceful view.

Something in the way the light glints off the branches reminds him of a place he’d visited years ago. A lake with a pier in a snow-dusted valley in Oregon, quiet and secluded under the light of a crescent moon. He’d thought at the time that it was a place that Dean would like, and wondered if he’d ever have occasion to show it to him. He hadn’t realized why he’d wanted to, at the time.

Looking back now, he’s amazed that it took him so long to recognize his feelings for what they were.

_______

The motel Castiel chooses for them in DC is nicer than the places the Winchesters usually stay.

It’s mostly out of convenience—all but one of the other motels they’ve passed either had fully illuminated NO VACANCY signs casting fluorescent glows across their full parking lots, or they didn’t offer 24 hour check-in—but it’s also a deliberate choice.

At some point between Dean falling asleep at nearly one in the morning, and stopping to refill the Impala’s gas tank at the Pennsylvania-Maryland border around half-past four, Castiel’s thoughts of satisfaction and contentment had turned to the way Dean and Sam live. How they save the world constantly, but rarely savor it.

Of course, he knows that more often than not, it comes down to money. His own brief time as a human taught him just how far every dollar needs to stretch when you don’t have a lot to spare, and even the seemingly limitless bank account full of stolen funds that Charlie had set up for the brothers before she died can’t be relied upon to last forever.

But still—

They deserve to take small indulgences from time to time, and now that it’s occurred to him, Castiel is determined to make them do so in any way he can—up to and including the quality of the mattress he’ll be sharing with Dean as they travel across the country on the hunt for Kelly Kline.

If Dean argues with him about it, he’ll just point out that staying in a nicer motel will mean he doesn’t have to “waste” his grace healing the back pain inevitably caused by sleeping on an ancient box spring.

The Scarlet Oak Motel is not a new establishment by any stretch, but the L-shaped structure seems to have been well cared for, and the hedge that lines the parking lot is lush and green. One of the trees the motel is named for towers beside it, bare branches spreading wide across the rain-wet parking lot.

Castiel doesn’t think it’s a stretch for him to assume that their room will be as well maintained as the exterior.

The radio clicks off with the engine, and the sudden quiet pulls Dean from his sleep as effectively as an alarm. He squints his eyes open, rubbing at his mouth with his knuckles as he looks over at Castiel.

“Time is it?”

“About six. Did you sleep well?”

Dean just blinks at him for a moment before he nods.

“Mm, like a baby log.”

Castiel doesn’t bother pointing out that neither of those things are known for sleeping well. Just hums in acknowledgement as he pulls the keys from the ignition and drops them into Dean’s waiting hand so he can gather their things while Castiel gets them a room.

Inside the office, the clerk at the desk is a middle-aged man with a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on his nose. He looks up from his cell phone when he hears Castiel enter. It’s strange to think that the Castiel of a few years ago would have been uncertain how to proceed.

Though, that’s not entirely correct, he thinks. He would have been certain within himself—he just would have been uncomfortably direct, and possibly made the clerk suspicious that he was engaging in something nefarious.

Now, he knows to ask for double occupancy with late check-out; to ensure that they’ll be able to extend their stay beyond two nights if they need to; and to request a room on the ground floor so that they can make a faster getaway if something goes horrendously wrong.

“Two queens or a king?” the clerk asks after he’s made his requests, and Castiel pulls his wallet from his back pocket.

“A king, thank you.”

Glancing around the foyer, he notices a table along the front wall that holds a hot water urn and an assortment of instant coffee and creamer cups. He gestures toward it as he hands over a credit card. “May I?”

“Go for it,” the clerk says. “Card scanner’s been acting up, so this might take a minute.”

While he’s waiting, he makes two cups of coffee—the second mostly for show—and looks at Dean through the window. He’s standing by the open trunk of the Impala, rolling his neck from side to side and grimacing as he digs his knuckles in. Castiel sighs.

“Stubborn ass,” he mutters, taking a sip from one cup to make sure the arrangement of molecules is at least somewhat close to what Dean likes. He crinkles his nose at the taste. It’s not perfect, but he thinks it’s as close as he’ll be able to get it.

The clerk interrupts his thoughts.

“Sorry?”

At the desk, the clerk has two room keys waiting along with Castiel’s card, and his brow is furrowed as he tries to parse what he seems to think was a comment directed at him.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Castiel assures him as he makes his way back over. “Just—my partner refused to stop somewhere overnight, and now he’s going to spend all day pretending he doesn’t have a stiff neck from sleeping in the car, just so I can’t say I told him so.”

The clerk laughs, expression clearing.

“Well, you’ll be comfortable tonight at least. You’re in room five, right down on the corner—and if your fella ever admits he needs a painkiller, there’s a little drugstore about a block and a half south.”

Castiel stacks the cups on top of each other to take their room keys.

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s started to drizzle again when he steps outside, making the early morning air smell fresh and cool. Dean has come to wait under the awning with two duffle bags and his laptop slung across his shoulders, Castiel’s coat and jacket hooked over a suit bag on his forearm.

He grabs one of the coffees as soon as he’s within reach.

“Please tell me it’s better than Red Cloud,” he says, inhaling the steam that rises from the cup.

“I’d venture that the puddle I parked in is better than Red Cloud,” Castiel points out, nodding his chin in the direction of their room and setting off toward it. “This needed creamer to get there, but it may even pass for coffee.”

Dean hums his agreement as he takes his first sip. By the time they step into room five, he’s already drained the cup.

Castiel is glad to see that his instincts were correct about the quality of the motel. Their room is small but tidy, with sage green walls and a crisp cream comforter on the bed. Squat round lamps stand on the two nightstands, and a matching ceiling light reflects warm tones off the wooden table and the couch by the door.

Dean whistles low as he drops everything he’s carrying onto their bed.

“Nice digs,” he says, heading for the bathroom. “Remind me to let you pick the motel more often.”

With a smile, Castiel closes their door and moves to pull his thoroughly creased coat and jacket out from under the pile, along with Dean’s suit bag. He hangs them on the hook by the door before sitting down on the edge of the mattress. It’s not nearly as comfortable as Dean’s memory foam, but unlike the bed they shared in Red Cloud, it doesn’t creak every time he moves.

Choosing this motel was a wise decision, he thinks.

“Big shower,” Dean calls out a moment later, voice slightly muffled through the wall. Castiel looks toward the bathroom with a frown.

“What?” he calls back.

The toilet flushes, and the tap runs, and then Dean opens the bathroom door, still drying his hands on a white towel as he leans against the frame.

“The shower,” he says, and wriggles his brow.

“Yes?”

“It’s roo—“ he yawns explosively halfway through the word, bringing up one hand to press over his mouth before he tries again. “Roomy.”

Ah, Castiel thinks, but doesn’t let his understanding show.

“Okay?” he says.

“Cas.”

Dean stares at him. Castiel stares back.

Simply put, they don’t have time for any of the things that Dean could possibly be alluding to. But if Castiel plays his cards right, perhaps he can at least get Dean to tell him what he’s thinking. It’ll give them both something to look forward to once they get back to their room tonight.

So Castiel blinks at him, feigning confusion.

“What?”

“You really can’t figure it out?”

Dean wriggles his brow again and tilts his chin back into the bathroom. Pointedly. His eyes are still sleepy despite the coffee, and there’s a crease on his cheek where he’s had it pressed up against Castiel’s coat overnight. He looks completely ridiculous.

Castiel is struck by the sudden and intense desire to bite his earlobe.

“Your eyebrows keep twitching,” he tells Dean placidly, ignoring the part of him that wants to drop the act and give in, time sensitivity of the case be damned. “Are you low on potassium?”

“Am I low on—”

“Potassium,” he repeats. Dean narrows his eyes.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Am I?”

“This clueless angel act is gonna backfire on you one day, Cas.”

“I don’t see how,” Castiel tells him, though secretly he thinks it already has. Dean didn’t even try to explain what kinds of activities a roomy shower might enable. “You’ll still show me what you meant later.”

“Oh, will I?”

“I’m reasonably certain, yes,” he replies, and smiles. “Do we need to do anything before we head out?”

Laughing, Dean shakes his head, tossing the towel back into the bathroom before he crosses the room to rifle through his duffel at Castiel’s side.

“Yeah, I need to put the ID’s together so we can print ‘em,” he explains. He yawns again, gesturing to his laptop. “I already have an, uh… a thing.” He straightens up, holding his bathroom bag, and clicks his teeth until he finds the word he’s searching for. “A template. Just gotta drop our photos in, adjust a couple of details, and then we’ll be good to go. Won’t take long.”

“Do you need a photo of me?”

“Already got one that’ll work.” Looking down at him, Dean pushes Castiel’s hair back from his forehead, fingernails lightly scratching at his scalp. Castiel’s eyes sink shut of their own accord. “You’re too messy to look like an agent right now, anyway.”

“Driving all night will do that, I expect.”

“I like it.”

“Do you?”

“Mm, yeah.”

Dean leans down and kisses him, using his grip in his hair to tilt Castiel’s head back. His tongue dips into Castiel’s mouth, a slow tease, before he deepens the kiss. Sucks Castiel’s lower lip between his own and bites down, just a little, until Castiel lets out a low, pleased hum.

“First things first, though,” he says. His hand slides down to cup Castiel’s jaw, thumb sweeping under his lip before he stands and steps back. “I’m gonna grab a shower—by myself seeing as someone decided to play innocent.”

Castiel blinks, slightly dazed. Dean just looks down at him and winks.

“You wanna find us a diner near a copy place while you’re waiting?”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just walks back into the bathroom and leaves Castiel gripping the edge of the mattress, thoroughly outmaneuvered and wondering why on Earth he’d chosen this morning to be so damn responsible.

______

Parker Thompson’s house is a two-story brick colonial in Palisades, not far from the hospital where he works.

The nearby Potomac river is only a short walk away through a thick growth of trees on the opposite side of his street, and the neighborhood is quiet as they pull to a stop outside. Dean leans over the steering wheel to look up toward the house.

From his place in the passenger seat, Castiel can see the faint shape of his own mouth on Dean’s neck, peeking out past the edge of his dress shirt collar. He hadn’t meant to leave a mark, but when Dean had emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, hair dripping wet onto his bare shoulders, a too-small motel towel slung loosely around his hips—he’d been helpless to stop himself from slamming the laptop and crossing the room.

Dean’s skin had been soft and smelled of soap. It tasted like water, clean and warm. Frankly, it’s a miracle he’d managed to keep himself from pushing Dean back into the bathroom and into the allegedly capacious shower. How they got from there to here, with breakfast and a trip to Kinkos in between, is all a bit of a blur.

“What do you think?” Dean asks now, and Castiel blinks, raising his gaze from Dean’s neck to meet his eyes.

“Hmm?”

“No car in the driveway, curtains closed. Looks like nobody’s home, but the interview transcript Donna sent said he would be off work all week. Maybe he’s just running errands?”

With his gaze turned back toward the house, Castiel is about to agree with Dean’s assessment when he sees a faint, telltale shift of light behind the curtain in one of the windows.

“He’s home,” he says, then amends. “Well, someone’s home.”

“You see something? Where?”

“Downstairs. Second window from the left. A figure just passed by.”

“Here goes, then.”

Together, they make their way toward the door. Castiel can smell sulphur before he’s even halfway up the stairs. It’s muted—several hours old at least—but there was a demon here. He’s just about to mention it when Dean stops on the top step, glancing back to look at him.

“You smell that?” he asks quietly, hand hovering over the blade concealed at his hip.

“It’s recent,” Castiel nods, “but I don’t think they’re still here. We should stick to the original plan for now.”

Agreeing, Dean leaves his blade in place. He waits until Castiel is beside him to ring the doorbell, digging his ID from his pocket as the tinkling melody chimes.

“If you can sense anything when we get inside—“

“I’ll let you know.”

It takes almost a whole minute before the door cracks open, and the man who greets them through the narrow gap is visibly exhausted. His one visible eye is bloodshot from a lack of sleep; his skin oily at his hairline and his stubble unkempt.

Beyond his body, his soul is vibrating like a plucked string, twitchy and terrified. Castiel has no doubt that the demons who were here made themselves known to him in some way.

“Dr. Parker Thompson?” Dean asks, and flips his badge open when Parker nods. Castiel follows suit. “I’m Special Agent Reed, and this is my partner Special Agent Anderson. We need to speak with you regarding your recent contact with Kelly Kline.”

“Oh, I already spoke with—“

“Special Agent Burns asked us to follow up,” Dean cuts in. “Standard procedure. We only need a few minutes of your time.”

He hesitates, then nods stiffly, stepping aside and pulling the door open for them.

Inside the house, the smell of sulphur is stronger, though still faded, and it’s masked by the scent of burnt coffee and some chemical air freshener masquerading as lavender. Castiel catches Dean’s eye as Parker leads them through the foyer into his living room and shakes his head. The demon is definitely gone. Dean nods back, his shoulders relaxing minutely.

Parker Thompson, on the other hand, only seems to grow more tense with every step they take into his home. After gesturing for them to sit on the couch, he perches on the very edge of a brown leather armchair, back rigid with his hands clenched on his knees.

“Is everything alright, Dr. Thompson?” Dean asks.

“Just, um. Didn’t get much sleep last night,” he says, visibly forcing himself to sit a little more casually. “And uh, Parker’s fine.”

Nodding, Dean casts his gaze around the room. Castiel notices his eyes settling briefly on a desk by the back wall, the cupboard underneath open to reveal the code panel of a safe. On top of the desk, a small fiberglass case with a combination lock lies on its side.

“Have you had any further contact with Kelly since she called?” Dean asks, returning his focus to Parker, who swallows, pursing his lips.

“No,” he says, too fast and firm to be convincing. His eyes dart to the floor, the wall—anywhere to avoid looking at Dean or Castiel directly. “She hasn’t called again.”

Castiel doesn’t believe that he’s encountered a worse liar in all the years he’s been interacting with humans. With a glance at Dean, whose expression is just as dubious as his own must be, Castiel leans forward to capture Parker’s unsteady gaze.

“That’s not what my partner asked you,” he says.

“I don’t know anything.”

“Parker, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that obstructing a federal investigation is—“

“I’m not! I just— I don’t know anything. I swear.”

“Alright,” Dean raises both hands as if surrendering. “But I can’t help but wonder if there’s a reason why you seem so nervous.” He pauses, then points toward the case on the desk—a gun case, Castiel realizes. “And if it’s got anything to do with why you’ve taken that out of your safe.”

Parker looks sharply over his shoulder, tensing further when he realizes what Dean is referring to.

“I—“ he shakes his head. “I was just cleaning. And I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”

He’s so scared he’s sweating, clearly paranoid that whoever was here earlier is coming back. They’re not going to get anywhere with him like this.

Castiel touches Dean’s elbow, gesturing for the notepad he’s holding when Dean looks back at him. Taking it, he writes as he speaks.

“You’ve known Kelly since you were teenagers?”

“Yeah,” Parker says, seeming confused but relieved by the change in topic. “I mean, we knew each other through a couple of mutual friends, but we weren’t exactly close.”

Turning the notepad, Castiel shows Parker what he’s written as he asks aloud, “Are any of them still close with her?”

Are you concerned that someone could be listening?

He taps the question on the notepad, and Parker swallows convulsively as he nods.

“Not really,” he replies, voice raspy. He clears his throat. “Not as far as I know.”

Rising from his seat, Castiel looks around the room again. Catching on, Dean stands.

“Thank you for your time, Dr Thompson,” he says.

“Uh, yeah… no problem.”

While they’re speaking, Castiel heads silently for the desk, pulling open the top drawer and rifling through it to find a marker. When he locates one, he pops the cap and looks back at Parker and Dean, standing now beside the couch. He raises a finger to his mouth, then draws a wide, looping sigil on the wall.

Parker’s eyes bulge at the sight, mouth falling open as he prepares to protest. Before he can say anything, Dean grabs hold of him and slaps a hand over his mouth. He shakes his head firmly. Parker freezes like a possum in headlights.

Crossing the room, Castiel draws the same sigil on the other three walls. When he’s done, they glow with a faint pulse of energy before they fade away. He caps the marker and drops it onto the coffee table.

“We good?” Dean asks, still holding on to Parker, and Castiel nods.

“There’s no demonic energy present. I don’t detect anything that would suggest they’ve been listening, but if they were, they won’t be able to now.”

As soon as Dean’s grip loosens, Parker scrambles free and lurches for the door. He makes it about three paces before Dean catches hold of him again.

“Whoa, just— hold up a minute. We’re not gonna hurt you, okay?”

“You’re not really Secret Service, are you?”

“No, we’re not. But we are trying to find Kelly. She’s in a lot of trouble right now, and we don’t have a lot of time to help her.”

“What are you?”

“Just people. At least—“ Dean glances at Castiel. “I’m just people. He’s, uh. Something else.”

Parker doesn't look any less terrified.

“I’m an angel,” Castiel says, hoping that will calm him down a little. It doesn’t. He’s not sure why he thought it might.

Parker stares at the now-blank space on the wall where the first sigil had burned and faded, then back at Castiel with wide eyes.

“Is that how you—“

“No, a human could do that with the correct intent,” he says, then amends; “Though the sigils are angelic in origin.”

“Oh. I don’t… no, this is crazy. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

Dean sighs.

“You might want to sit down.”

“No,” Parker shakes his head resolutely. “I’m good.”

In the end, it takes almost forty minutes of detailed explanations before Parker finally stops his relentless pacing and sinks, defeated, into his armchair. It’s longer than they would have liked, but altogether less time than Castiel might have reasonably expected, considering that they had to inform this apparently lapsed protestant that angels and demons are not only a real and present threat on Earth, but that his old acquaintance is currently pregnant with Lucifer’s child.

Castiel suspects that Parker’s encounter with the demon who came here is the only thing stopping him from discounting every word they’ve said.

“Parker, I know this is a lot,” Dean says after a few moments of tense silence. “But we really need to know what else happened. If we don’t find Kelly in time, she’s not gonna survive this. And the rest of the world won’t be far behind her.”

Parker swallows, wrapping his arms around his own stomach.

“It, uh. It was last night. Almost midnight? I was watching TV, and it just… it came in through the fireplace.”

“It?”

“At first I thought it was just a cloud of soot or something—like, maybe a bird got in the chimney and knocked it loose?” Parker shakes his head. “But it was more like… like if smoke was alive. Like it knew where it was going. And when it… when it got to me, I felt like I was suffocating. But I couldn’t move. It got into my nose and my mouth, and then it was… it was as if someone else was operating my body.”

He looks up at them, his eyes watering with the memory.

“I was… I was possessed, wasn’t I? That’s what that was? A demon possessed me?”

“Yeah,” Dean grimaces.

With a shuddering breath, Parker nods and continues.

“Well, I um. I blacked out for a while after that. I don’t know how long, but the next thing I remember is the smoke pouring back out of my mouth, and I was in a different place.”

“Did you recognize it?” Castiel asks.

“Not exactly, but I uh. It was a medical facility, and I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think it was at the zoo?”

Castiel tilts his head in question.

“The… zoo?” he looks at Dean, uncertain, and finds an equally confused expression on his face. “As in—“

“The Smithsonian Zoo. They have an animal hospital there, and this place… there were charts on the wall to do with animal gestation periods. And not just cats and dogs. So if it wasn’t the zoo, it was some other big veterinary hospital.”

“Was anyone else there?”

“Just a couple of security guards. I thought they were gonna call the cops on me at first, but I noticed pretty quick that there was something wrong with them.”

“Let me guess—they had black eyes?” Dean says.

“They were possessed, too?” Parker guesses. He doesn’t seem surprised when Dean confirms it. “They told me not to try and run, and to just do as I was told. I asked them what they wanted with me, and they said we were waiting for the… well, they said someone was bringing ‘the cow’. That’s what they kept calling Kelly. They just said that I was supposed to do a check up on her baby.”

“Did they mention who was bringing her?”

“No, but when she arrived… I got the impression that the one who brought her was in charge of the others. One of the security guards complained that they were behind schedule, and she just… she gave him this look, and her eyes… they turned yellow.”

“Yellow? You’re sure?”

“I mean. I’m pretty sure? But the whole thing was… Look, I’m still not exactly convinced that I’m not losing my mind here.”

“If it helps, I can assure you that you’re not,” Castiel offers, and Parker gives him a look suggesting that it does not, in fact, help. Dean just shrugs at him in a way that seems to say, you tried.

“What tests did they want you to do?” Dean asks, turning back to Parker.

“It was pretty basic prenatal stuff. Ultrasound. Vitals. Whoever they are, they just want to make sure Kelly is healthy.” He pauses. Makes a face. “Well, that the baby is healthy. They didn’t exactly make it a secret that they see her as a walking incubator. She’s probably safe for now though, right? At least until she delivers?”

“Physically? Probably,” Castiel says, and Dean adds; “But there’s no way this isn’t a nightmare for her. How did she seem?”

“They didn’t let me speak to her outside of necessary medical questions, but she seemed okay. Not happy, obviously, but she seemed to be holding it together. Medically speaking, everything seemed pretty normal. Except that she told me that she was only about two months in.”

“That didn’t sound right?”

Parker shakes his head.

“No way. She’s gotta be five months along. At least.”

“You’re sure?”

“Reasonably, yeah. The baby is a lot more developed than two months,” Parker says. Then he blinks with clearly dawning horror. “What’s the gestation period for a… for something like this?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Castiel admits. “Laying with humans is forbidden, so the conception of a nephilim is incredibly rare. The few that I have encountered in the past were born of seraphs and cherubs.”

“Whoa, cherubs? Really?” Dean cuts in, and Castiel looks over at him.

“Are you really that shocked, given the cherubs you’ve encountered? They love love, Dean.”

Parker looks between them.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that while I have some idea of how long a nephilim created by a less powerful angel might take to reach full term, a nephilim whose father is the archangel Lucifer is another thing entirely. Kelly could go into labor in three months or three days. We have no real way of knowing.”

They spend another hour with Parker, making note of the few other details he’s able to recall—he spent almost three hours with Kelly, the yellow-eyed demon who brought her there was the same dark-haired woman they’d seen in the CCTV footage, all three of the other demons he saw seemed to be hoping to win the favor of the baby’s father—and showing him how to protect himself should the demons come back.

“And uh, pro tip?” Dean adds as they step out of his front door. “It doesn’t matter how much air freshener you spray, that sulphur smell is gonna eat right through it. You’re better off just airing the place out for a couple days.”

“Thanks,” Parker says, wrinkling his nose. “I just hope it’s gone before my wife gets back from her trip to Dallas.” His eyes widen. “Oh sh*t, I need to call Ally.”

The door slams in their faces before either of them can say another word, and Castiel can hear Parker rushing off into his house to call his wife. He looks over at Dean.

“Do you think he’s going to tell her?”

“Good luck to him if he does. She’ll think he’s lost it.”

Side by side, they descend the stairs, making their way back down Parker’s driveway toward the Impala.

“You’re getting better at this,” Dean says a few paces away from the car. “The interviewing witnesses stuff. That was a nice move in there with the notepad.”

“I can't claim credit for the idea,” Castiel admits. "It's a trick I saw in a superhero movie."

“What?”

“Something you were watching when I came to speak with you a couple of years ago. You were in a motel in Wyoming. I didn’t see the whole thing, but there was a scene where an apartment had been bugged, and one of the characters did something similar with his cell phone to avoid being overheard.” Castiel shrugs. “It seemed like a viable tactic, given how nervous he was about someone listening.”

Dean makes an amused sound.

“I guess it’s lucky I wasn’t watching Get Smart reruns or we could've ended up with a Cone of Silence situation,” he jokes. Castiel looks at him in question, and Dean waves a hand. “It’s nothing. Wish we hadn’t needed to tell him anything at all, though. Kinda seems like he’s ready to change his name and move to another state.”

“Hopefully he’ll have the presence of mind to wait until his wife comes home.” Castiel says. “Perhaps we could let him know when the demons have been dealt with? It might give him some peace of mind.”

“Yeah, good plan.”

Coming to a stop beside the car, Dean looks down the road, thoughtful before he turns back to Castiel and unlocks the door.

“So… yellow eyes. You think it’s another Prince of Hell?”

“It seems likely. I’d hoped that Ramiel was the last that we’d have to deal with.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Lucifer created four—Azazel, Ramiel, Asmodeus, and Dagon.”

"Where did I hear that name recently?" Dean wonders aloud, frowning, and Castiel tilts his head in question. "Dagon."

"I'm not sure. But considering that we know for a fact that Azazel and Ramiel are dead, and to my knowledge, Asmodeus prefers to take a male form, I think we can safely assume that she's the one we’re dealing with."

"Yeah," Dean nods, still frowning, then clicks his fingers. "Wait--that's where I heard the name. Ramiel. He said she'd taken an interest in Kelly."

"He did?"

"When we had him in the ring of fire. You were kinda..."

"Preoccupied with staying alive?" Castiel finishes for him, and Dean nods, expression tense as he remembers. "Well, assuming it is Dagon... honestly we're still in the same position as before. The princes are extremely powerful, so a tracking spell won’t work on her. We could potentially summon her, but we have no way to hold her for more than a few minutes, and she's known for being particularly violent, even among demons. I can't imagine that we'd get Kelly's location out of her quickly enough to make the risk worth taking.”

“So… we'll track 'em down the human way, then,” Dean says, and when Castiel nods, he laughs with bemused resignation. “I guess that means we’re going to the zoo.”

“It would appear so.”

“Well, we’re gonna need another angle for that,” Dean goes on as they both climb into the car. “Zoo security probably doesn’t even realize that anything happened, so telling them we need access to their tapes probably won’t work, even if we do make convincing agents. Too much risk it’ll draw attention.”

“Couldn’t we just… go there? As visitors? While I won’t claim to know how, I recall that there is a way to see security cameras with your computer if you’re using the same netscape.”

“Network, Cas. You see that in a movie, too?”

“Several,” Castiel says. Dean grins.

“Yeah, well possible or not, that’s like… WarGames level sh*t. Not exactly in my wheelhouse.”

“I’m certain that I’ve seen you access traffic cameras multiple times.”

Dean waves a dismissive hand.

“Traffic cameras are easy. They’re almost never password protected, so once you’ve done one, you can do ‘em all. Even CCTV cameras in public places are pretty simple, 'cause they're not usually tied to any kind of alert system. Private security, though? In a place full of lions and monkeys and boa constrictors? No way am I breaking into that without setting off some alarms.”

Dean clicks his teeth together, tapping the edge of his cell phone on the steering wheel.

“But,” he sighs after a moment. “You’re right. It’s our best option, and as much as I don’t wanna ask him, I bet Sam could walk me through it. Wish Frank coulda taught me a little more.”

At Castiel's questioning frown, Dean shakes his head.

"This conspiracy nut who helped us out a few years back. He's the one who first showed me how to access traffic cams. Whole reason Sam knows more about it now, actually--he got pissy because I knew more than him at the time. Went off and studied it out of spite."

"And I take it you can't call Frank?"

Dean's grim expression is answer enough. He shoots off a message to Sam—brief and impersonal, if the speed with which he types and sends it is any indication—and starts the engine.

“Anyway. Motel first—if we’re gonna be acting like civilians, we’re gonna need to change. These are the wrong kind of monkey suits for the zoo.”

“I don’t have any other kind of monkey suit.”

“Cute,” Dean says, and Castiel thinks he doesn’t sound nearly as sarcastic as he’s trying to seem. “We’ll figure something out.”

_______

‘Figuring something out’ proves more difficult than expected.

Dean’s initial plan had been to loan some of his own clothes to Castiel—an endeavor which he’d approached with a level of giddy excitement that Castiel has yet to fully unravel the reasons behind.

But while Dean is dressed down and ready to head out, Castiel is standing barefoot in the middle of their motel room with one of Dean’s green henleys on, wrestling with the fly of his borrowed jeans as he tries to force the zipper to the top.

“It’s no use,” he says at last, raising his hands in defeat. “They’re too small.”

“They look good to me.”

Dean can’t seem to stop staring at his thighs. Castiel files away his apparent fixation for future reference and looks at him flatly.

“Dean. I can barely move.”

“Mm,” Dean tilts his head to look at Castiel’s reflection in the mirror behind him. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth and clicks his tongue. “That’s a shame.”

“I’m serious.”

Dean seems to have to forcibly drag his gaze back up to Castiel’s face to answer. It takes a lot more effort than Castiel would like to keep from preening under the attention.

“So am I,” he says with a wink. Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Are you sure my usual clothes aren’t acceptable?”

“People don’t wear suits to the zoo, Cas. They sure as hell don’t wear creeper coats.”

“My coat makes me a creeper?”

Dean groans.

“No, it’s just— look, we’ll draw attention if we’re dressed like feds, that’s all. And seeing as we’re already going to stand out by being there and not looking at the animals, we should probably try to blend as much as we can.”

“I don’t understand how you expect me to ‘blend’ when I can barely bend my knees.”

Dean’s phone chimes with a message before he can reply. He holds up a finger as he digs it from his pocket.

“Is that Sam?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah. He says he can help, but he’ll need his laptop, and he’s not gonna get back to the bunker ’til about two,” Dean replies, thumbs moving rapidly as he types his response. He looks up when he’s done, and tosses his phone onto the bed. It bounces a few times before it settles.

“So,” he steps into Castiel’s space, his fingers skimming down over Castiel’s stomach and settling at his unfastened waistband, just barely dipping inside before hooking in and tugging him gently forward. “Looks like we have a few hours to kill.”

Castiel lifts his brow. His palm presses against Dean’s chest.

“I take it you have some ideas on how we can spend that time?”

“Oh, believe me. I have a lot of ideas,” Dean grins, ducking in to kiss him. “I’ve got ideas that are gonna knock your socks off.”

“I’m not wearing any socks.”

“It’s a saying, Cas.”

Castiel knows that, of course. But he’s not about to miss an opportunity to make Dean laugh, and acting oblivious to this kind of thing has been a sure-fire method for as long as they’ve known one another. Admittedly, he had been a little clueless when it came to idioms back when they first met, but once he’d figured them out, he found he didn’t want to lose this particular avenue for making Dean’s eyes light up. So;

“Ah,” he says with a knowing smile. “The socks are metaphorical.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, before finally huffing a laugh and kissing him again. His hand slips lower as he speaks.

“Yeah, Cas. I’m gonna knock your metaphors into next week.”

“Do any of your ideas—“ Castiel starts, breath catching when Dean drags the half-done fly all the way down, knuckles grazing against him in the process. His thoughts scatter. He grasps for the first one that occurs to him. “You were going to show me the shower.”

“What happened to you having no idea what I meant?” Dean teases, sliding his hands around Castiel’s hips and pushing the jeans down to bunch around his thighs. Castiel rocks forward a little, then back against Dean’s palms when they cup his ass through his underwear and squeeze.

“That ruse is no longer convenient.”

“You’re such an opportunist,” Dean whispers against his throat, biting along the underside of his jaw and working his way up to his mouth.

“I prefer strategist.”

Dean huffs.

“I bet you do,” he says, pushing at the back of Castiel's underwear until the jeans hinder his progress. He shoves at the denim a little more firmly. They barely budge. Dean looks down, momentarily distracted. “Jesus, these really are too tight on you.”

“I told you.”

“No one likes a smart-ass, Cas.”

Dean shoves at him lightly, pushing Castiel back toward the bathroom. Castiel hits the sink and leans against it, staring at Dean as he drops to his knees in front of him to pull the jeans the rest of the way off. Castiel raises his brow, lifting one foot and then the other to help him in his task.

“Present events suggest otherwise,” he just barely manages to say as Dean runs his palms back up his shins and over his thighs. His hips twitch forward of their own volition. “You seem to like me quite a lot.”

“Liking you less with every word, sweetheart.”

Castiel doesn’t believe him for a second. On instinct, he hooks his foot around the back of Dean’s thigh to urge him closer.

“If only there were a way to make me stop talking.”

“If only,” Dean smirks, bright-eyed as he shuffles forward, shifting his hands higher until his fingers slip beneath the edge of Castiel’s underwear. He plucks at the fabric, pulling it taut and then letting it loose, over and over, until Castiel is hard and aching. The sensation is at once too much and nowhere near enough. It’s maddening. Castiel’s mouth falls open and his eyes sink closed, and when Dean finally pulls his co*ck out and strokes, he thinks he might have to be this obnoxious more often.

Forcing his eyes back open, he watches as Dean works his fist slow. Watches as Dean leans closer, breathes him in, presses his mouth against the base of his erection and sucks him there as he grasps his thigh and lifts it to hook over his shoulder.

From here, he can see Dean’s free hand making a tense fist on the tile beside him. Can feel Dean’s arousal rolling off him in waves.

“Come up here,” he says, reaching for him. “Let me touch you.”

“Tonight,” Dean murmurs.

“Tonight?”

“Yeah,” he says, and licks a stripe up the underside of Castiel’s co*ck. Lets the tip rest against his lower lip as he speaks, still working his hand over the shaft. “Feels good to wait for it, sometimes.”

It’s difficult to focus on what Dean’s saying as he strokes and squeezes, but when Castiel understands his meaning, he settles his hands into Dean’s hair and pushes the short strands back. Makes him tilt his face up a little so that he can see his eyes, a thin band of green surrounding his wide-blown pupils.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“That okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel tells him. He’s surprised how okay it is. How much he likes the thought of Dean taking pleasure in the anticipation of his touch. In Dean’s hand, against his lip, Castiel’s co*ck twitches. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You like that?” Dean asks, a little breathless, and licks over the head again. “The thought of me waiting?”

“I don’t think like covers it,” he admits, fingers tugging lightly at Dean’s hair. “Do you— should I wait as well?”

“No,” Dean says quickly.

“You do realize that the shower is several feet to my left,” he adds.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Dean says, and takes him fully into his mouth, pinning his hips to the sink with his forearm.

Castiel shuts up.

________

It’s half past one in the afternoon by the time they get to the zoo, Castiel freshly outfitted in a navy sweater and a pair of jeans that allow a full range of movement. He’s still not convinced that the clothing change was truly necessary—within minutes of walking through the park gates, they passed a man in a trench coat almost identical to Castiel’s—but given the appreciative looks that Dean has been giving him ever since he stepped out of the department store fitting room, he’s decided that he no longer cares.

While they wait for Sam to call, they set themselves up at a picnic table near the center of the zoo, close enough to the lions that the occasional roar reaches them where they sit.

Dean keeps glancing toward the sound.

“Did you want to go see them?” Castiel asks the third time it happens. Dean looks at him, oddly embarrassed.

“Nah, it’s fine.”

Castiel squints at him. He doesn’t even need to say anything before Dean huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Okay, yeah. I want to see the lions. Sue me. I’ve never seen one outside of a TV screen, and it’s not like I ever got a chance to go to a zoo before.”

“Not even as a child?”

“You really think my dad took us on field trips? The man barely tolerated us watching cartoons.”

Dean says it like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke. Castiel thinks, not for the first time, that if he were ever to meet John Winchester, he’d rather like to punch him in the throat. For now, he’ll settle for righting this specific wrong.

“Let’s go see the lions.”

“Sam’s gonna call soon,” Dean points out with a shrug. “And I don’t wanna lose our table.”

Thanks to the poor weather earlier in the day, it’s not nearly as crowded as it could be, but there are still plenty of people wandering the grounds. Families with young children and a few groups of teens sit at the other tables, and several other groups have made space for themselves on a nearby stretch of grass, enjoying the sun that has finally decided to make an appearance.

A few people mill around nearby, obviously waiting to snatch up the first available seats. Dean shakes his head slightly when one couple makes pointed eye contact with him.

“These people are like freakin’ vultures,” he mutters under his breath.

“We should make an effort to see them on our way out, then,” Castiel says, then—knowing Dean will be more likely to agree if he doesn’t think he’s getting some kind of special treatment—adds; “I’d also like to see the lemurs, if we have time. They’re very resourceful creatures.”

The smile Dean gives him is soft and sweet.

“And I guess they like you as much as the rabbits?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “I’ve never had occasion to visit Madagascar.”

Chuckling, Dean adjusts his laptop screen, angling it to avoid prying eyes and sun glare, and shows Castiel how to gain remote access to traffic camera footage while they wait. "Any idiot with a computer could do it," he insists when Castiel compliments his skill, and turns a lovely shade of pink when Castiel goes on to praise his teaching. When Sam finally calls a couple of minutes later, his good humor dissipates like steam. He immediately sets to work, typing rapidly.

He doesn’t speak much during the call. Just makes the occasional sound of understanding as Sam instructs him.

Even if Castiel couldn’t hear Sam’s side of the conversation, he’d be able to tell how tense it is. There’s none of the brothers usual ribbing, nothing friendly, nothing familiar. Just the dry exchange of make sure you unchecked ‘default gateway’ and it should only take a sec to authenticate and you’re looking for the one called ‘console’.

“Okay, it says it’s scanning,” Dean says after several minutes of back-and-forth, and Castiel hears Sam’s muffled voice respond.

“It might take a few minutes. Depends on how complex their password is.”

They both fall silent as they wait for the computer to do whatever it is that it’s doing, and Castiel finds himself people-watching to pass the time. The picnicking families on the nearby patch of grass; the shrieking children running circles around them in some seemingly lawless game of chase; the teenagers lazing under a nearby tree and awkwardly flirting with one another.

Something about the sight of them all sends Castiel back to an afternoon several years ago, sitting with Dean on a pair of park benches in a small midwestern town. They’d barely known one another back then. Dean had made him laugh.

He smiles now, remembering the moment.

“Thinkin’ about sunflowers again?” Dean asks quietly, covering his cellphone as he speaks. Castiel laughs and lifts one shoulder.

“In a sense.”

Grinning and pink-cheeked, Dean returns the phone to his ear.

Not long after that, the computer completes its task, and Dean ends the call with Sam, promising to let him know what they find. It’s an efficient, impersonal exchange. Castiel hurts to hear it, but he doesn’t dwell.

“Now for the slow part,” Dean mutters.

“That wasn’t the slow part?”

Shaking his head, Dean sets about digging through the zoo security system’s saved files for the videos he needs to copy. The fingernails of his free hand drum an uneven beat across the tabletop.

“Every camera has its own folder, and none of them have useful names. I won’t know which one I need to open until I’ve already opened it. And even then, there are probably a whole lotta cameras in the hospital area.”

By the time he locates and saves copies of all the folders they need—eight containing footage from inside the animal hospital, and half a dozen more from the zoo’s parking lots—it’s twenty minutes to closing time, and the zoo has started to clear out.

“I vote we sort through this sh*t over dinner,” Dean says as he stands, twisting in place with a low grunt as his back pops and cracks. "Maybe that place we passed this morning? Carmine's? Looked pretty busy, so it's probably decent food."

Castiel can’t help but frown, even as he nods at Dean's suggestion. His fingers twitch on the tabletop with the urge to reach out and heal him.

It’s absurd how adamant Dean is about Castiel not using his grace to help with his discomfort. He wonders if he’d allow Castiel to help him if he used his hands. If he'd lean back into Castiel's touch, allow him to press the aches from his muscles. The thought is enticing in a way he could not have anticipated, and he resolves to find a way to make it happen as soon as possible.

Dean catches Castiel looking at him and points an accusing finger.

“No,” he says.

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Sure you weren’t. I’d recognize your about-to-use-healing-mojo face anywhere.”

Picking up the laptop bag, Dean’s about to sling it over his shoulder when Castiel pulls it free of his grip and hooks it over his own. Dean’s hand makes an abortive motion as if to take it back. Castiel just catches it and starts walking toward the path marked with a sign for Lemur Island and the great cats enclosure, dragging a sputtering Dean behind him.

The lions are all dozing when they get there, sprawled on their backs and sides like oversized house cats.

Dean stands with his nose half an inch from the glass to watch them, letting out a startled but amused gasp when a lanky cub tumbles off of the log she’d been napping on and immediately starts swatting at the sleep-twitching tail of her sister.

They’ve been there for less than a minute when the sound of several pairs of tiny sneakers echoes behind them, and four young children race up to slam against the side of the enclosure, all scrambling for the best view as their parents shout for them to slow down but make no real effort to control them.

It’s a tight squeeze—all the lions are up toward one side of the enclosure, and they’re only really visible from that corner. Dean steps aside, making space for a little girl to hop up onto the ledge where he’d been standing.

“Keep an eye on that one,” he tells her in a loud whisper, pointing out the boisterous cub. “I'm pretty sure she's in charge.”

“She is NOT,” one of the other kids shouts, smearing the remnants of something chocolatey on the window and staring up at Dean like he’s the most idiotic person he’s ever encountered in his ripe old age of five. “The boy lion with the mane is the KING.”

“Well, I stand corrected,” Dean says with a laugh, turning to head for the exit.

“You don’t want to stay a little longer?” Castiel asks. Dean shakes his head and pulls him along by the forearm.

“Nah. Let’s go visit those lemurs before they kick us out.”

To Castiel’s disappointment, the lemur enclosure has a sign in front announcing that it has been temporarily closed. Dean seems more disappointed than Castiel.

“We’ll have to come back some other time,” he says, slipping his arm around Castiel’s waist as he stands at the edge of the railing. “Next time we’re over this way for a hunt, maybe?”

By Dean’s own admission, he’s been wanting to visit a zoo to see some lions since he was a child, and yet in all his years driving from one side of the country to the other, he’s never set aside a single afternoon to do so. But here he is, offering to come back here so that Castiel can see some primates, just for the sake of it.

At some point, Castiel knows he’s going to have to make Dean think about why it is that he’s decided other people deserve happiness more than he does. Why he’ll casually offer to Castiel—or Sam, or Mary, or literally anyone who crosses his path—what he’d never accept for himself.

He’ll make Dean think about the absurdity of it, and he’ll make him realize that not only can he ask the people who care for him for the things he wants, he should take those things when offered without guilt.

For now, though, he just says, “I’d like that,” and nudges Dean toward the exit.

As much as he’d love to stay here, enjoying the easy affection Dean seems so eager to show him, he knows that they need to finish the job they set out to do first. He doesn’t want to think about how many hours worth of security footage they’re going to need to look through tonight. He only hopes it’s a fast enough process that Dean will be able to catch up on the sleep he so sorely needs.

Dean’s phone rings as they move away from the enclosure, and he stops walking to answer it with a wary, “Garth?” and then an even more wary, “Why do I hear circus music?”

While Dean listens to Garth’s issue with an ever-increasing look of bewilderment—something to do with a suspected cursed object at a travelling carnival he and Bess had taken their daughter Gertie to—Castiel steps away to inspect the life-size figure of a triceratops that stands to one side of the path. It’s a fairly accurate representation of the creature’s size and shape, if not its color or texture. As he waits by the fence, he reads the little sign that stands to the side and recalls how Claire's mind had been filled with facts about a cartoon dinosaur named Cera when he'd briefly and regrettably taken her as a vessel many years earlier. As always, his thoughts of Claire carry a certain amount of guilt, and now that he's thinking of her, he finds that he's a little afraid of how she'll react to his and Dean's new relationship.

He's not her father, and though he shares Jimmy's features, he is comprised of wholly different cells. But still... he suspects that it will still stir up some complications between himself and Claire. It's upsetting to consider, given how much they've both grown to enjoy one another's company--if mostly through text messages--since they reconnected. He feels as though he should try and make sure that they're on the best possible terms before he even begins to approach the topic.

He takes a photo of the sculpture and after a moment of deliberation, sends it to Claire with the caption; The sign says his name is Uncle Beazley. 😊

Claire responds almost instantly and without punctuation.

Claire: why did you send me this

Castiel: Triceratops are your favorite dinosaur. 🦕🦖🥰

Claire: yeah when i was like ten

Castiel: I see. Do you like a different kind of dinosaur now?

Her next response doesn't come quite so fast, and while he's waiting, Castiel flicks over to the search engine on his phone and types in How to give my partner a satisfying massage. He makes it most of the way through a helpful step-by-step guide before Claire writes back.

Claire: no they’re fine

Claire:

where are you anyway?

Castiel takes a photo of himself smiling and giving the camera a thumbs up, and sends it back.

Castiel: We’re at the Smithsonian Zoo 🦁🐒🐘 in Washington DC.

Claire: wtf why are you at the zoo?

Claire: and what’s with the casual friday outfit??

Claire: and who’s we?

Castiel: Just Dean. We’re on a hunt. 🗡 I changed my clothes because we are trying to “blend in”.

Claire: a hunt at the zoo?? wild. what are you hunting?

Castiel: Technically, a demon. 👹

Castiel: She's not AT the zoo, but we believe that she's somewhere nearby holding a woman captive.

Claire: sh*t sorry. Friend of the Winchesters?

Castiel: No, we don't know her, but she is pregnant 🤰with Lucifer’s child, so it is imperative that we find her as soon as possible. 😖

Claire: LUCIFER’S WHAT

Claire: what the f*ck cas

Claire:you had time to send me pictures of some stupid dinosaur but couldn’t pick up the phone to tell me that literal satan spawn is on the loose??

Castiel:The nephilim isn’t exactly on the loose. It hasn’t been born yet.

Castiel:You don't need to worry. We’re going to handle it before it becomes a problem.

Claire: not the point. is this bad?

Claire: i mean obviously it’s bad but is it BAD bad?

Claire:

like, apocalypse bad?

Castiel winces. He doesn’t want to lie to her, but he doesn’t want to make her worry when it wouldn’t do any good. Looking up at Dean, who’s in the middle of giving Garth directions to a storage locker with a curse box he deems “probably big enough to hold an accordion”, he takes a moment to find the best approach.

Castiel: Not at present, though it could become a catastrophic situation if we don’t locate Kelly soon enough. We are ‘hot on her trail’ though, as they say 👍 So please do not worry.

Claire: right, why would i worry

Claire: it's just the antichrist nbd

Castiel:It's not the antichrist, that's something quite different.

Castiel:The best thing you can do at present is let us know if you hear anything that seems as though it could be related.

Claire: yeah ok i’ll keep my eyes peeled for the f*cking devil

Castiel: To clarify, it’s not Lucifer we’re looking for. Just his child. 👶 We already know where Lucifer is.

Claire: 🙄 ok cas

Claire: hey, do me a favor?

Castiel:Of course.

Claire: get a picture of dean with the dinosaur and send it to me

Castiel:Why?

Claire:

you already said you’d do it, no take backs

Castiel squints, suspicious.

“Garth ends up on the weirdest friggin’ cases, man.”

Looking up, he sees Dean approaching, shaking his head at his phone before he slips it back into his pocket.

“Is he alright?”

“He will be,” Dean says, and nods toward the dinosaur, an amused look crossing his face. “Old friend of yours?”

Castiel narrows his eyes but doesn’t dignify the comment with a response. Dean grins. Suddenly Castiel has a clearer idea of what Claire must want the picture for.

“You ready to go?”

“Almost.” He gestures for Dean to stand by the statue. “I want to get a photo of you first.”

Dean lifts an amused brow.

“What, are you gonna start scrapbooking or something?” he asks, but leans against the railing all the same, his hips co*cked forward with one thumb resting suggestively on the waistband of his jeans. There’s a heated look in his eyes, and Castiel can tell he’s trying to look as enticing as possible—as if he truly needs to make an effort. The picture he makes is not remotely appropriate to send to Claire.

Castiel snaps a photo anyway before he answers.

“Claire asked for a picture of you with the dinosaur.”

Dean straightens up immediately, expression mortified.

“What the hell Cas?”

Castiel takes several more photos of him looking flustered and disgruntled, and sends them to Claire before sliding his phone back into his pocket.

“Don’t worry,” he says, turning to head down the path. “I kept the best one to myself.”

They’re not even back to the car yet when both of their phones buzz, and they look to find that Claire has sent a picture message to both of them, along with Sam, Jody, Donna, and Alex.

One of the less flattering pictures of Dean has been edited into a newspaper cover page, with a headline that reads: HEARTWARMING: ELDERLY CITIZEN SOCIALIZES WITH OTHER FOSSILS

“Does she think the sculpture has a skeleton inside of it?” Castiel asks with humor, and Dean huffs.

“No, she just thinks she’s funny.”

“Is it not essentially the same joke you made at my expense?”

Dean glares at him.

“No,” he lies, and frowns harder when several amused responses come through in rapid succession.

Castiel’s phone buzzes again a moment later.

Claire:

Is he sulking?

Dean looks over his shoulder to read it.

Claire:

lol what a dweeb

“I’m putting you both on notice,” Dean says, but his hand still settles comfortably on Castiel’s lower back as they make their way across the parking lot, so Castiel isn’t particularly concerned.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

The steady thrum of rain grows louder with every mile, pelting down hard enough that the road is barely visible as Dean steers them through slow-moving afternoon traffic. Castiel gazes out the windscreen. The haze turns Washington into a watercolor.

Despite their stop-start journey--something that would usually have Dean clicking his teeth in irritation--the atmosphere inside the Impala is comfortable and warm. Dean turns up the radio and sings along with every song. He's still noticeably self-conscious about it, and quieter than he might be if he were singing without any audience at all, but the way his mouth ticks to one side whenever he catches Castiel paying attention makes it clear that he's determined not to let his insecurity stop him from enjoying himself.

For the entire drive, Castiel just soaks in the feeling of being with him. Of seeing him like this. Of being trusted with his softer side.

Dean's good spirits carry them for the entire hour it takes to get them across town and into the last available space at Carmine's Diner, but just as he shuts off the engine, his phone buzzes with a message. His shoulders visibly tighten when he glances at the preview. Castiel doesn't need to ask who the message is from.

"No news," Dean says once he's read it. "He's just asking if we had any trouble getting the footage."

They sit there a moment as Dean taps out his response. All signs of his previously good mood have evaporated. If Castiel hadn't been witness to the transformation, he'd have trouble believing that this was the same man who'd just spent the better part of an hour singing.

The rain is still heavy, but it isn't quite loud enough to swallow the sound of Dean's sigh when he finally hits send and locks his phone, and, determined to restore at least some measure of his high spirits, Castiel leans across the space between them, pressing his lips to Dean's cheek and catching hold of his knee to keep him from leaving the car too quickly. Dean turns to meet him in a brief kiss. He cups Castiel's face with his palm, tracing a thumb under his eye.

"You okay?" Dean asks as he pulls away, a crease in his brow.

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

Dean's expression clears.

"Yeah, I'm good," he says, then shakes his head with a huff. "I mean, I'm not. Obviously. But this is good. Kinda makes all the bullsh*t easier to handle, y'know?"

"I do know," Castiel admits. His fingers dance over Dean's jaw as he says it, skimming down his neck, and Dean shivers as Castiel touches the fading mark he'd left there this morning. He presses the pad of his thumb lightly against the pink skin, absently wondering if he could make it a little darker. If Dean would let him.

"Cas."

Dean's throat vibrates under Castiel's thumb.

"Hmm?"

"We should go inside."

"It's still raining," he points out, nudging in close to kiss Dean's neck. "You'll get wet."

"Yeah, but--" Dean makes a weak sound as Castiel's lips press to his skin, and tilts away. He gives Castiel a look that he thinks is supposed to seem long-suffering, but only reads as fond. "Quit tempting me, man. We've got sh*t to do."

"I suppose I can wait."

"Sorry, which one of us actually got to finish this morning?"

"I was more than willing to help you reach climax. Waiting was your idea."

"Yeah, well, maybe sometimes my ideas suck," Dean says, and Castiel is glad that he's finally reached a high enough level of understanding innuendo that he knows to raise an amused eyebrow at the unintentionally apropos phrasing. Dean very deliberately ignores it. "C'mon, the sooner we get moving on this, the sooner we'll be done."

"And then you'll let me 'tempt' you?" Castiel asks, trailing his fingers over Dean's, and Dean laughs, reaching for the door.

"Buddy, I'll be offended if you don't."

***

Despite the relatively early hour, it's crowded and noisy when they make their way into the diner a few moments later. The interior layout looks familiar, and Castiel shakes his head in disbelief when he realizes that it's because Carmine's used to be a Biggerson's. Though the decor has changed, and the previously mustard-yellow walls have been repainted in a pale shade of teal, the view through the windows is enough to instantly take him back to that awful few months when he'd been on the run with the angel tablet.

From there, it's not a shock when he finds himself thinking of the night that set him on that path. When, under Naomi's control, he'd come so close to killing Dean that he'd felt as though he was dying himself. I need you, Dean had said then, and there had been such depth to the words that they had snapped Castiel back into himself. It's a horrific memory. One that still haunts him. Now, Castiel can't help but wonder if that moment had been another of their so-called almosts.

He finds he hopes it was. Perhaps it would make it a little less painful to remember; if he could think back on one of the worst moments of his very long life through an altered lens. If he could see it even more clearly as further evidence of the love they share. He supposes that's precisely what it was, in the end, whether it was an almost or not.

Dean lets out a low sound of annoyance beside him before he can think about it too deeply.

"Don't see any free tables," he says when Castiel looks at him in question.

The mundanity of the problem is a welcome reminder that at this precise moment, despite the difficult situation with Sam, and the as-yet-fruitless search for Kelly Kline, and the multitude of related crises they're sure to face in the coming weeks, things aren't nearly as dire as they could be.

"Should we just take something back to the motel?" he suggests.

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm gonna want to climb you like a tree the second I get you alone, and we need to get this done first." Dean shrugs, then looks back at Castiel, his lips pressing into a pout that barely masks the smile underneath it. “Quit looking so smug. I’ve been on edge all freakin' day.”

Castiel wasn’t aware that he looked smug, but he’s incapable of wiping the expression from his face all the same.

"What, precisely, would 'climbing me like a tree' entail?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"Use your imagination."

"Hm," Castiel hums, and does as Dean suggested. His hands flex at his sides as he pictures Dean clinging to him, his bare legs wrapped around Castiel's hips, or perhaps even hooked over his shoulders. Castiel certainly wouldn't have any trouble holding him up, but maybe he'd push his back against a wall just to keep him steady while Castiel pressed his mouth to Dean's stomach, teased lower with his tongue. The image is vivid and unexpectedly exhilarating. Castiel can't help but draw his lip between his teeth as he thinks about it.

Apparently that's not helpful.

"Oh god," Dean croaks, rubbing a palm across his face. "You're actually picturing it, aren't you?"

"...yes."

"You're killin' me, here, man."

“I’d like to remind you--again--that you're the one who wanted to wait."

“Dick.”

“What about it?”

With a surprised laugh, Dean shakes his head, and he’s halfway through calling Castiel an asshole when he cuts himself off and levels him with an incredibly unconvincing glare, shoving lightly at the side of Castiel's face to force his eyes away. “No. Not another word.”

“I wasn't going to say anything,” Castiel lies, then looks around the restaurant again until he finally spots a trio of friends preparing to leave by the back wall, just as a waiter approaches to greet them with a set of almost comically large laminated menus tucked under one arm.

Within a few minutes, they’re settled into the same side of a freshly cleaned booth, their legs pressed together as Dean sets the laptop on the table between them. It’s not a new development, sitting like this—over the years, they’ve both found countless excuses to disregard the requirement for personal space that Dean once claimed—but it still feels novel to do it openly and without pretense.

Castiel rests his palm on Dean’s leg beneath the table and can't tell what he likes more; how warm the muscle of Dean's thigh feels beneath his hand, or the way that Dean's breathing audibly changes when he occasionally shifts his thumb over the denim that covers it.

Over the next hour and a half they work their way through the tedious footage, and Dean works his way through a bowl of ravioli and a slice of peach cobbler. They’re watching one of the interior room feeds when Dean swears under his breath. He pushes his empty plate to the side to drag the laptop closer.

“What is it?”

“Here, watch the timestamp,” Dean says, pointing at the upper left corner of the screen as he scrubs back and forth for a few seconds. The numbers jump, skipping over almost four hours. Everything between 12:21 and 4:17 this morning is gone. “Looks like someone wiped a bunch of footage.”

“So they were in this room."

“Probably,” Dean sighs and clicks out of the video, shifting down to the next one. “Still gotta check the rest, though. Maybe they missed something on one of the other feeds, and we'll see 'em arriving?”

By the time they’ve looked through the rest of the files, it's 10pm, and they’ve been taking up space in the busy diner for long enough that their waiter’s once-friendly smile is beginning to look more than a little forced. Dean is fidgeting and yawning and rolling his shoulders in increasing discomfort, and they’re no closer to having any idea what the body Dagon is possessing looks like, beyond her short stature and long, dark hair.

Whoever tampered with the footage was thorough, and Dean theorizes that Dagon and her friends are aware of the publicity of Kelly's disappearance, given her status as a presidential aide. Most likely, they're trying to avoid being noticed by the Secret Service in addition to hiding from hunters and angels and other supernatural forces. Castiel is inclined to agree.

Though there are several other videos with missing time, they never catch a glimpse of anyone in the building, aside from two security guards, both of whom appear to be knocked out for the duration of Dagon's visit.

“This is useless,” Dean groans, shutting the laptop.

“At least we’ve narrowed down the time frame.”

Dean huffs, unconvinced, and Castiel continues.

“Perhaps we could take a look at nearby traffic cameras? It's likely they didn't think to tamper with those, and if we limit the search to just before and after the time we know they were there…”

He shrugs, trailing off, unsure whether that will make much difference, but Dean nods as he yawns.

“Maybe one of them picked up a decent angle of Dagon's face. Worth a shot.”

He moves to open the laptop again. Castiel places his own hand on top of it, holding it closed.

“We’ve been doing this for four hours, Dean.”

“Yeah, and we’re not done.”

“Can I get you fellas anything else?” their waiter pipes up—not the first time he’s come by to ask the question—and Castiel replies before Dean has a chance.

“Just the check, thank you.”

The waiter pulls it from his apron pocket and drops it onto their table. Evidently, he's been waiting for them to ask.

“Cas, we’ve gotta—“

Dean stops talking when Castiel slips his hand into the front of Dean's jacket, pulling out his wallet and thumbing through for some cash.

“You mind?” Dean asks him, though there's no heat to the words.

“No," Castiel replies. He slips the cash under the check, and hands it over to the waiter, making sure to include a large enough tip to make up for all the time they've spent here. Though his only job when he'd been human had been at the Gas N Sip, he hasn't forgotten the way one of his coworkers had lamented the poor tipping habits of some patrons at the pizzeria she occasionally worked on weekends.

Castiel gives the waiter a placid smile as he walks away, then turns to look back at Dean, slipping his wallet back into the pocket it came from. He pats Dean's chest once he's done, just because he can.

"How long do you think it will take for us to look through all of the traffic camera footage?”

“I dunno,” Dean frowns. “Another two hours maybe?”

It's clear he's deliberately underestimating, and Castiel looks at him dubiously. Dean throws his hands up in defeat.

“Okay, fine. Maybe more than that. Just depends how lucky we are."

“And if we do somehow find a lead in the next few hours, are you intending on chasing it down tonight, without any sleep?”

"That's not the--"

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then there's no reason to stay here any longer. You need rest."

Groaning, Dean leans his head back against the seat and narrows his eyes.

“Man, were you always this bossy?”

The answer is, unequivocally, yes, but Castiel doesn't see the point in saying it aloud. Instead he just pushes at Dean's shoulder, and follows him out of the booth when he stands. Try as Dean might to look annoyed about it, he still drapes his arm around Castiel as they head out into the misty rain. He doesn't even argue when Castiel takes the keys.

_______

By the time they reach their motel room just under twenty minutes later, Dean is practically sleepwalking. Graceless and loose-limbed, he crashes face-first onto their bed before Castiel has even finished sliding the chain lock across the door.

"Dean?"

"Mmph. Yeah?"

"You're still dressed."

One eye still closed, Dean pushes up onto his elbows and squints at Castiel over his shoulder.

"So are you," Dean says, and Castiel glances down at his own clothes, running a hand over his new blue sweater. He's still not quite used to the way it sits against his body, but he thinks he likes it. How it looks. The way the fine, soft fabric feels against the pads of his fingers. He certainly likes the way Dean responds to seeing him in it--though it does amuse him that part of Dean's reaction to liking these clothes is, apparently, a strong desire for him to take them off.

"I am," he agrees. "But I don't need to sleep."

"Who said anything about sleep?"

Dean wriggles his eyebrows. Winks. The full effect of whatever seduction he's attempting is lost somewhat thanks to the fact that his other eye is still squinted half-shut, but Castiel finds himself weak at the sight anyway. If Dean wasn't so obviously tired, Castiel is sure that he wouldn't have the strength to resist crawling over him on the bed. Holding him where he lies and making short work of bringing him the release he'd denied himself this morning.

As it is, he finds he mostly wants to make sure that Dean is comfortable enough. Warm enough. He wonders if there's an extra blanket in the small closet by the bathroom door, and walks over to check as he speaks.

"Dean, you're clearly exhausted."

Pushing up into a kneel, Dean walks on his knees across the mattress, stopping at the edge and beckoning Castiel forward. Castiel leaves the blanket where he found it -- an incredibly soft and downy material that he absolutely intends to drape over Dean later -- and makes his way back across the room. Dean's presence warms Castiel's chest even before they touch.

"So? I'm always exhausted."

"That's not the convincing argument you seem to think it is," Castiel tells him. Still, he lets his hands settle on Dean's shoulders. Allows himself to be tugged closer by Dean's hands on his hips.

"That's okay, I have others," he says. Castiel doesn't doubt it. "Was gonna climb you like a tree, remember? Don't you wanna see how close your imagination was to reality?"

Briefly, Castiel closes his eyes and steels his resolve.

"As nice as that sounds, you're in no condition to be climbing anything right now. I actually thought I’d start looking through the traffic camera footage while you get some rest," Castiel nods toward the laptop bag he'd dropped on the table on their way in.

"You want to do the tech sh*t?"

"Well, 'want' is a strong word," Castiel allows. "But loathe as I am to admit it, I do need practice using the computer, and I'd like to try this seeing as you just showed me how. Besides -- I know you don't want to do it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s boring as f*ck.”

Castiel rubs his thumbs back and forth over Dean's collarbone.

“Well, I don’t mind. Truly."

"Ugh, fine. How about a compromise?”

“What kind of compromise?”

“The kind where I won’t complain about you leaving me to sleep alone,” Dean says, hands loose and lazy as they shift around Castiel's back. Slide down to squeeze at Castiel's ass through his jeans. He's not remotely subtle in the way he urges Castiel's body to rock against his. “If we can fool around in the shower first.”

Castiel raises his brow. He understands the slang, but his desire to hear Dean tell him what he wants plainly is hard to deny.

"Fool around?" he asks.

"Mm," Dean hums, pressing his face into Castiel's chest. His voice is velvet soft. Honey sweet. "Wanna get my mouth on you again. Your hands on me. Been thinkin' about it all day."

The words sweep through Castiel’s body, spurred on by the way Dean’s hands creep under his sweater and t-shirt, pushing both up to bare his lower back to the cool air of the room, but he can’t ignore the fact that Dean is barely able to keep his eyes open.

“You’re falling asleep as we speak.”

“Better get the water warm quick, then.”

“I'd prefer you to be fully conscious when you put your mouth on me. Your attention is half the appeal,” he says, and smiles when Dean groans against his sternum. “Can I propose a counter-compromise?”

“Mm, maybe. What is it?”

“Let me help you go to sleep, and look through the footage while you rest, and we can do anything you’d like in the morning.”

“Anything, huh? You sure? That’s a helluva blank check to sign.”

“I'm fairly confident it won't be a problem.”

“Oh yeah?"

"Dean, if there's a sexual act that I wouldn't happily engage in with you, I'm yet to hear about it."

"What if I want you to like… wear a Zorro mask and slap me around a little?”

Dean leans back a bit and grins, his tongue peeking out from behind sharp incisors. Had Castiel not already had every intention of caving to whatever he asked for, seeing this expression on his face would have done it.

“Then I suppose I’ll be paying a visit to the nearest costume store.”

“Okay,” Dean laughs, and leans up in a silent request for a kiss that Castiel is more than happy to deliver. “No need for the mask, but good to know you're down to clown."

"I'm absolutely not interested in anything involving clowns," Cas says, pulling a face. "Perhaps the blank check needs a single emphatic caveat, after all."

Dean snorts.

"Noted. And same, to be clear. I do have one other condition, though."

"Dean--"

"Don't worry, I think you'll like it."

"What is it?"

Despite all his earlier bravado, Dean hesitates, suddenly seeming almost shy. Castiel can't fathom why until he finally exhales and asks for what he wants.

"Lie down with me for a bit first? Just... just until I fall asleep."

It's strange how deeply the request strikes him; how this, a simple admission of desire for his company, his closeness, is somehow more difficult for Dean to put into words than anything else. Castiel doesn't draw attention to it. Just lets the sweet ache of being wanted spread from his chest out to his fingertips as he cards them through Dean's hair. Smiles.

"Your terms are agreeable. We have a deal."

"Pleasure doing business," Dean says through another yawn, and leans in to briefly press his lips to the center of Castiel's chest before he finally shuffles to his feet. "Nature calls."

Within a few minutes he's disappeared into the bathroom, and then re-emerged wearing only a pair of soft maroon boxers printed with pictures of a cartoon dog. His lips are cool with mint when he drags Castiel down onto the bed beside him. One handed, he flicks off the lamp and crowds in close.

Raising his hand, Castiel cups Dean’s jaw, rubbing his thumb over the stubble there. It’s a little scratchy. He loves the way that the fine hairs catch against the loops and whorls of his fingertips. Loves how it feels just to touch Dean like this; to love him so openly. His thoughts flick back to the drive this afternoon. Dean singing. Dean open and happy and letting himself be vulnerable despite a life that's taught him to avoid vulnerability at all costs. Again, Castiel's gratitude is overwhelming, and he can't hold it inside any longer. It spills from him. Rain overflowing from a reservoir.

“Thank you,” Castiel tells him quietly, trailing the tips of his fingers down over Dean's chin and neck before returning his palm to rest against his cheek, thumb gentle on the freckled skin beneath his eye. When Dean replies, Castiel feels the words against his hand.

“For what?”

“I’m just grateful to know you. To be with you. That you exist at all, let alone wish to spend any of that existence with me."

Dean turns his face into Castiel’s palm, pressing his lips to the heel. Despite the dark, Castiel doesn't need his angelic vision to know he's blushing.

“Sweet talker,” Dean murmurs, then self-consciously adds; “Same here, y'know. I, um. I feel the same.”

It's overwhelming how strongly Dean's reply affects him, from his human body to his true form; his grace to his nascent soul. Every part of him feels. Sings, buzzes, hums at the knowledge that his own awe at being with Dean like this is wholly reciprocated.

For a few minutes they lie there in the quiet, and Castiel listens to Dean breathe, hypnotized by the steady pulse of his heart. Outside, the evening traffic has eased off to almost nothing, and only the occasional hush of tires kicking up a puddle reaches their room. Dean seems so comfortable that Castiel thinks he might fall asleep without him even doing anything to help. Still—he’s been looking forward to working the tension from Dean’s shoulders with his hands since the idea first occurred to him, and he doesn’t think he’s the only one who’ll appreciate it.

Slowly, he trails his hand down Dean’s shoulder, to his waist, and rubs lightly at the bare skin above his waistband as he leans closer to draw him into a kiss. When he shifts back, Dean tries to chase after him. Castiel just pulls lightly at his hip as he pushes himself to his knees.

“Lay on your stomach.”

Dean raises his eyebrows in the dark.

“I figured you were just gonna—“ he raises a hand and taps two fingers against his own forehead. "Y'know. Boop me unconscious."

“And you were going to let me?”

Sheepish, Dean shrugs.

“I mean, every time I stop you from using your mojo you look at me like a kid who just found out I burned down Disneyland. So. I was gonna make an exception.”

“Well… 'booping' you was not what I was planning. But I’m glad to hear you wouldn’t mind if I were to incorporate a little grace into what I am intending to do to you.”

Dean suddenly looks a lot more awake, and he stares at Castiel for a long few seconds, face turning such a lovely shade of pink that Castiel wouldn't even need his angelic eyesight to see it despite the dim light. His mouth works silently as he apparently searches for words. When he finds them, they're not remotely what Castiel was expecting.

“Cas, buddy, there’s no nice way to put this, but if you think I’m too tired for shower sex, what exactly makes you think that, like… grace-f*cking me is gonna—"

Castiel expels a slightly hysterical burst of laughter.

“I wasn't planning on doing that right now, either.”

“Right now,” Dean repeats somewhat pointedly. “So what I’m hearing is that it’s on the some-other-time agenda?”

“Admittedly I hadn’t considered ‘grace-f*cking’ to be a possibility at all until this very moment,” Castiel says, lifting his hands to form quotation marks that Dean drags back down to the sheets between them with an exasperated laugh. “But I won't deny that I'm intrigued by the concept. To be honest, I was under the impression that you didn't like the feeling of my grace at all."

"You kidding? It feels... man, it feels f*ckin' incredible. All tingly and warm and... I don't know. Kinda like temporarily switching out my insides for pop rocks and sparklers, but y'know, in a good way that doesn't instantly kill me. What I don't like is you wasting your mojo on my paper cuts and hangovers."

"But using it for org*sms would be acceptable?"

Dean gives him a sheepish smile.

"I mean, you still probably shouldn't do it all the time, but... I guess it would be hard to get mad about it. On account of the org*sms."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Right now though, I had been intending to help you through more human means."

Leaning up on one elbow, Dean looks at him with a dubious frown. "What kind of human means?"

"Massage."

"...for real?"

"I understand that it can be very relaxing, and I thought it might help relieve the discomfort in your shoulders. Of course, I've never done it before, and I've only read through one instructional guide, so--"

“You read a guide?"

"I wanted to be prepared in case an opportunity presented itself," Castiel tells him.

"Well, I've never had a massage that didn’t come courtesy of a Magic Fingers mattress and a handful of quarters, so no matter what you do you’re gonna blow the competition outta the damn water.”

“I'm sorry, are you saying that I'm in competition with a coin-operated mattress?”

"Ehhh," Dean wriggles his hand in the air. Castiel narrows his eyes.

"I think my expert knowledge of your physical form will give me an advantage,” he says flatly.

“Expert knowledge, huh?”

“I did reconstruct your body from the molecular level.”

Dean laughs.

"I can never tell if you're bragging or not when you say sh*t like that."

"Can it really be considered bragging if it's just a statement of objective fact?"

For a moment Dean just looks at him with an indecipherable expression before finally rolling onto his stomach as Castiel had asked without another word. He stretches languidly as he goes, nestling his head on folded arms. Once he’s settled, Castiel pushes from the bed, making his way into the bathroom to retrieve one of the tiny bottles of complimentary hand lotion from the edge of the sink before returning to straddle Dean's thighs.

Beneath him, Dean lets out a loud, shuddering breath. Castiel hesitates.

“Am I too heavy?”

“No,” Dean croaks, and reaches back to grab onto Castiel's knee as though he thinks he’s going to climb back off if he doesn't hold him in place. “You’re— you’re good."

He stops speaking, but something about the way he breathes into the silence makes it seem as though he's got something else to say. Castiel taps his knuckles against Dean's hip, just above the waistband of his boxers, and waits until he glances back over his shoulder. When he meets Castiel's eyes, he's flushing from his cheeks down the side of his neck. Castiel waits.

"I like it," Dean admits after a moment. "Having you on top of me. Holding me down."

"Oh."

Dean laughs, strangely breathless. "And, uh... not to be crude, but--"

"Of course not, you're widely known for your reliably chaste and tasteful commentary."

"Fine. To be extremely crude, if you’re planning on touching me nice everywhere except my dick until I fall asleep, I’m gonna go off like a busted hydrant no matter what the 'anything' is that we get up to in the morning.”

Ah, Castiel thinks.

“Because of the waiting?”

“Uhuh. That's-- mm--” Dean cuts himself off with a groan as Castiel settles more firmly on top of him, then lets out a slightly pained laugh. "That's definitely part of it, yeah. You're killing me here, man."

“Is this going to be..." Castiel trails off, searching for words that won't make Dean laugh at him, before giving up and going with the first ones that came to mind. "Too arousing to help you sleep?"

As expected, Dean laughs.

“Mm… maybe," he admits after a moment.

As Castiel gazes down at him, at the freckled expanse of his back and beyond to the warm golden tones of his soul where it rolls within him like a gentle tide, humming out toward Castiel like light refracting through amber, he sees no sign that Dean actually wants him to stop what he's set out to do. He looks anticipatory. Tense, but not displeased.

Despite his own prior insistence on not keeping Dean awake when he's so sorely in need of a solid night's sleep, he finds he wants to indulge him. Indulge them both.

“Do you want me to do it anyway?”

Dean hesitates, and then his whole body seems to loosen as he sinks further into the mattress. As though he’s giving in to the feeling. Surrendering to it.

“Yeah,” Dean says after a moment's consideration. “And if you need to, you can zap me to sleep after. Just this once.”

"Thank you," Castiel tells him, and Dean hums in contentment as he skims feather-light fingers down his bare back. Traces over every vertebrae before he flicks the cap on the lotion, squeezing a little onto his hands and warming it between his palms. Carefully, he applies steady pressure to all the places where Dean seems to need it most. The faint scent of coconut is divine on Dean's skin. Not for the first time, Castiel wishes he could properly appreciate taste.

As Castiel works, Dean lets out contented sighs and quiet hums of enjoyment, and Castiel thinks that doing this for Dean might be the best idea he's ever had. He hopes he might get a chance to do it again. Perhaps enough times that he'll learn all the ways Dean likes best to be touched.

He presses his thumbs into a tight knot at the base of Dean’s neck and holds them there until the tension eases; rolls the heels of his palms under his shoulder blades as he slowly lets his grace awaken, dipping it just beneath the surface of Dean’s skin to soothe away all the aches he finds. Lets it pulse warmth into Dean’s muscles and restore them with every press of his hands.

He works at it for almost an hour before Dean’s body goes completely lax, his breathing slowing to the gentle rhythm of sleep without Castiel having to use his grace to guide him there, and he brings his hands to a stop. Leans down to press his lips to Dean's shoulder. He’d like nothing more than to lie down beside him, to hold him through the night, but he knows that he’ll regret it if he doesn’t do the work he’d planned.

Still, searching through multiple hours of traffic camera footage for evidence of a single vehicle is a mind-numbing task.

As glad as Castiel is to do it so that Dean can rest, he's certainly not looking forward to losing several hours to the dull process when the alternative is to lie beside the man he loves. To drift in not-quite-sleep and let his vision shift to the ether; to watch the light of Dean's soul arc and shimmer around him as he dreams.

While he procrastinates getting started, Castiel finds himself wishing they’d outsourced this job to Sam. Forced him to do it as penance for his unfair behavior over the past few days.

But he’s got no real choice.

He can either do it now, or waste time he could be spending with Dean by doing it in the morning. With a quiet, defeated sigh, he climbs from the warmth of their bed, pulls the blankets up to settle over Dean's body, and heads for the table by the window. He only hopes it won't be long before he can return.

***

Castiel feels it the moment Dean wakes. Feels it in the way Dean’s whole body curves toward him and seeks him out in the sheets. His arm wraps around Castiel’s waist and pulls him close before he’s even opened his eyes.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean murmurs, breath hot through the cotton of Castiel's undershirt. Castiel smiles down at him, rubbing a hand over his shoulder to smooth down the soft blanket he'd draped over them both.

"Good morning."

“How long was I out?”

“Only around five hours. It’s still very early.”

“Mm. You stayed.”

“Were you concerned that I'd go somewhere?”

“No, I mean you stayed in bed. Thought you were gonna—“ he yawns, tapping his fingers across Castiel’s ribs like he’s typing. “You were gonna go do the boring sh*t. Traffic--" he yawns again. "Traffic cameras.”

“Oh, I did. I came back to you when I was done.”

“Yeah?" Dean still doesn't open his eyes, but his entire being radiates contentment as he smiles sleepily and nuzzles closer. "You have any luck?”

“Yes, actually."

"Oh?"

Finally cracking his eyes open, Dean tilts his chin against Castiel's shoulder to look up at him, and Castiel nods. Smooths his fingertips over Dean's brow and traces the shape of his jaw. Dean's still half-asleep enough to let him do it without getting flustered.

"Yes," he says again, warmed when Dean makes a pleased little sound, prompting him to elaborate. "I believe I identified Dagon's car. I noticed it approaching the zoo's entrance a little after midnight, and then leaving around four hours later. The camera didn't pick up enough detail for me to see much of her face, but I'm fairly certain that I recognize Kelly in the passenger seat. I sent the video to Donna just in case she's able to use that police computer program they have on television to 'enhance' it. She replied not long before you woke up to say she'd check for records on the car when she gets to work, but that the television makes the picture enhancement program look a lot more effective than it actually is. She also said that the television police make the entire institution look a lot more effective than it is.”

“Understatement,” Dean mutters.

“Based on my observations over the years I’ve been on earth, I’m inclined to agree. All that said, she did mention that she’d try to make the image a little clearer herself. We still have a few hours until we can expect any results, though.”

"Look at you doin' all this tech stuff like a pro," Dean says, his voice soft with pride. Castiel can't help but squirm a little at the sound.

"I don't know about that," he says.

"Yeah, well I know," Dean tells him. "I'm impressed."

Castiel can't help but want to deflect, strangely embarrassed by the praise.

“You should go back to sleep," he says, and pushes his fingers through Dean’s hair. Scratches lightly at his scalp when Dean hums and tilts into his touch.

“Nah, I’m up, now,” Dean insists, though he's closed his eyes again.

“By what metric?”

Shifting closer still, Dean rocks his hips against Castiel’s thigh, and Castiel inhales sharply at the unmistakable shape pressing against him. Dean smirks, squinting one eye open to look up at him.

“That one."

Castiel can't help but laugh.

“Ah. Well, in that case."

Turning onto his side, Castiel ducks in close and presses a kiss to his mouth. Dean's still sleep-warm, his lips soft as he kisses Castiel back, but it's not long before he wakes up enough to get demanding. His hands slide into Castiel's hair; down his neck and chest to grip at his t-shirt. When one drags low over his stomach, aiming for Castiel's waistband, Dean finally opens his eyes and tosses the blankets free to look down between them.

"You're in your boxers," he says, as though Castiel could somehow have failed to notice that he'd undressed himself before climbing into bed.

"Yes?"

Dean doesn't say anything else, though his lower lip juts out a little.

"Is that... not okay?" Castiel asks him with a frown.

"No, no, it's fine. I just--" Dean laughs, self-conscious as he pinches and tugs the hem of Castiel's t-shirt. Teases his fingers under the edge. "I guess... I dunno. I guess I was kinda looking forward to taking all your clothes off."

Castiel lifts his brow.

"Oh?"

"Gotta make up for all the times I've wanted to do it but had to keep my hands to myself. There's a backlog."

"I'll be sure to leave it to you next time."

"Good plan," Dean grins, and winks, and before Castiel knows what's happening, Dean has slipped his hand down past the elastic to take him in a loose grip. His hand is warm. Castiel can't help the way his hips reflexively buck forward, pushing into Dean's palm as he starts filling out. "Mm. Definitely not complaining about the easy access, though."

"Nor am I," Castiel agrees, voice tight. He slides his hand from Dean's wrist up to his arm, his shoulder, before hooking around the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss.

For a long few minutes, they stay like that, Dean slowly working his hand over Castiel's shaft until he's gasping against Dean's mouth, breathless with how hard he's become. Castiel is still amazed that it can feel like this. That he can feel like this. Focused down onto a single point of sensation.

The fact that it's Dean making him feel this way is something that he doubts he'll ever get used to, and he slides his own palm over Dean's bare chest and stomach, down to cup him through his boxers in the hope that he might make him feel even a fraction of what Castiel is experiencing. He squeezes the base. Rubs the heel of his palm gently at the head through the thin fabric until Dean's mouth goes slack.

“How do you want me?” he asks against Dean's mouth, and Dean seems blindsided by the question. He pulls back to stare at Castiel for a moment. His cheeks burn red when he answers.

“I don’t know.”

The denial makes Castiel’s chest ache. Under his hand, he feels Dean throb through his underwear. He squeezes lightly just to hear him gasp again.

“Yes, you do. I know you thought of something specific last night."

"I mean... I guess I had a couple ideas."

"So tell me."

Gulping, Dean licks at his lips, and Castiel leans in again to brush his own against them.

“Tell me,” he repeats, and dips his fingers through the front of Dean's underwear to touch him directly. Teasing. Light. "Please. You were so wonderful yesterday. Let me give you what you want."

“f*ck, Cas."

“Tell me, please,” Castiel urges him on. “I signed a blank check, remember?”

“f*ck,” Dean croaks again, and pulls his hand free of Castiel's boxers to roll onto his back and remove his own, kicking them off into the rumpled sheets. "Wanna see you, for starters. Lose the-- c'mon, get naked."

Castiel doesn't bother to remind Dean that he'd wanted to do the undressing for him; just does as he's asked, slipping free of his underwear and t-shirt in record time. Dean looks him over with undisguised hunger, hands clenching briefly as though he can't decide where to touch. His eyes don't leave Castiel even as he reaches off the bed to rifle through his bag on the floor. When he finds what he's looking for, he tosses it onto the mattress and tugs Castiel back toward him.

"C'mere," he says, urging Castiel up onto his knees to straddle his hips, and runs his hands along Castiel's thighs once he's there. Glides his thumbs up and down the vee of his pelvis.

Castiel gazes down at him. Takes in the heady sight of his flushed chest, his dark eyes, and settles his weight, effectively pinning Dean to the bed. Dean's breath stutters and catches. He clearly hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Castiel he liked being held down. Pressing his hands to the pillow either side of Dean's head, Castiel leans down to kiss him, rocking them together in the process, and Dean makes a hungry sound into his mouth even as he pushes lightly at Castiel's chest to make him sit back.

When he does, Dean gazes up at him. His tongue darts out over his pink lower lip before he pulls it between his teeth.

"What now?" Castiel asks him.

“Just wanna touch you, and..." Dean leans up on one elbow, closing his hand around Castiel's co*ck and watching as it slips through the circle of his fingers. Castiel can't help but feel that he's the one pinned under the weight of Dean's gaze. He feels wanted. Powerful. Like he's surrendering something and being surrendered to all at once.

“And?" he prompts, voice coming out thick and fractured as he tries to keep some semblance of control. "Keep going. Tell me. You've been waiting. I know you want more than--” he gasps. Swallows as Dean squeezes him. "More than to touch me."

"Honestly, I could probably get off just watching you come," Dean says, and though his tone implies that he's joking, Castiel almost believes him thanks to the look in his eyes.

"A challenge for another time," Castiel suggests. He thumbs at Deans' nipple, strumming the taut flesh, and smiles when Dean arches up against his hand. "Tell me what you want."

Dean swallows hard, letting go to reach between Castiel's thighs. His fingers are slippery with Castiel's arousal, and he skims them back, slipping over his skin until they're teasing along the cleft of his ass.

“Wanna open you up. Real slow. See if I can make you come with my fingers before I f*ck you,” Dean lifts his gaze to meet Castiel's eyes. He looks hungry. Desperate. Breathless. Castiel can relate.

“Oh,” Castiel sighs, and shifts, and feels a fingertip press inside, just barely, just enough to make him want more. Dean doesn’t push any further. He just touches, the pad of his thumb a steady rolling pressure against Castiel’s perineum as his fingertip tugs and teases at Castiel's rim.

"You want that?" Dean asks.

"Please."

Reaching out with his other hand, Dean grabs the bottle he'd tossed onto the mattress and flicks the cap open with his thumb.

“Want to show you how good it can be,” he says, and slicks his fingers before slipping them back into place. "Want you desperate for it. For me."

“I'm already— ohh—”

"Mm, that's it," Dean’s eyes glint, teeth pressing into his lower lip as he does exactly as he'd described, working Castiel's body open with long, slow strokes of his fingers until he's got two pressed deep. The sensation is beautiful and maddening, and when Dean finds his prostate, the insistent pressure sets Castiel's entire body humming. He cries out with it. Feels his erection pulse where it's slipping up against Dean's, their skin slick where they slide together.

"Good?" Dean asks him. His voice is tight, as though he's the one being taken apart. Castiel nods. "When I'm on the other side of things... I usually like starting out nice and slow, like this. Slow and-- mm, slow and deep. But if you want me to go faster, or--"

"No," Castiel gasps out, his back bowing as Dean continues the motion, mind spinning with visions of doing the same thing for him next time. Of touching Dean this way. "Not yet. It’s good. Slow is good."

“Yeah?”

"Yes, it's-- would you allow me to do this for you? Touch you inside like-- ahh," Castiel rolls his hips, pressing down against Dean's hand, muscles twitching with the stimulation, voice tapering off when stringing actual words together proves too difficult.

"Mm, yeah," Dean rubs over his prostate again. Hard. Castiel's mouth falls open. "Definitely."

The best Castiel can manage in response is a needy whine, and Dean bites his own lip as he keeps stroking him inside, working his fingers deeper, gradually speeding up until Castiel is rocking in his lap, gasping, pleading for more. Just as Dean wanted. Just as he said he would.

He's right there, right on the precipice, but as much as he'd like to tip over the edge like this he's suddenly desperate to feel Dean inside him first. He can't wait. Doesn't want to. Dean's been waiting since yesterday, and Castiel doesn't know how he's been able to bear it.

"Now," Castiel sighs, leaning in close to kiss him again. He leans their foreheads together. Feels the heat of Dean's flushed skin against his own as he reaches down between them to take Dean into his hand again. He relishes the way it makes Dean gasp. "Please, now, I want you to-- I can't-- can't wait, Dean--"

"Yeah, yeah, sweetheart, I've got you," Dean says, and pulls his fingers from Castiel's body, reaching for the bottle again. He shivers a little as he slicks himself, then shifts, tugs at Castiel's hips until he rises higher on his knees, until he's positioned perfectly for Dean to guide himself inside. Castiel sucks in a breath, and as he exhales he feels his body give, feels Dean sliding home. Castiel sinks down to meet him.

"Oh," he breathes, and Dean's hands glide up his chest, his fingers spread wide as he teases at his nipples, then back down to his waist, his thighs, thumbs stroking through the dark hair that frames Castiel's erection.

"You feel okay?" Dean asks him, voice tight as he works to hold still. Castiel nods. Licks his suddenly dry lips.

"I feel... perfect," he says.

"Yeah, you do," Dean agrees with a grin, and uses his grip on Castiel's thighs to rock him in a slow grind. The motion is at once too much and not enough. Leaning back, Castiel rests one hand on Dean's thigh for balance, watching Dean's face as he slowly rises until the head is just barely inside him before he falls again, taking him deep. The motion forces a harsh breath from Dean's lungs; makes Castiel's eyes -- all of them, across multiple planes -- dip out of focus.

"Oh f*ck," Dean groans. It's encouragement enough, and Castiel repeats the action, faster this time, again and again until he's all but bouncing in Dean's lap. His erection slaps down against Dean's belly, and Dean drops a hand from his chest to take hold of him again, stroking him in time with each roll of his hips.

Castiel feels as though he's being touched everywhere at once. He catches Dean's free hand with his own. Weaves their fingers together as everything builds. Cascades.

Dean is inside him and all around him, and his soul is an arcing comet, a sunburst, a supernova. Pop rocks and sparklers, Dean had said when he was describing being touched by Castiel's grace; Castiel can't help but think that it sounds a lot like this.

He's dizzy with the thought that he might have been bringing Dean even a fraction of this feeling each time he's healed him. Even a shadow must be overwhelming.

Without entirely meaning to, he lets his grace unfurl, feeling it travel down through his body to gather where they're joined, where Dean is pressed inside him, and it encircles Dean there. Rushes to a point and dips into him, fills Dean in an echo of the way he's filling Castiel.

“Cas— what-- f*ck--"

Dean's expression is wild. Overwhelmed. His voice fractures into a whine as though he can barely control himself, like he's suddenly seconds from bursting, and then he does; co*ck pumping, twitching, spreading warmth into Castiel's body as Dean presses his heels hard into the mattress, pushing up on his free hand until he's half-sitting with Castiel in his lap, knees bracing Castiel's back as he reaches his own peak, pulsing over Dean's fingers. Dean lets out a low curse into his mouth. Castiel's never tasted anything sweeter.

“Cas," Dean croaks after several breathless moments, when Castiel has just been floating in a kind of blissful haze, unaware of anything besides the places where their skin is touching. Of Dean still inside him, his own body rhythmically clenching around him, as though even without his conscious direction it's trying to extend Dean's pleasure. He hums dreamily in response, hoping the sound conveys that he's listening.

Pushing lightly at his hips, Dean eases Castiel up to his knees until he slips free, and Castiel immediately wants him back. He settles for hooking their legs together when Dean encourages him to lie down, kissing Dean's shoulder before finally resting his head beside Dean's on the pillow. He spreads his hand over Dean's stomach and can't bring himself to care about the cooling, sticky mess he finds there.

Dean exhales, long and slow, and turns to look at him. His face is flushed. His forehead damp. His expression is so deliriously happy that Castiel wants to freeze the moment in time to look back on it for the rest of his existence.

"Can I take a photograph of you?" he asks. Dean's startled laugh only makes him more beautiful.

"Sure," Dean tells him eventually. Then; "Did you just heal my dick?”

___

A couple of hours later finds them in the shower, pressed up against the dark tile and kissing lazily in the warm stream of water. Castiel isn't sure he's ever felt so content. He's contemplating the possibility of using the smallest little wisp of his grace to speed up Dean's refractory period (if only to get as much use as possible out of the extremely spacious shower) when the obnoxious digital trill of Dean's cell phone floats in from the main room, utterly uncaring of the moment its interrupting. Reluctantly, he pulls out of the kiss.

"That's probably Donna," he says, leaning his head against the wall as Dean ducks to suck softly at his Adam's apple, then shifts to nibble at his ear. "Dean. The phone."

"It's gonna go to voicemail before we can get to it anyway," Dean murmurs, tilting away to look at him. "And I still need to rinse all these suds off."

Castiel glances down at the scant few bubbles that still cling to Dean's chest, then meets his eye just as the phone stops ringing.

"See?" Dean grins, and kisses him again, his hands slipping over Castiel's skin to squeeze his hips.

It's almost fifteen minutes later when they emerge in a steamy, coconut-scented cloud, and Castiel watches Dean towel his hair dry as he walks naked across their room to dig through his duffel. He's breathtaking. Castiel doesn't know how he managed to hold himself back from touching him for so many years. Perhaps all those layers of flannel and canvas and denim have been performing an important function, after all. Though now that he truly understands what's hiding underneath, and how nice it feels pressed up against him, the clothes might not be quite so effective.

"Hey," Dean calls out, dragging Castiel's attention up to his face. "Kinda can't believe I'm saying this, but quit ogling me and get dressed."

With a raised brow, Castiel drops the towel that had been around his waist and walks toward him, trying not to react to Dean's visible gulp when he gets close enough to touch. He doesn't make contact, though. Just reaches past, taking one of Dean's shirts and some underwear from the open bag before stepping back out of his space.

"That was just mean," Dean huffs once he realizes that Castiel isn't planning to start anything. As if they hadn't already spent several hours touching one another this morning.

"I'm simply doing as you asked," Castiel replies, and pulls the underwear on.

It's a little tighter than what he's used to wearing around the tops of his thighs, but the fabric is soft enough to still be comfortable. Once he's slipped the shirt over his head he finds Dean still standing there naked with his own clothes clutched tightly in his hands. It takes a lot of effort for Castiel to keep the amusem*nt from his face.

"Stop ogling me and get dressed," he parrots back at Dean, lips twitching in amusem*nt -- and no small measure of pride -- as he picks up the jeans he'd worn yesterday and tugs them up his legs. "We have work to do."

***

"Well, bad news is I don't have a whole lot of details for ya," Donna starts when they call her a few minutes later, sitting on opposite sides of the small table by the window with the phone set to speaker mode. "The car is a '95 Toyota Camry, registered to a 72 year old woman named Esther Irving over in Baltimore. She reported it stolen a few days back, but other than that... nada. No red light cameras, no speed traps, no sign of the car at all since it went missing. Looks like our kidnapping, car-thieving demon does abide by the rules of the road, if nothing else -- I guess she's trying to stay under the radar."

Deflating, Castiel slumps a little in his seat, and Dean reaches out to knock his knuckles against the table. Castiel looks up.

"You put a BOLO on it?" he asks, holding Castiel's gaze, and when Donna confirms that she has, he gives Castiel an encouraging smile.

"See?"

"Not exactly," Castiel admits. "The BOLO... It's one of those things I've heard you mention several times, but I've never known precisely what it means."

"Stands for be on the lookout," Donna explains. "If someone spots the car, they'll report back, and I'll be able to let you know when and where it was seen."

"It helps," Dean tells him. "You did good, man."

"You want the good news, now?" Donna asks.

"There's good news?"

"Sure is. Not to toot my own horn, but I happen to be pretty darn handy when it comes to photo editing, and I managed to adjust the levels just enough to confirm that it's definitely our girl Kelly in the passenger seat. And even better? I got a halfway decent screenshot of the driver."

"Oh, awesome. They teach you that at cop school?" Dean asks, and Donna snorts.

"God no. I taught myself that after I caught a Styx and REO Speedwagon show in '09 and all my photos came out lookin' like I took 'em with a potato."

"Oh, man, how was the gig?"

"Incredible," Donna says. Castiel can tell she's smiling. It's nice to hear. "Sending the screenshot now!"

Opening the laptop, still plugged in where he'd been using it last night, Castiel navigates over to Dean's inbox as Dean gets up and walks around to peer over his shoulder. The image loads quickly. Dagon is halfway through saying something, her mouth twisted into a snarl, and while it's certainly not the sharpest image, they can easily make out her features. Her dark, swooping hairstyle; her high cheekbones and diamond-shaped face. They'll be able to send this to everyone they know.

The chances of them tracking Dagon and Kelly down just increased tenfold.

"Donna, you're the goddamn best," Dean tells her.

"He's right," Castiel adds, leaning closer to the phone where it's sitting on the table. "Truly. If you don't wish to 'toot your own horn', I'll gladly do it for you."

Behind him, Dean chokes out a laugh, and it's echoed by a loud snort from Donna. Castiel squints at the phone, then up at Dean, whose eyes are watering as he struggles to get his laughter under control.

"Why are you--" Castiel starts before his previous words catch up with him, and he sighs as he realizes how it sounded. "I didn't mean it like that."

His exasperation only makes them both laugh more, and Castiel can't help but huff a laugh of his own.

"Hoo boy," Donna says, still wheezing a little. "You're too much."

"Yeah, you tryna make me jealous?" Dean adds, squeezing his shoulder, and Castiel looks at him sharply just in time for Dean to realize what he's said.

"Jealous?" Donna snorts. "What, are you sweet on me, Winchester?"

"Uh..."

Dean scrunches his face, visibly floundering as he tries to find a safe answer, and Castiel has no idea how to help him. The moment drags on. Dean's cheeks puff out as he shoots Castiel a wide-eyed look that seems to say, well, I guess this is happening.

"Well, uh. Cute as you are, Donna, I actually... I was talking about Cas."

"You were-- huh?"

Dean clears his throat.

"Yeah. So we're... y'know. Together?"

"Together, like...? Oh. Oh! So, this is new," she says, then after a brief pause adds; "This is new, right? I haven't just been completely oblivious every time you’ve mentioned Cas for the past few years, have I?"

"No, it's, uh. It's pretty new."

"We've had a somewhat eventful week," Castiel says.

"Kinda haven't told anyone yet, though,” Dean adds.

“Oh, jeez. Yeah, gotcha loud and clear," Donna says brightly. "Your secret's safe with me. Won’t say a word. Though now you owe me that visit even sooner so I can make sure Cas is treatin' you right."

She says it with such a warm tone to her voice that Castiel has no trouble recognizing it as a joke, and he smiles as Dean laughs, raising his hand to cover Dean's where it's still resting on his shoulder. Looking up at Dean, he’s pleased to find him visibly relieved by Donna's reaction.

"You got it," Dean tells her.

In the background on Donna's end, someone speaks, and the sound goes muffled as she briefly lowers her phone to respond. She's back a few moments later. "Sorry, fellas, I'm gonna have to cut this short. Gotta go deal with a situation."

"Everything okay?"

There's a very long sigh before Donna responds.

"Apparently one of my deputies locked himself in the back of his cruiser in a McDonald's parking lot."

"...good luck with that."

"I swear," Donna mutters to herself. "I gotta find a new job.”

“Thinking 'bout a change?” Dean asks her in surprise, and when Donna answers there's an uncharacteristic weariness to her tone.

“Constantly. But that's a conversation for next time."

"Yeah, for sure. Talk soon, okay?"

"Count on it. And congrats, yeah? Real happy for you fellas."

The call ends a couple of seconds later, and Dean slumps down against Castiel's back, resting his chin on his shoulder. He laughs weakly.

"Are you alright?" Castiel asks.

"Yeah, man. Just. Kinda can't believe I accidentally outed us because of you talkin' about tooting Donna's horn," Dean huffs, sending a gust of warm air over Castiel's neck before he stands back up. He runs his fingers through Castiel's hair, tugging lightly until Castiel tilts back to look at him, and then leans down for a quick, if slightly uncoordinated, upside-down kiss. "Nice to know we've got someone in our corner, though. And extra nice to know she's thinking about handing in her badge. You know I love her and Jody, but... being friends with cops, y'know." He gives an exaggerated shudder. "Always makes me kinda itchy if I think about it too hard."

"Perhaps she could find a new career in photographic enhancement," Castiel suggests, pulling the laptop a little closer and enlarging the image of Dagon she'd sent back. "This really is a lot clearer than it looked before."

"I told you you did good finding us the footage. Wouldn't have had sh*t to send Donna in the first place if you hadn't tracked it down, and now we're one step closer to tracking down Kelly and Dagon."

As Dean's speaking, Castiel's cell buzzes.

"Do you really think the 'BOLO' will help, too?" he asks, digging it from his pocket.

"Can't hurt."

Humming in acknowledgement, Castiel taps the screen and raises his brow when he sees the new message from Claire.

Claire: heads up. looks like satan's been busy... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oiSwnWw65Wo

"Claire might have something, too," he says in surprise, and Dean looks over his shoulder at the phone as the video loads. It's clear once it starts playing that it's not actually anything relevant. Just an old, fuzzy video of a woman claiming that her toaster is possessed by the devil. Dean snorts, finally moving back to his own seat as Castiel sends a message back to Claire.

Cas: That's not funny, Claire.

Claire: idk it's kinda funny

Cas: 😒🙄😮💨

Claire: lol

Claire: for real tho, how good could the toast even be??

Cas: Presumably it's "wicked good", as they say 😉

Claire: oh my GOD

"Where'd she even find that?" Dean wonders aloud, and Cas smiles at Claire's last reply, pleased with his apparently successful joke. He looks up from his phone.

"It's probably a video virus, or a meme," Cas tells him.

"You mean a viral video?"

Castiel squints a little.

"That's what I said. She sends them to me all the time, though they're not usually so topically relevant. Most of them involve cats." He scrolls back through his messages to find the most recent before their brief conversation yesterday, then hands Dean the phone. "See?"

Claire: SNEAK ATTACK https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-2ezv0s1aM

Laughing, Dean passes it back.

"Man, if you'd told me a few years back that you were swapping cat videos with Claire I woulda thought you'd cracked. How did this even start?"

"Do you remember that hunt in Tulsa? You took me to buy Claire a birthday present."

"Yeah. Kinda tough to forget a hunt like that one."

"Mm. What happened to Amelia, for Claire to lose her mother again so quickly after finding her... I assumed that she would want nothing further to do with me, and I was trying to make peace with that, but then I overheard her telling you to look out for me when we were seeing her off outside the motel."

"Yeah," Dean recalls, resting his chin on his hand as he looks at Cas across the table. "I remember."

"Well, when I heard that, I thought that perhaps there was a chance for reconciliation after all. So I sent her a message the following day, and I asked if she would check in from time to time so I knew she was alright. She didn't reply right away, but a few days later she sent me a Grumpy Cat picture. Grumpy Cat was--"

"The toy we got her," Dean laughs. Castiel nods.

"Specifically, she sent a picture of the cat in a veterinary clinic, and underneath it said something like, I'm okay, but at what cost? I didn't understand what the cat was supposed to signify, so I asked, and she sent back a message that just said it’s a meme you loser.”

“Oof,” Dean says. “Brutal.”

“I gave her some space after that, and after about a week she sent me a picture of a different cat sitting at a table with a plate of spaghetti. And then a little while later she sent another. She wasn’t exactly talking to me, but she was staying in touch. Once I figured out how to find the pictures for myself, and the specific way they were being used, I started sending them back. Eventually, she started texting as well. Sometimes she even calls. It's been... healing, I suppose. To get to know her in this way."

"Wait, wait, hold up -- she calls you?"

"Sometimes," Castiel says again, frowning a little. "Why?"

"Calling means a lot to a kid Claire's age. If you still had any doubts that she wants you around, lose 'em. Believe me."

"You think so?"

"Definitely." Dean chews on his lip. "So, speaking of Claire... do you think... I mean obviously it's moot while we're still dealing with the whole Sam situation, but do you think she's gonna be okay with..." he gestures loosely between them. Castiel sighs.

"I don't know," he admits. "Even if she does understand that physically, this body is more her uncle than her father, I do worry that it will be difficult for her."

Frowning, Dean shakes his head.

"What do you mean, uncle?"

"When I was killed the first time--"

Dean snorts. Castiel lifts a brow at him.

"Trust me, the you dying part is incredibly not funny, it's just--the fact that you had to specify which death. Our lives are f*cking ridiculous."

"They are," Castiel agrees with a small smile. "At any rate, when Raphael killed me, Jimmy's body was essentially atomized."

"Yeah, uh... I saw," Dean tells him.

"You did?"

"When we got back to the house... there was a lot of blood. Like, a lot. Chuck had one of your damn molars in his hair," Dean shudders, face growing a little pale at the memory.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

"...you got blitzed in a cosmic blender and you're apologizing to me? Dude. C'mon."

"I'm also sorry to have experienced it," Castiel allows.

“No sh*t.”

"That said, it was instantaneous, so I didn't actually feel anything. But the point is, Jimmy died when the body we were both in was destroyed. When I was resurrected, this new body was constructed using his as a sort of theoretical framework, but as far as I can tell it is not composed of any of the original particles. This body has only ever been mine. Physically speaking, I'm essentially Jimmy's identical twin."

"Uncle Cas," Dean says. Castiel nods.

"She and I had quite a long conversation about it last year, and based on that I’m fairly confident that it will all be okay, but…”

“You can’t help but worry.”

“Precisely.”

Dean knocks his heel against Cas’ under the table.

“Right there with you, man.”

"You’re really worried about Claire's approval?"

"Of course I am. I've seen that kid pissed off," he laughs, shaking his head. "But you know me. Worrying is basically my default setting. Last thing I want is to mess things up between you and Claire, especially when you've finally gotten to a good place with her."

Castiel doesn't bother pointing out that Dean's concern is more or less identical to what Castiel is feeling about the situation with Sam. He knows Dean sees it, too. Knows they're both on the same page where that's concerned.

"It's going to be fine," he says instead, and he’s surprised to realize he believes it.

***

They decide to wait to call Sam.

Ostensibly, the decision is a strategic one – they’re both hoping that they’ll have some more information about Dagon’s movements before too long, and it makes sense to give the BOLO some time to produce results so they can avoid having to call him twice – but as far as Castiel is concerned, he’s also finding himself reluctant to burst the rare bubble of contentment he and Dean have found themselves in.

Outside, the rainstorm has cleared – at least until the afternoon, according to the weather app on Dean’s phone – and the air is crisp and fresh. They take advantage of the sunnier (if not warmer) weather and walk to a cafe for breakfast, then further still when Dean notices several vintage cars turning down a nearby street on their way out.

Together, they follow the cars a few blocks down the road, eventually arriving at the parking lot of a small park and playground, where some kind of informal meetup for local vehicle enthusiasts is taking place. Dean's eyes light up at the sight.

Around a dozen cars fill the lot, with twenty or so people of all ages gathered nearby, bundled in coats and scarves and sipping hot drinks from paper cups. Some are chatting in groups; a few are standing closer to the playground, keeping an eye on three young children as they climb a metal structure shaped something like a large, round spider web. All of them seem extremely happy to be discussing their shared passion with one another.

They pause at the gate, Dean's eyes tracing over all the cars, before his gaze settles on a silvery-blue vehicle with white hubcaps and a long, curved hood. A sprightly woman in her late 70’s is pulling it open as she speaks to someone sitting in the passenger seat. Dean's hand flies out to grab at Castiel's elbow.

"Dude. It’s a Chrysler Airstream,” he says, glancing over at him with such an expression of breathless joy that Castiel can’t help but mirror it despite having no idea what's so special about the car. "They stopped making 'em in the thirties."

“I like the color,” Castiel tells him.

Dean grins even wider and pulls him along, making a beeline for the Chrysler.

“It's a gangster car, man. It has coach doors and everything. Only time I ever saw one in person was that time I got zapped back to the 40's, and I didn't exactly have time to properly check it out."

Frowning, Castiel stops, and Dean turns to look back at him.

"What's up?" Dean asks.

"When did you get 'zapped' to the 40's? Was it another angel?"

Dean raises his brow.

"Cas, are you seriously jealous right now?"

"No," Castiel says, even though he finds he is, just a little bit. It's irrational. He knows it's irrational. "You just never mentioned it, that's all."

"You were dead at the time," Dean says bluntly. "Or... I thought you were. I guess you were actually just shacked up with your wife."

Castiel frowns for a moment, then cringes. He'd completely forgotten about Daphne. What a strange woman, he thinks.

"Oh. Well, I suppose that's a good reason not to have told me."

"And it wasn't another angel, it was the god of time. Chronos. Major dick, by the way. Anyway, I'll tell you all about it later. Right now I’ve gotta see if I can take a closer look."

Dean is in his element as he introduces himself to the woman who owns the car – Norma Nelson, she cheerfully informs him – and Castiel is happy to stand by as Dean spends the following twenty minutes chatting with her about all sorts of things he has absolutely no frame of reference for.

The woman sitting in Norma's passenger seat gives him a knowing look and offers him a cup of hot chocolate from a small yellow thermos.

“Thank you, but I… cannot tolerate dairy,” he tells her, not wanting to diminish what is a visibly limited supply when he won’t be able to truly enjoy it anyway, but having been around people enough by now to know that sometimes, unexplained refusal of an offered gift can be poorly received. She only shakes her head.

“Oh, hon, neither can I these days. But are you alright with coconut milk?”

Glancing over at Dean, currently looking under the hood as Norma shows him something that is apparently fascinating to people who know things about cars from the 1930’s, Castiel remembers the sweet scent of coconut on his skin. He finds himself nodding.

“I like coconut quite a lot."

“Well, give that a try,” she says, pouring him a cup and passing it over, and Castiel takes it from her gratefully. He mutes his body's taste buds, relying purely on his sense of smell as he sips the drink. Coconut and chocolate and what he thinks is a hint of vanilla. It warms him from within. He makes a mental note to try making something like it, should he ever have occasion to taste things properly again. Or perhaps he could make it for Dean. Maybe it would taste better on his lips.

Smiling to himself, he nods and raises the yellow metal cup toward the woman in thanks.

"It's very good."

“Isn't it? I barely even miss the other stuff,” she replies, and settles her thermos back into a small picnic basket wedged into the footwell after topping up her own cup. The silver ring she wears clinks against the metal. “I’m Evelyn, by the by. Though most folks call me Doc.”

“Castiel,” he replies, sitting down on the low stone wall that encloses the lot. “I take it you’re not quite as interested in cars as Norma?”

“I don’t know anyone who’s as interested in cars as Norma,” Doc laughs. Her wrinkled face is lovely, smile lines upon smile lines surrounding her light brown eyes. He's glad for her company. “Though it looks like your young man is giving her a run for her money.”

"I expect he'd happily talk with everyone here about their cars if we had the time," Castiel tells her, looking over at Dean again. He's crouched down, now. Peering under the front of the car. Castiel hasn't got the slightest clue what he might be looking at, but he's radiating such open delight that Castiel can't keep from smiling. "He wanted to be a mechanic, when he was growing up."

"No wonder they're getting along."

A few short years ago, Castiel wouldn't have realized that such a statement might be an invitation to continue the conversation. Now, though;

"Oh?" he says, tilting his head as he looks at her in question.

"Norma ran her family's auto repair shop until our nephew took it over."

"She's a mechanic?"

"It's actually how we met. It'll be 50 years this August," Doc tells him with a broad smile. "Right after I graduated from Georgetown. I was heading back home to Columbus to look for work closer to my parents, but I only got about five miles out of Washington when my brakes started grinding."

"And Norma fixed them for you?"

"No," Doc chuckles, shaking her head. "No, after I'd pulled over, a man in a tow truck happened to drive by. He stopped to see what the trouble was, and when I showed him he offered to tow my car to his shop so he could fix it. He said he'd send a taxi back to collect me, and after seeing the state of his truck's cab, I was happy to wait. But no taxi ever came."

"He stole your car," Castiel surmises, frowning, and Doc confirms with a nod.

"Along with almost everything else I owned at the time. My clothes, my books, the one houseplant I'd managed to keep alive through medical school. Everything but my purse, because I kept that with me. I didn't realize it, though. I thought there must have just been a problem with the taxi, because he'd told me the name of his shop was Nelson Family Motors, and I knew the place even if I'd never taken my car there. So I just started walking. Of course, when I finally arrived, all the mechanics were getting ready to go home, and none of them had ever heard of the man who'd taken my car. Oh, I just about died on the spot. But Norma helped calm me down."

Doc smiles at the memory, and Castiel allows himself the indulgence of looking at her soul. It shimmers a light, sunny yellow; shades of peach blushing at the edges as she talks about standing in the doorway of the garage and noticing the one bright-eyed young woman among the men of her family, dressed in grease-stained coveralls.

"Wondered why my ears were burning," someone says, and Castiel turns to find Dean and Norma looking down at them. Doc hands her the cup she's been drinking from without a word, and Castiel smiles when he notices their matching rings. They look new. He wonders how recently they married. "Did you tell him what you said when my brother told you it sounded like you'd been conned?"

Covering her face with her hand, Doc lets out a small groan, and Norma chuckles as she sits down on the back seat. She takes a sip of the hot chocolate. Grins over at Castiel and Dean, who's come to sit on the low wall beside him.

"Not a word of a lie, Doc here, standing in a garage with a whole family of mechanics she'd just met, blurts out: 'But how could I get tricked by some mechanic? I'm a doctor!'"

"It wasn't my best moment," Doc says with a grimace. "Her family thought I was the worst kind of snob. Her brother never let me live it down."

"Terrible first impression," Norma agrees, laughing, but her eyes are warm, and it's clear that the past 50 years have made the memory a fond one.

"Well, it could've been worse," Castiel can't help but tell them, biting back his smile when he glances to his side and sees Dean's amused expression turn to mild panic as he realizes what Castiel is about to say. "The first time I met Dean, he stabbed me in the chest."

***

"I can't believe you told a couple of civilians that I stabbed you," Dean says as they make their way back to the motel half an hour later, still laughing as he shakes his head.

"You did stab me."

"Helluva meet cute," Dean says.

They're walking quickly, trying to beat the rain that's threatening to return at any moment, the bitter wind making Dean's nose turn pink. Castiel reaches for his hand, sending a warm pulse of grace through his body as soon as their palms touch. Dean shoots him a grateful -- if slightly reproachful -- look.

"Well, they thought it was funny," Castiel points out before Dean can complain. True, that had only been after Dean had quickly come up with a surprisingly convincing story about a freak accident in a steakhouse, but even so. He tilts his chin toward a deli across the street, a few blocks away from their motel. "Do you want to stop for lunch?"

Dean looks up at the gathering clouds.

"Yeah, let's be quick though. Looks like it's about to start pouring again, and I don't think it's gonna stop again until tonight."

The rain holds off for long enough for them to visit the deli and walk another two blocks, and then it all comes down at once. They sprint the rest of the way, the plastic bag containing Dean's sandwich and potato chips swinging wildly as they run, and they're soaked through by the time they reach the motel. Dean's teeth are chattering when they push through the door of their room. As soon as it clicks shut behind them, Castiel dries them both--and Dean's soggy lunch--with a casual wave of his hand.

Bizarrely, Dean looks disappointed.

"What's wrong?"

Dean gives an exasperated laugh.

"Nothing, just... You just robbed me of the chance to suggest getting out of these wet clothes."

"Oh," Castiel frowns.

"But hey, you rescued my sandwich, so. Win some, lose some."

He steps in close, pressing his palm to the center of Castiel's chest as he kisses him, then leans back. Smacks his lips.

"Why do you taste like coconut?"

"Doc used it in the hot chocolate."

"Mm. It's good."

Dean kisses him again, deeper this time, and only steps away when his lunch starts getting squished between them, the bag crinkling noisily. He drops into the chair at the table, and Castiel sits down opposite him as he eats. He accepts a potato chip when Dean offers, and is surprised to find that the sharp, acidic molecules comprising the mixture of vinegar and salt are actually somewhat agreeable. He steals a couple more, enjoying the crunchy texture as he gazes out the window.

Rain spatters against the pane, and as he watches it run in rivulets down the glass he has the nagging, unavoidable thought that they're rapidly approaching the point where they need to update Sam. He doesn't want to bring it up. He thinks he has to.

"So what do you think?” Dean asks when he’s finished eating. Castiel looks over to see him leaning back in his chair as he dusts a few scattered crumbs from his shirt. “Should we wait a couple more days here, or do you wanna call it and head back to Lebanon?"

"It's probably wise to wait. We don’t have any other solid leads, and it would be a shame to leave now only to hear that Dagon’s car has been spotted a hundred miles away in the opposite direction tomorrow.”

“True. Though I think a hundred miles east of here would put her somewhere in the Atlantic."

“Maybe she's a terrible driver,” Castiel says dryly. Dean snorts.

"Okay, so we'll hang out until we hear something."

Dean drums his knuckles on the wooden table. Makes an odd sucking sound with the inside of his cheek.

“Dean.”

“Mm?”

“I don’t think we can reasonably put off calling him any longer."

Sighing, Dean lets the feet of his chair fall back to the floor with a dull thud.

“Yeah, I know.”

“We could just send him a message,” Castiel suggests. Dean shakes his head.

“Wanna give him another chance to apologize,” he says. Privately, Castiel thinks he’s being far too optimistic. He suspects that even Dean doesn’t truly believe that his brother will have changed his attitude without further intervention – he’s far too strong-headed and stubborn for that, and it’s more likely than not that being separated from them both has only strengthened his resolve. “He’d probably just send a thumbs up if we texted him an update.”

It still takes a while for Dean to actually make the call. He procrastinates. Goes to the bathroom. Sorts the clothes they’d worn yesterday into a pile to take to the motel’s laundry room and fiddles with the coffee pot sitting on top of the mini fridge.

If Castiel hadn’t already tidied up the wrappers from his lunch while Dean was in the bathroom, he’s certain that Dean would’ve taken several minutes to do that, too. Perhaps washed his hands a second time after, just to draw it out.

While he waits for Dean to finish mentally preparing himself, Castiel watches rainwater collecting on a dark, glossy leaf outside. It gathers into a single fat drop at the pointy end. The leaf bounces a little when it finally drips free, and Castiel imagines that the tree feels lighter, insofar as a tree can feel.

He looks away just in time to see Dean returning to his seat.

It’s been almost half an hour.

Dean pushes out a breath.

“Okay,” he says to himself, and unlocks his phone. “Here goes, I guess.”

It takes a couple of attempts to get through to Sam, but when he does pick up, he sounds tense and distracted. The distinctive thrum of an engine and tires on asphalt keep a steady backdrop as he talks.

"You find something?" he asks, not bothering with a greeting, and Castiel can see the way it rankles Dean that Sam's not even trying. That he's so stubbornly refusing to even consider the possibility that he’s in the wrong here. Dean's jaw flexes, and he rubs at it with his palm. He pushes through.

"Yeah, actually. Cas managed to get us a shot of Dagon’s face, along with details on the car she’s driving. He’s gonna send it out to everyone in a bit, so keep an eye on your email.”

It’s clear that Dean’s trying to bait Sam into acknowledging Castiel’s success, or just acknowledging him at all. It doesn’t work. There’s a brief pause before Sam speaks again, and when he does, it’s just a blunt, flat question.

“Any idea where they are now?”

Dean’s cheek twitches again. Castiel taps his fingers on the table until Dean looks up at him, and shakes his head minutely. Tries to project his thoughts in Dean’s direction through sheer will. Don’t worry about it. Miraculously, Dean seems to understand.

“No clue. Donna’s put out a BOLO, so if the car shows up anywhere we’ll hear about it. We’re gonna hang out here another day or two just in case they're still nearby, but if there’s no movement we’ll head back to the bunker to regroup.”

“Okay, well it’ll probably be empty when you get there. Mom left again last night. Said she needed some time to deal after what happened with Wally.”

“Where are you?”

“Heading down to Amarillo,” Sam says. He doesn’t offer any further detail, and Dean impatiently waves his hand at the phone despite it not being a video call.

"You got a lead, or–?" he prompts.

"A hunt. Just a djinn, nothing major,” Sam explains. Then; “And before you ask, I’m not on my own. Was looking into cambion lore when I got a call from an old friend of Bobby's. You remember Marco? We met him on a hunt in Wyoming a few years back. The thing with the cursed locket."

Dean clicks his tongue.

"Bald guy, hunts with his cousin?"

"Yeah. He called 'cause Louis tripped and broke his wrist halfway through the job, and Marco didn't want to do the messy part without backup."

"Probably smart. Tell ‘em both I said hi.”

“Yeah, okay. Anything else?” Sam asks.

“That kinda depends on you, Sam,” Dean replies, and there’s a long, drawn out moment when all they can hear across the line is muffled road noise.

“Keep me updated,” Sam says finally, and ends the call without another word. Dean’s lips purse. He expels a heavy breath through his nose. Rubs at his face with both hands before dropping them away and staring at the phone until the screen dims.

“Where are we standing on fratricide these days?” he asks with dark humor. “Still bad, or is there a little bit of leeway if the brother in question is being a massive dick?”

“I think it’s still generally frowned upon,” Castiel says, and he's relieved when Dean cracks a small smile, stretching his foot out under the table to hook around Castiel's ankle.

“Yeah. Guess we’ll call that plan D, then.”

***

It's a little before dusk two days later when they get an apologetic text from Donna, informing them that the car Dagon stole has been dumped on the side of a service road in Arlington, Virginia. A shift worker had seen it on their way to work on Monday, happened to notice it was still sitting there this afternoon -- now with a shattered rear window -- and called it in about an hour ago.

"Gotta assume they switched cars," Dean says, grabbing the laptop and setting it down on top of the heavy book of demonic metaphysiology he'd been vaguely leafing through before they got the message. "But at least we know they're heading west."

"Unless they changed directions after they left the car."

"Yeah. Let me check for traffic cameras near where it was found," Dean tells him, tapping away at the keyboard and chewing on his lip. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find the car they switched to."

They don't get lucky. The nearest camera is around a mile down the road, and there's no telling which of the many passing cars stopped long enough for them to get in.

"So we're back to where we were when we got here," Castiel says with a sigh. Dean lightly kicks him under the table.

"No, we're not. We know what Dagon looks like now. That's big."

"If I could still fly, I might be able to locate her within a few moments."

"Yeah, but then who'd keep me company on the road?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to deprive you of that."

Castiel closes his book. They've already looked through all four volumes he'd brought to Washington more than twice, and what small mention of cambion they'd managed to find had proven too general to be of any potential use. At this point, they're just killing time. Any further research will require access to the bunker library.

"I guess we'll leave in the morning, then," Dean says, apparently thinking along the same lines. Castiel can't help but notice that he seems disappointed. Considering that leaving here means reuniting with Sam once he's done helping the other hunter in Texas, Castiel can understand his reluctance. He shares it. Wishes they could stretch this time out a little longer before they have to deal with a situation they'd both rather avoid.

But... maybe they can. Not by a lot, but enough to give them some breathing room.

"Can I make a small request for the drive back?" he asks.

"Mm?"

"No sleeping in the car. We'll share the driving through the day tomorrow, get a room somewhere tomorrow night, and then make it back home the following afternoon."

Dean makes a thoughtful noise, clicking his tongue like he really has to think about it. It's deeply obnoxious. Castiel narrows his eyes.

"Did I say request? I meant demand."

With a snort, Dean's expression breaks.

"Yeah, okay boss. I'll even let you pick the motel."