Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel with short appearances by Sam & Bobby.
Spoilers: Canon until 5x16.
Warnings: Mild swearing, fluff and sex.
Word Count: 8650
Summary: Figures it should take a damn apocalypse for Dean to finally get it.
Notes: I wrote this on and off for awhile, but this is my first venture into this pairing and this fandom, so I hope I did the characters justice. I hope you all enjoy it as well~
It’s the end of the world or pretty damn close to it.
Dean’s standing there, in the middle of a field of daisies just a few clicks away from their hideout, waiting for the inevitable destruction. Waiting for Lucifer. Or Hell on Earth or possibly salvation if all goes according to plan. At the moment, he really doesn’t want to contemplate the odds of succeeding—or failing. Whichever the option, it all comes down to him… and Dean definitely doesn’t want to think about that.
Instead he just stares at his surroundings, at the flowers and the trees and the grass all around him with a mixture of wonder and regret that they may all be burnt the moment Lucifer steps there.
Not unless he stops him.
Dean swallows a lump in his throat. Clearly trying to take his mind off things isn’t working.
He doesn’t want to think about the possible destruction of his home planet or about Lucifer or even about the goddamn plan—heck, he’d rather not think about anything at all, except, well, how to best put your mind and heart at ease (God knows he needs to stay calm and focus long enough to get through this night).
To his dismay, he can’t put himself to ease. He thought a little walk outside might clear his head, but all he thought about so far since he’d been out here was the end of the world, Lucifer and the so-called plan to take down the Devil, which, by the way, was about as foolproof as him going up to Satan himself and asking him to kindly back the fuck off and if it wasn’t too much trouble, if he could please head back down under, thank you very much.
Yeah, maybe when Hell froze over and angels stopped being dicks.
He thinks back to Sam and Bobby at the house, knowing full well the both of them are working relentlessly to make sure this plan was foolproof. They’d hit every book they could find, had practically leafed through every scroll in creation and had rounded up all the artillery they had in stock. Looking at their arsenal, it’d seemed they could defeat every evil son-of-a-bitch out there, including Lucifer.
For just that little while, Dean thinks maybe they can win. But maybe that’d been the alcohol talking at the time.
Dean vaguely remembers the talk he had with Sam from the night before. Well, at least, he believes there had been some type of conversation involved. He’d been drunk as fuck that night, sprawled across the floor in Bobby’s living room, with Sam on the couch next to him and a bottle of tequila in his hand.
The room is swaying sideways by the time Dean starts speaking out loud.
“Sam…” he slurs.
“Hm,” is Sam’s noncommittal reply, but Dean knows he’s listening.
“About tomorrow…” Dean trails off, partially because he doesn’t know where to go from here and also because even drunk, the admittance of anything remotely emotional is still hard for him. There’s a brief pause as neither of them speaks and Dean is starting to wonder if maybe it was best if he’d just kept his mouth shut, but then Sam is turning to him.
“What about tomorrow?” he says, his tone neutral, but Dean knows better that this air of nonchalance is just an act. Sam probably knows what he’s thinking—because there isn’t anything about Dean he doesn’t know and understand, this time being no different—but is quite possibly hoping that Dean changes his mind anyway.
But Dean finds himself opening his mouth again. “Tomorrow… it’s the day, Sam,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, even though it’s just the two of them in the house besides Bobby, who’s upstairs sleeping, and Castiel, who’s no where in sight but is likely keeping watch from afar.
“Yeah.” And Sam’s voice breaks at the seams.
Another lengthy pause as the both of them consider of the weight of that one word: tomorrow.
Dean swallows. “Sam, I just want to say… if things don’t … if somehow things don’t work—“
“They will,” cuts in Sam, firmly.
“Well, in case they don’t—“
“Dean,” says Sam, now glaring at him, but without heat. “Stop. It’s going to be okay. Bobby, Cas and I will be backing you up—“
“I know that,” says Dean, quickly. “But just in case things don’t. That’s all I’m saying.” He turns his eyes to the ceiling and he can feel himself grow alarmingly calm at his next choice of words. “Promise me you guys will get out of there while you still have the chance.”
He fully expects an outraged onslaught of denial, followed by another long, boring explanation of why this plan was going to work and that blah blah blah Dean should stop being such a pessimistic bitch. However, what he doesn’t expect is for Sam to throw a pillow at his face. None too gently, he might add.
“Ow! What the—what the fuck was that for?” he demands, now glaring at Sam, who doesn’t look the least bit ruffled and simply shrugs.
“Sorry, you were saying something very stupid just now,” he says and Dean glares again.
Dean, still pink-faced from and aching where the pillow had smacked him, attempts to regain some level of seriousness back to their conversation.
“I’m being serious, Sam,” he grumbles.
“Uh huh,” says Sam, fluffing up his remaining pillow.
“I am,” says Dean, and fuck, if he doesn’t sound like a whiney two-year-old throwing a tantrum.
Sam’s smile is nothing to be happy about either. “Right. Because I’m actually going to listen to you when you’re probably seeing six of me right now.”
“Three,” says Dean sourly, after a bout of internal struggle with whether or not he should justify that accusation with the truth.
“I rest my case,” says Sam, smiling again as Dean scowls and throws the pillow back at him.
“Jerk,” comes the instant reply. “Now go to sleep.”
There’s more silence as Sam’s settles into a comfortable position and abruptly falls asleep. But Dean feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time as he listens to his brother’s light snoring: contentment.
It’s the fucking apocalypse and he thinks, right here in this house, in this room… he thinks just maybe everything might turn out alright.
Dean doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but he’s pretty sure he’d stayed up long enough for Castiel to come back and find him, half-awake and completely buzzed.
At least Dean thinks he saw Castiel last night. He can’t be too sure, but he’s positive that the swirling mass of shadow and the gleam of too bright, too blue eyes staring back down at him had been Cas. Those eyes had stared back at him just a little too long for it not to be Cas.
Dean has an inkling he started talking again, mumbling who knows what to a bewildered, unsuspecting Castiel (and God forbid that Cas should have to sit and listen to all of that), but whatever he’s does or doesn’t say is lost to him.
The last thing he remembers before passing out is the strong smell of wind and lightning in his nose and the press of warm fingers brushing lightly on his forehead, pushing him into dreamless sleep.
The next day, he’s up bright and early without so much as a headache from the night before. Castiel is in the kitchen with Bobby and turns to bid him good morning. He looks about the same, with his windswept hair and too large clothes and his unblinking blue eyes; giving absolutely no indication that Dean had talked his ear off in his drunken stupor. And even if he had, Castiel doesn’t say anything.
He can’t say the same for Sam though, who’d woken up with a high-pitched girly cry and his patented bitchface when Dean had all but barrelled into him to wake him up. They don’t mention the events of last night either and go on as if nothing was ever said. In a way, Dean is grateful for that. The last thing he wants is for things to be socially awkward between them, especially if this could possibly be his last day on Earth.
It’s just Sam’s annoying and yet endearing way of telling Dean that he isn’t going to give up on him, not in a million years, not ever.
Bobby will likely say something along the lines of, “Like that’s going to ever happen” and “Boy, you must be an even bigger idjit than I thought” before gruffly telling him to go make himself useful and start packing all the salt rounds.
And, well… Dean doesn’t think he can argue with them both.
As for Castiel… well, he’s practically a
Apparently a couple years with him and Sam had infused some of the old
Cas is their friend now. He’s sat in the back seat of the impala during the drives back to Bobby’s and has frequently complained to Dean that his music selection was becoming highly repetitive (to which Dean would reply, “Sorry, Cas, house rules: driver picks the music, angel shuts his cakehole”).
Cas has also occasionally went with them to diners (even though he didn’t order anything), all simply because he liked their company, and when he wasn’t searching for God, he was with them during hunts; researching with Sam or making sure Dean didn’t do anything stupid (however, both Sam and Dean had agreed that Cas was never to impersonate any FBIs ever again).
So yes, he was their friend. Although Cas did have one problem and it usually resulted with Dean carrying a semi-conscious, bloodied-up angel back to their motel room, all simply because he’d thrown himself in front of a pair of claws or a set of teeth that were either aimed for Dean or for Sam. The fact that he did so often without even thinking about it drives Dean up the crazy wall.
“For the last time, don’t fucking put yourself in danger like that,” he tells the angel, while bandaging a deep cut on his arm, which… he isn’t completely sure why he’s even patching up in the first place considering Cas’s ability to heal himself in a heartbeat, but for some reason, it just makes Dean feel better.
Cas doesn’t put up any arguments either and Dean thinks that maybe Cas gets why he’s doing it.
Instead he just tilts his head to the side, his face clearly puzzled by something. “But… that vampire would have—“
“I don’t give two shits what that vampire could have done,” he spits and it sounds harsher than he intended.
Cas frowns, clearly confused. He looks to Sam for help, but all he receives is a similar look of disapproval. The confusion is only magnified as Cas looks back to Dean.
“It would have hurt you,” he says, as if this was a good, logical reason to hurl himself in front of danger. This quality in Castiel makes Dean both want to strangle him and never let him out of his sight.
“That’s not the point, Cas,” he growls.
The angel watches him bandage his arm in silent fascination. “Then what is?”
“Must you ask?” he says, exasperated and annoyed. “Just don’t do it ever again, you hear?”
Cas’s stares at him a little too long again, like he always does when he doesn’t fully understand something but is trying to. In most cases, he’s usually trying to figure out and understand Dean. It used to bother him before… to be the center of such absolute focus and attention, but now, staring back, almost petulantly, just came easy.
Cas must have seen something through all the irritation and the anger and sarcasm because his face settles into something Dean can’t quite put his finger on. But whatever it is Cas sees, it makes his face soft and his eyes clearer and bluer than they are and Dean can’t help but stare longer.
Luckily, Sam clears his throat (or rather, coughs really, really loudly) and the moment is broken. Dean tries not to look too flustered. Nor does he allow himself to see the sly amusement in Sam’s smile, which he doesn’t even bother to hide from Dean, before muttering something or other about grabbing a bite to eat—which, if Dean wasn’t so adamant about not dwelling too much about it, sounds almost like an excuse to leave them alone. This makes Dean flush even more.
“Dean, I’ll be fine,” Cas says patiently, who hadn’t even looked away from Dean once to acknowledge Sam’s swift departure. When Dean says nothing, he continues, “I may be cut off from Heaven, but I can still heal myself. You and Sam, on the other hand—“
“I know,” Dean says, his voice tight. And he does.
He stops with the bandages and just stares at where his hand is placed over Castiel’s arm; the skin is warm beneath his fingers, soft…almost delicate. Dean doesn’t know why, but a great surge of protectiveness overcomes him just then and despite himself, his grip on Cas tightens.
He knows Cas is strong and can handle himself, but he’s not invincible. He can still get hurt, he could still die—which is already something he’s done for Dean once, and it’s something Dean is not willing to let happen ever again.
At least this way, Dean can feel a little more assured that Cas is okay—that’s he’s safe. In a way, Castiel is family now. He’s one of them. And Dean makes it a point to look after the people he loves, even if the only thing he can do for them is stitch up a few cuts and tape up a few broken bones. So be it.
“Dean,” says Cas, breaking him from his momentary daze. Cas’s eyes and his face are still soft, still knowing and it’s a little too much for Dean, and yet he can’t tear himself away. It’s like being caught by the tides. “I know you’re concerned about my well-being and I am grateful, but you have nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”
Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying, “But you won’t be all the time.”
“You can’t keep me from getting hurt,” says Cas, quietly, and Dean wonders if maybe he read his mind somehow… or if maybe his fears really were that obvious.
“Well, it doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he grumbles, finally tearing his eyes away. He finishes the last of the tape. “There. All done. Just don’t move around too much or it’ll reopen.”
He feels silly saying this because Cas can heal. But he can’t help himself, just like he can’t help himself from bandaging and feeling protective over Cas.
Castiel is silent for a moment as he stares at his arm, considering something.
“Alright then. I promise to be more careful next time if you will,” he says and his eyes narrow at Dean. “You have an uncanny ability to find trouble.”
“Trouble usually finds me,” Dean jokes, trying to lighten the mood, but Castiel just stares at him, hard, making Dean roll his eyes and huff. “Oh, fine. I … promise.”
He makes a face. He’s just lucky Sammy isn’t here to witness this, otherwise he’d never live it down. Knowing Sam, he will likely tick this off as one of those ‘chick-flick’ moments Dean abhors so much, just to piss Dean off even more. But the fact that he’s even agreeing to this makes Dean think he’s turning into a girl.
Castiel seems pleased enough though and nods. “Good.” He gets up. “I shall take my leave then,” he says, and Dean tenses again.
“What? Already?” he says, and almost winces by how panicky his voice sounds just now.
“I have to get back to my search,” says Cas with another confused frown. “Why? Is there something else?”
Frankly, Dean doesn’t have an answer to that, but he’s pretty sure telling Cas that he just wants to hang out sounds just as lame outside his head as it does in it. He almost forgot about Castiel’s insane quest for God.
“Uh, no,” says Dean, shifting uncomfortably. “No it’s nothing. Never mind, just… forget it. You’re right. You should go.” He does his best to mask the disappointment in his voice, even though it’s probably already obvious from way his cheeks strain to maintain the false cheer in his smile. Dean hates himself for it.
If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want Castiel to leave just yet. He knows he’s being ridiculous and that this search for God is important to Cas; knows that this is Cas’s way of maintaining his faith in his Father. And Dean is loathed to be the one who takes that away from him on account that he wants Cas to stay.
Jesus Christ, he is turning into a fucking girl. But to his credit, Dean keeps his mouth shut and keeps those inklings to himself.
“I see,” says Cas, slowly, eyes drifting to his arm again. This time, he stares at it for so long that for a minute, Dean is flit with some irrational fear that maybe the wound had opened up somehow when it’d likely already healed while he was patching it up.
“Cas?” he says.
When Cas looks up again, his eyes are wide and he looks small; his face soft with a kind of childlike vulnerability that makes Dean want to reach out and touch him, but he is looking to Dean like he just realized something very important.
“I think I’d like to stay for a little longer,” he murmurs.
“You do?” Dean blurts out, somewhat astounded by the sudden change of mind.
Castiel nods again. “Yes,” he affirms. “I do.”
Dean tries not to look too relieved, but it’s a failed attempt. “That’s… that’s, well,” he clears his throat, “that’s good to know. Super really. God knows you should take it easy once in awhile.”
Cas is still looking at Dean in that strange way he can’t pinpoint, and for some reason, it’s making Dean feel warm; like maybe he’s a little vulnerable himself, but he doesn’t know why.
“Okay,” says Dean, his voice lower, softer; it’s like someone had clogged up his throat.
“Okay,” says Cas, just as quietly.
The silence and the staring become almost too much for Dean to handle and he decides it’s time to get up and put the medical supplies away. He stops shortly when he hears Cas call his name again.
“Uh, yeah?” he says, clearing his throat. “What is it, Cas?”
“Thanks for bandaging my arm,” Cas says and Dean thinks it’s silly that he has to thank him for something that is completely unnecessary and Dean feels inclined to point this out, but then the craziest thing happens just then.
The corners of Cas’s lips turns into smallest and briefest of smiles that for a second, Dean thinks he’s hallucinating. Dreaming. He doesn’t even realize that he’s fallen into something short of a daze because time and thought all fade from him completely.
It’s so rare for Castiel to actually smile. Most of the time, it’s barely there and can only be seen by the way his eyes flicker in light amusement and then it’s gone, like smoke in a glass. But this… this smile was open, real and almost blinding—that for one moment, Dean thinks someone just sucker-punched him in the gut, only he doesn’t think a punch to the gut could feel this pleasant or this good if the strange and yet soothing flood of warmth spreading in his chest is anything to go by.
However, by the time Dean thinks to look again the smile is gone. The only thing keeping Dean from believing he just imagined the whole thing are slight, little residues of light and glamour reflecting off Castiel’s eyes. It takes Dean a second long to realize that the deep pang in his chest is a result from his disappointment to see it again.
And Dean knows he’s been staring way too long because Cas is now starting to give him weird looks (and coming from the master of all stare contests, Dean thinks this is pretty pathetic). He feels something like heat burning across his neck and face and he suddenly can’t look Cas in the eye.
He needs to get out of there, he thinks.
“Right. Uh, it’s nothing,” he mumbles, still keeping his eyes trained anywhere but on Cas. “It was my pleasure.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply and just flees to the sanctuary of the kitchen, where he finds his breathing shallow and his hands shaking and his heart beating faster than its ever did in his life. But what is more, the memory of Cas’s smile and the surge of emotions that it brought in Dean are what confuses him the most and for the life of him, he doesn’t know why.
The flutter of wings and the ruffling of clothes at his side brings Dean back to the present.
Speak of the devil, Dean thinks with a wry smile.
He doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is. He can feel it in the sudden, unexpected warmth on his skin the smell of wind, earth and lightning that fills his nostrils—both very soothing and pleasant and just familiar. He just knows.
As he turns around, it’s like clockwork; the green seeks out the blue and they collide almost instantly.
“Cas,” he says.
“Dean,” says Castiel without hesitation.
They spend the next second or hours maybe (Dean never really knows how much time has gone by during these silent exchanges) just staring at one another. It’s a timely rhythm, a familiar habit, a synchronized dance—not that he can picture him and Cas dancing the waltz or whatever—but it’s something they just do without thinking.
With his eyes alone, he’s already asked a million questions:
Will I be able to do this? Are you sure this plan is going to work? What happens if I fail?
And every time, Castiel answers them with the same unwavering faith and certainty that he’s placed in everything Dean does:
Yes. It will work. You won’t fail.
How do you know? He says incredulously.
Because he’s just one man. He can’t trust himself to think that he, of all people, was destined to defeat the Devil—a being that is more powerful than anything Dean’s ever had to face in his life. He just doesn’t think it’s likely and even if he does, somehow, manage to kill Lucifer, Dean knows he won’t live to know what happens after.
His fears and doubts must have shown in his features because Castiel is stepping close to him, so close that Dean can see his reflection in the blueness of his eyes. Dean feels his heart stutter at their proximity—something he’s starting to notice happens a lot around Cas—but he doesn’t step back or reinstate some protocol about boundaries to the angel.
Castiel never quite got the hang of personal space anyway and was always slipping into Dean’s space without so much as a second thought or an eyelash out of place, like being this close to Dean isn’t weird or unnerving but completely and totally natural. Dean has long given up reminding Cas of such things, but he can’t remember when he stopped being bothered by it.
Castiel raises a hand and touches the side of his face, making Dean wonder when the hell he also became okay with Castiel touching him like this. As far as Dean’s concerned, this was a total breech of his personal boundaries, one that normally had him back-pedalling until he was on the other side of the country. But he doesn’t move, can’t seem to move.
He just stands still and holds his breath because for whatever reason oxygen just refuses to come in or out and that pleasing warmth in his chest that he’s come to associate with Cas is spreading through him like wildfire. But it isn’t unpleasant. It’s soothing, calming, invigorating. And the more Cas stands there and touches him, the more Dean craves it—the more he wants this certain warmth.
I just know, says Castiel, pressing his palm firmly against his cheek and the fire feels like a furnace. Because I have faith in you, Dean.
And Dean can’t help but lean into it, his own hand covering Cas’s and pressing it closer to the side of his face, seeking warmth and comfort and whatever else is spilling out from Cas’s fingers and onto his skin. He wonders when he started shaking.
I’m going to die aren’t I? Dean says, for once, not caring whether revealing this would be a sign of weakness on his part or makes him sound like a girl; it’s just something he needs to know. He is at least comforted with the knowledge that Castiel will never ever judge him for it—for being afraid.
You won’t die, is Castiel’s immediate response. It is said with such a fierce level of determination and conviction that Dean is thrown aback; he even allows a small sliver of hope to worm its way back into his heart.
“You won’t die,” Cas repeats firmly, out loud this time; his voice deep and quiet, making Dean shudder. Cas’s expression softens. “I won’t let you die.”
It’s like a promise or a declaration, and Dean distantly remembers Cas’s voice, yelling at him over the sound of thunder and shattering glass, how he was going to hold off the archangel—hold them all off—and just to stop Sam. This was similar—no, it was the same, and in the end he’d winded up losing Castiel.
Not this time, he thinks, his free hand curling tightly while the other that’s still holding Cas’s just tugs closer.
“I won’t let you die either,” he says, his voice low and husky, calm but thick and hard like steel, and Cas’s eyes widen a fraction and his breathing stutters.
Dean just stares at him, not saying anything. But things he’s always known before about Cas and things he doesn’t, suddenly hits him like a freight train, and it’s like he’s staring at Cas for the very first time with perfect clarity.
Here is someone who’d saved him from hell, who remade him, who’d touched and put back his very soul and who probably knew Dean more than Dean cares to admit. The same being, who had given up his home, his life and just about everything for Dean even though, in the end, Dean had failed. The same person, who’d never, once, given up or had lost faith in Dean, even during the times when Dean didn’t have faith in himself. Cas was just always there. Another constant in his life, like Sam, his baby and Bobby. But for some reason, Cas was different. In the back of his mind, Dean knows Castiel has always been different.
A couple years with him has clearly changed Cas; he’s more open now, more understanding of human qualities and simply put, more human—Dean can read the guy like an open book (then again, Cas has never bothered to hide anything from Dean before).
At the same time, he’s still the same. He’s still Cas. The same Cas who looks at Dean like he’s the most peculiar, fascinating thing in the world (instead of the other way around); who listens to Dean like what Dean has to say is important; the same Cas who doesn’t understand pop culture references and takes everything literally. Who wears the same ridiculous trench coat, even in sweltering weather, and who nibbles on the pies Dean gets him to try in an endearing sort of awkwardness that wouldn’t have made him any more Cas if it didn’t.
And right now Dean can see every emotion, every thought and light in Cas’s face. And they were all looking and pointing towards one thing: Dean.
It was just Dean, Dean, Dean—everything about Castiel’s expression screamed Dean. It was there, as plain as day. Dean doesn’t know why he hasn’t noticed it before until now, but it’s there; out in the open.
He should be afraid of this kind of devotion, this level of desire and longing, because no one has ever looked that way at Dean before. Like he’s worth more than the world—like he is the world… just no one. He can’t handle that. There was no way someone could want and need and love him that much. It was too much. It’s staring Dean right in the face and he doesn’t think he deserves any of it.
The most tragic part of it all is Dean knows Cas will never ask him. He will never make Dean choose something he may or may not be ready for, even if it’s something Cas most desperately wants—more than going back home, more than finding his Father, more than anything he’s ever wanted for himself. He won’t ever ask Dean of that.
“I see,” says Cas, who is the first to break the silence between them, and then the impossible happens again when he looks back up at Dean and smiles; a full, wide, brilliant smile that hits Dean so hard in the chest that he’s momentarily breathless
“Thank you, Dean,” he says, still with that blinding, brilliant smile of his before it’s gone again and he’s pulling away, prying his hand gently away from Dean’s (who, quite frankly, was so comfortable that it’d slipped his mind that he was still holding onto Cas), and leaving Dean feeling cold and alone.
There’s a frightening sense of wrongness in that and it wells up so deep inside him that for a moment he’s angry—angry at Cas for pulling away and angry at himself for even letting him do such a thing.
And then he’s afraid… afraid he’ll no longer have Cas’s warmth, his smile, his look, ever again when—goddamnit—he wants it, wants it so much that it physically aches to be away from Cas.
He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he’s yanking Cas back to him, with a startling force and conviction that it sends the angel careening into him. But Dean doesn’t care and just sighs with relief as warmth and protection and love rushes back to his senses. In his arms, Cas is squirming a little, as if trying to break free; Dean just pulls him even closer with stubborn refusal to let go.
And Dean gets it. He fucking gets it. Figures, it should take a damn apocalypse for Dean to finally get it, but he does.
Cas is trying to walk away, trying to give Dean back his… space, like maybe he’d overstepped his bounds again by putting Dean in this position and is now attempting to reconcile his mistake. Dean has never faced a more ridiculous assumption in his life.
“Don’t go,” he finds himself saying, his voice harsh and desperate, causing Cas to stop his fidgeting and freeze. Dean’s grip loosens slightly, letting his hands fall down to Castiel’s lower back and waist, but with firm indication that he isn’t about to let go of him either. “Stay,” he hisses in his ear, making the angel shudder and grip his shirt tight. “Stay. With me.”
This should scare the fuck out of Dean because he’s never asked anyone—anyone who wasn’t family—to stay with him before. He’s never fought this hard to keep someone from leaving. But then again, Cas has always been a special case.
Cas just sighs, but it doesn’t sound wary or tired or any of the negative things Dean thinks may spring up from his outburst. On the contrary, he sounded wistful and is it just Dean, or is he now shifting closer?
“Just like before,” Cas murmurs, nuzzling his face against Dean’s neck, inhaling deeply and it’s Dean’s turn to shudder.
“Like before?” Dean says, his voice hoarse and thick. He realizes a second later he is panting.
Cas flushes a deep shade of red which is such a human quality that it just pulls Dean right in, like gravity. “Last night,” he starts and then bites his lips, as though he’s not sure if he should continue.
There’s a small tingling in the back of his mind that makes Dean believe he already knows what Castiel might be referring to, but he urges him on anyway.
“Last night,” says Cas again, “at Bobby’s. I came back from my watch and you were still awake.” Dean nods because he knows this. “At first I thought you couldn’t sleep, but then you started saying… things,” he words carefully, making it a point to stare at Dean’s collar, and Dean has half a mind to ask Cas what the hell he means by ‘things’ when Cas starts talking again, “and well, I just knew you weren’t in you’re right state of mind.”
“What did I say?”
Cas shakes his head. “You were inebriated,” he says as if this was all the explanation Dean needed.
“That’s not answering my question,” says Dean.
“It’s not of import,” Cas says quietly, now fretting over the front of his shirt so badly that Dean has to make him stop.
“Cas.” Dean lifts his chin so that they are at eye-level again. “What did I say?” he says, voice even; gentle.
“You… asked me to stay,” Cas whispers, his tone implying he thinks Dean will get mad or worse, regret it. “With you.”
In the back of Dean’s mind, he can hear the desperate whispers of his words travel back to him. Echoing louder, clearer.
“Cas… stay. Don’t go. I want you to stay… with me. Stay with me, Cas.”
And then there’s a streak of blue eyes in the night staring back at him, wide and unblinking. Then it’s gone and there’s a slight quirk of a smile in the dark, filled with warmth and promise and an aching sort of longing that hurts Dean to look at.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dean. I’ll stay. However long you need me, I’ll stay.”
Castiel shifts slightly in his arms and he just looks unsure about what to make of Dean’s silence.
“Like I said… you were inebriated,” said Cas firmly. “You don’t need to—“
“I meant it,” Dean finds himself saying even before he realizes what it is he’s going to say.
“What?” Clearly, this is not what Cas had been expecting he’d say.
This is the part where Dean usually balks and takes it all back because what he’s asking for… there’s no turning back from this, there’s no reset button. This is the real deal. This is it.
It’s the leap before the fall without a parachute-landing, something Dean’s never ever been entirely comfortable with, let alone has ever done before. Well, he’d done it once for Cassie, was willing to do it for her all over again, but she wasn’t up for it a second time and Dean had walked away promising never to let himself fall again.
But here he is, offering himself for the biggest freefall he’s ever known and asking Castiel to take that plunge with him.
Cas just stares at him, his blue eyes round, not daring to believe him, and Dean thinks maybe he’s not the only one who’s afraid. But Cas isn’t afraid of the fall, he soon realizes. Cas has already taken that plunge ages ago and is just waiting—hoping—Dean will be willing to do the same for him. Cas is the one who’s afraid that Dean will say no.
Dean doesn’t know how to tell him otherwise. He’s never been good with words. That’s always been Sam’s department. But Cas is still staring at him, still expecting something out of him and Dean figures he’ll just have to show him with the only way he knows how.
He doesn’t know when he started moving until he’s halfway into Cas’s personal space, cupping Cas’s face in his hand and leaning forward, foreheads and nose touching. He has a brief moment to marvel at the look of total surprise on Cas’s face, which is so very new and strange and somewhat amusing considering how Cas hardly ever gets surprised by anything; it just makes Dean all the more sure of himself about this.
Cas whispers his name between them, so soft, open and hopeful that’s it’s in his eyes, like everything right there is exactly what he wants and is exactly where he wants to be—and, well, it’s the only word Dean needs to hear anyway.
“You can close your eyes and think of Heaven if you like,” he murmurs, just to put that out there.
“Dean,” says Cas, sounding mildly exasperated, but his eyes are smiling and blue and they’re drawing Dean in again, “just kiss me.”
For once, Dean does what he’s told and closes the remaining gap between them, sealing soft, chapped lips with his own. He thinks he hears someone sigh in relief, but he can’t tell if it’s coming from him or if it’s coming from Cas, but it doesn’t seem to matter now because he can hardly think straight anyway. He has his arms full of angel and the warm press of lips moving keenly against his own, stealing breath and burning heat right through the fabric of his clothes.
If he thought Cas was warm now, just from his touch, it’s nothing compared to the rising inferno that’s building and scorching Dean right this second. Cas’s arms make their way around his shoulders, tugging him closer; hands in his hair, curling and gripping in such a way that causes Dean to shiver something pleasant deep inside him.
When they finally pull apart, Dean’s out of breath and Cas is looking, simply put, completely debauched from his mussing. Somewhere in between the kissing and the obsessive touching, Dean has managed to stick Cas’s hair up in even weirder angles; his lips are red and swollen and his expression looks many miles away, but he’s smiling with his mouth and his eyes and Dean’s completely gone for it.
One of Cas’s hands is still in his hair and he tugs Dean back to him, who meets him halfway where lips and tongue and teeth collide in a kiss that Dean feels straight to his core. Cas’s kisses are clumsy but eager and he gives Dean everything he has and more. It makes Dean faintly recall that Cas has never been kissed before, not even by Chastity, not by anybody.
The thought causes a mixture of possessive satisfaction and affection to burst inside Dean. He gives the lapels of Castiel’s coat an insistent tug forward, his feet moving backwards and Cas goes with him willingly without breaking apart. Cas lets Dean drags him away from the clearing, towards a more hidden spot by the trees, where he brings Cas down with him to their knees and starts to peel off his coat.
Cas cups his face and kisses him without a care in the world whilst Dean tries to unbutton the front of Cas’s shirt, but it’s hard and he finds himself messing up on more than one occasion because his fingers and his hands are shaking so much.
He eventually gets it undone and slides it to the ground to join Cas’s coat. Dean’s hands roam everywhere on Cas’s revealed flesh; from his thin, shapely arms, flat stomach and then up and down slim, taut hips. Cas’s hands are frantic, overzealous and shaky; his movements unrefined from his obvious lack of experience, but Dean finds that he rather likes Castiel’s newness because it just means Dean will be the one who gets to teach him.
They break apart again momentarily for Dean to frantically pull his own shirt over his head and in their haste they wind up tumbling into the grass with Cas on his back and Dean falling over him. Dean huffs a little laugh into Cas’s collarbone and underneath him Cas’s smiling again—it just keeps getting easier with every time he does it and it never fails to leave Dean breathless and awestruck. And then the angel is yanking his head back down for another kiss, and it’s better than the first, hotter and fiercer than the last and it just keeps getting better with the every slip and burn of skin over skin.
With every kiss, every brush of skin and every touch, Dean claims the angel just a little bit more. He doesn’t even know he’s been mouthing the words “mine, mine, mine” again and again into Cas’s mouth and flesh until Cas is squeezing him and whispering back, “yours, yours, yours”.
He wants this—wants Cas so badly it’s starting to hurt and make him tremble and ache. The longer Dean stays wrapped up in Castiel and in all his warmth, the more Dean wants him, the more Dean wants to go on touching and kissing and needing Cas until he’s practically branded himself on the angel like the angel is on him. But he’s not going to do anything; he won’t do anything unless Cas makes him because he’s still not sure if he even deserves this.
“Tell me what you want, Cas,” he hisses through harsh breath.
“I want—“ Cas chokes, barely able to put a string of words together.
“You,” Cas gasps out as Dean finds a spot behind his ear and bites, “I want… you. Just you.”
Dean begins to trail lower as Cas watches him, his mouth wet and hot on flushed skin. Cas watches, without blinking or breathing, as Dean unbuckles his pants and slowly slides them down passed his legs, along with his boxers. He doesn’t even look away as Dean takes all of him in with lust pooling in his eyes and the need to take Castiel right then and there seeping into his groin. He just stares at Dean the same way he’s always been staring at him, with clear, unwavering eyes that tell Dean everything he needs to know: I want this, I want you, and I’ll always choose you.
“Dean,” Cas whispers, slender fingers grazing lightly over Dean’s face. Just his name and nothing more, but it’s enough. It’s enough for Dean to understand.
He divests the last of his clothing and rolls onto Castiel, who lets him slide between his legs without preamble. Dean crushes Cas’s mouth in a hard, desperate kiss that leaves the angel breathless. He dips his lips to the side of Cas’s jaw, down his neck and shoulder while roaming and licking and sucking every inch of skin in his path. Cas gasps and whimpers as Dean spreads him open and uses his hands and his mouth and tongue to find all the places that will make him come apart. Dean knows he wants to take his time with Castiel, wants to makes this last. He wants to memorize Cas and get to know him as intimately as Cas knows his very soul.
Castiel is a trembling and panting mess in Dean’s hands before Dean is pushing between Cas’s legs and swiftly sliding into tight, slick heat that makes him stutter for breath. He’s unprepared by the sudden blitz of emotion and feeling and tremors prickling and tearing at his body. It feels good—so fucking good it’s almost sinful. Dean could literally lose himself right there if he doesn't calm himself down and gain some semblance of equilibrium.
But how the hell can he? How can he regain control when Cas is creeping underneath his skin and pulling him apart, making him break into pieces? How can he resume his own will when the moment Cas kissed him, he’d already been made undone by him?
Cas’s arms encircle around him, looking and feeling exactly as Dean does right this second. He meets Dean’s eyes; the blue and the green, and he doesn’t look away.
“Dean,” he murmurs, cupping Dean’s face so that their lips are barely touching. “Dean, move.”
It’s a plea and a command all in one and it pulls Dean in again. He kisses Cas, sucks in the angel’s startled gasp in his mouth just as he jerks his hips forward and slides all the way in. He pauses for a second to regain his balance before Cas is arching his hips and Dean is moving again. Again and again and again, until his timely rhythm escalates into something fiercer, something more frantic and rough; something uncontained and less controlled.
And Dean can’t stop. He slides deep into Cas like he was made to be there; like he was always meant to be there. He whispers Cas’s name against hot skin, swearing and moaning nonsense even he doesn’t hear or understand. And Cas just clings onto him tightly, his legs wound around his waist in a vice-grip, his fingers on his back and arms so tight it’s almost bruising.
But Dean doesn’t care. Cas is falling apart by his doing; Cas is gasping and sobbing his name into his mouth and begging Dean to go faster, harder and deeper with every thrust. He has the angel pleading him for more, like he can’t get enough and it’s so fucking beautiful that Dean picks up his pace again, until he’s practically slamming into Cas with enough force to shatter teeth. But Cas just basks in it and tries to stifle cries that are already increasing in volume.
Dean is having none of that.
“Don’t hold back. I want to hear you,” he hisses against Cas’s mouth, beads of sweat dripping off the tips of his hair. “Just let go.”
Cas moans so loudly that Dean would have worried someone might have overheard them, but he’s too far gone in his own vocal appreciation to care whether or not people can hear them or not.
“Dean, I’m… I’m…” Cas gasps.
“Fuck, Cas, fuck,” he grits out. Dean just grips his shoulders and arches his head back, riding Cas with everything he’s got.
He watches as the angel’s eyes and mouth suddenly go wide with shock and pleasure and his body curve back into Dean like he’s trying mould himself into Dean all over again and it’s enough. The sight of Cas shattering into millions of pieces is enough for Dean to follow right after him.
He squeezes his eyes shut as a tidal wave of endless pleasure cascades through every fibre of his being, straight to his bones and his muscles—to his soul, and watches as stars and light flash behind his lids. He smoulders Cas’s screams with one last kiss and holds on to him as they finally slip and fall over the last edge and into oblivion.
When Dean opens his eyes again, the sky is a pale mixture of blue and orange that has him vaguely wondering just how long he’s been out here. But his mild musings fall short when he feels the press of something warm in his arms; hair is tickling his chin and soft breathing is wafting into the curve of his neck. There’s a hand on his chest, just above where his heart is beating and Dean doesn’t want to move.
When he looks down, blue eyes are already looking back at him.
For the life of him, Dean isn’t sure he knows what to say, so instead he settles for, “Hey,” his voice a tad gruff from sex and sleep.
Apparently, it’s enough for Castiel, who smiles at him and reaches over to touch his face.
“Hello,” he returns and Dean thinks to himself, screw it, and leans down to kiss him. He can feel ripples of pleasure coming off Cas from the small action. He pushes himself against Dean, his hand curling around his neck to hold them together for a little while longer.
“You okay?” Dean asks as they pull away, but he’s still pressing kisses on the curve of Cas’s lips, on his jaw and on his neck.
“Yes,” Cas replies, somewhat breathless by Dean’s gentle nipping. “I am a bit sore though.”
Dean grins at that, expression smug. “Yeah, I’ll bet you are,” he says with a leer and laughs when Cas feigns annoyance at him. He just pulls Cas back in for another kiss and they don’t say much again after that until a little later, when the sun is barely visible in the horizon and the sky is now a deep shade of purple and red.
“How many hours do we have left?” says Dean as he watches Cas trace patterns at the palm of his hand, over and over.
“There’s a few hours left until ,” Cas answers, not breaking off from his ministrations. He seems to have found a new fascination for Dean’s hand because he hasn’t let it go yet. Dean doesn’t mind; his hand feels warms in between Cas’s. And when Cas presses his mouth at the center of it, looking at Dean as he does so, Dean feels warm and safe and taken care of.
“A few hours…” Dean repeats quietly, and it seems so short a time.
His moment with Cas is but a small, burning candle in a long chain of moments he knows he could be having. It doesn’t seem like it’s enough, not when the world could end or he could die tomorrow and it isn’t. All Dean wants is for his life to go on after this. He wants a house right beside Bobby’s, he wants his brother living under the same roof as him and he wants Cas in his bed every single night and wake up wrapped around him every morning. He wants to have that with Cas; he wants to have that more than anything, and after , he may never get the chance ever again.
“Dean?” says Cas, who had probably been watching him this whole time.
Dean just rolls them over so that Cas is straddling his lap. “When this is all over,” says Dean in a deep, harsh whisper just a breath away from Cas’s lips, “I want to do this again. Only I want you on a bed, someplace far away from here, and I want to take it slow.” He can feel Cas starting to shake against him and the blueness of his eyes have gone perceptively darker. “I want to take you, make you tremble, make you beg,” he says, gripping Cas’s hips tightly until it hurts. “Make you ache for more.”
“Yes,” Cas sighs.
“So stay, Cas,” says Dean and does nothing to hide the possessive edge in his voice. “Don’t go. Stay,” With me, but he can’t say anymore.
He doesn’t need to though. Cas just moves up Dean’s chest and plants feather-light kisses all over Dean’s mouth, his chin, his neck and jaw; each one a promise, each one giving Dean a little more hope.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” says Cas. “I’ll stay.”
And Dean knows he doesn’t just mean till tomorrow.
“Good,” he says and pulls Cas down for another kiss. “Good.”