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spn fic: for now i smell the rain
Title: for now i smell the rain
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~3,300
Summary:"Look at you, all suited up," Dean says, because he has to say something, because Cas wearing a shapeless tan coat is familiar territory, one of the few constants Dean has had in his life besides his brother and his car, because Cas is an angel again, and the stiff set of his shoulders feels like a knife between the ribs, stabbing at something tired and worthless deep inside Dean' s chest.
Notes: Coda for 9x10; vague spoilers for the 9x11 promo.
[@AO3]
for now i smell the rain
It rains the night Kevin dies, not hard and not for long, just enough to soak Dean's shirt as he carries Kevin's body into the woods behind the bunker. The moon is barely a sliver and half hidden by the tops of the trees; Dean gets three feet into digging a grave before the depth of his selfishness finally punches him in the gut. Kevin died like a hunter, and he deserves better than a few handfuls of wet dirt, but a grave means a body, and a body means Dean can keep pretending that there's still hope, that there's still a chance someone can fix the horrible fucking mess he has made.
He throws the shovel out toward the treeline, flexes his aching hands.
The pyre catches fire with a sound like thunder, like a door blowing closed in a wind storm, and Dean takes a breath choked with forest-rot, dead leaves and cold, damp earth. The rain starts to drizzle off, but the sky stays purple and angry, the stars shrouded by clouds that seem low, leaning into Dean's shoulders, pressing on the back of his neck.
+
"Look at you, all suited up," Dean says, because he has to say something, because Cas wearing a shapeless tan coat is familiar territory, one of the few constants Dean has had in his life besides his brother and his car, because Cas is an angel again, and the stiff set of his shoulders feels like a knife between the ribs, stabbing at something tired and worthless deep inside Dean' s chest.
+
"Just go."
It's raining again. Dean's throat tightens around the stench of wet asphalt and the anger creaking over his brother's voice, coating it like rust.
+
Dean sleeps hard his first night alone, dead to the world, sprawled on a cheap motel bed and drowning in Maker's Mark. After that, he stares up at the water-stained ceiling until his eyes burn and the sky starts to bruise, drifting off to sleep in short, restless snatches and dreaming of all the shit he wants to forget -- Crowley pushing needles into Sam's head, April stabbing an angel blade into Cas' chest, Kevin's body crumpled on the floor, his charred eyes staring up at Dean like an accusation.
One night he dreams of hell, in a way he hasn't in years -- vivid and full color, every horrific sight and smell. Alistair's voice is nearly as sharp as his razor, and both come slicing out of the shadows until everything is open and raw and slick with blood and Dean wakes covered in a cold sweat and clawing at the dingy sheets. There is a real fire in the pit, Ruby hadn't been lying about that, but Dean had spent his first thirty years there shivering in spite of the fire, chilled to the bone from pain and fear and from constantly being exposed.
+
"Hello, Squirrel. I'd say it's good to see you, but you actually look more constipated than usual."
"You stupid son of a bitch," Dean snaps, drumming his fingers on the bar as Crowley slides onto the stool beside him. "I told you I'd kill you if I ever saw you again."
"You did. Which is why I'm here, in this bacterial breeding ground pretending to be a bar. You're thoughtlessly impulsive and a complete danger to everyone around you, but you're not dumb enough to stab me in a public place. Not in front of fifty witnesses."
"Are you sure about that? These witnesses look drunk."
"Hardly. Happy hour only started twenty minutes ago."
Dean sighs and takes a long drink of his beer. "What do you want?"
"I have a business proposition for you. Granted, it will involve a few uncomfortable days on both our parts, because working with a demon seems to chafe you in the manhood and I do hate the smell of a martyr boiling in his own oil, but -- "
"Get to the point."
"There's just no foreplay with you, Squirrel. No wonder Cas was such a sourpuss the other day."
Anger crashes over Dean like a wave, twisting into his gut with the force of a living thing; he clunks his beer on the bar and reaches for the angel blade at his hip. "Just get out." Crowley had been right earlier -- there are too many people around, and Dean is sitting too far from the door to make a clean exit -- but he isn't sure he cares anymore. "Get out right now and I won't shove this right between your eyes."
"We need to kill Abaddon."
"You want to hunt with me."
"Not an ideal partnership, I admit, but we both seem to be a little short on friends just now. Besides, I do love a good buddy comedy."
+
It takes Crowley three days to find Abaddon, three days Dean spends breaking in a new bottle if whiskey and pacing his shitty motel room until he's too exhausted to dream. The weather takes a sudden turn, burning hot enough when the sun is out that sweat beads at Dean's hairline and prickles at the back of his neck. The air conditioner in the room makes more noise that air and smells like wet dog; Dean salts the windows and paints a devil's trap in front of the door, though he isn't sure why he bothers. Crowley would find a way in if he really wanted to slit Dean's throat, and at this point he'd only be doing Dean a favor anyway.
He ignores Cas' first five or six calls because he doesn't want to talk to anyone or thing about anything, but Cas calls another two or three times, finally leaving Dean a message that practically drips with impatience, his gravelly voice and bristling sighs digging at something underneath Dean's skin, something Dean isn't willing to examine too closely, not when he's five hundred miles away and Cas is an angel again. Dean stares at his phone for close to ten minutes, waiting to see if Cas will call one more time, then curses under his breath and dials Cas' number, tucking the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he pours himself another drink.
"Dean. Are you all right?"
"Yeah," Dean, says, sitting on the egde of the bed. "I'm -- I'm okay."
"We haven't heard from you in several days."
Dean finishes his drink, his hand shaking as he sets the glass on the nightstand. "Yeah, I've been -- how's Sam?"
"Healing. Though, I believe he'd heal faster if you'd come home."
"I can't. I have things I need to do. I need to kill Gadreel. I need... " Dean sighs into the phone and rubs the back of his neck. "Cas, I can't."
"He's worried about you. We both are."
"Don't."
+
Crowley tracks Abaddon to an abandoned warehouse a state and a half over, just far enough away that Dean has to pack up his stuff and check into a new motel room. The warehouse is both derelict and huge, the windows covered with boards and the sagging roof a jagged line against the bluish night sky; Dean figures the best option is to stake it out for a little bit, so he parks the Impala a block down the road, hiding it in the shadows of a broken street light, sweating in the driver's seat and trying to pretend he doesn't have the King of Hell riding shotgun. Crowley doesn't reek of sulfur the way most crony demons do, but Dean can still sense it, a dull burn that sours the coffee he's drinking and darkens the familiar leather-and-gas smell of the Impala.
"I need to find Gadreel," Dean says about two hours in, because the silence is making is skin itch. His phone buzzes in his pocket; he doesn't need to check to know it's Cas.
"No. Absolutely not. I only signed up for your last angel adventure because it was a ticket out of your dungeon. You don't have a carrot big enough to lure me into another one."
"I don't want your help. I just want to know if I can do it."
"Not by yourself. You'll need your brother."
Dean shifts in his seat and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "No."
"Look, I don't know what this little domestic drama of yours is about, and I don't care, but I will tell you you're not going to find Gadreel just by driving this noisy piece of overcompensation all across the country. If you really want to get the job done, you'll need Moose and the little angel that could."
"Why?"
"Possession leaves a trace behind. An imprint, if you will. Why do you think demons ride their meatsuits so hard? With the right spell, a living vessel can give up all a demon's secrets -- including, a general idea of where it's smoked off to. Leaving a corpse behind instead of a breather destroys the evidence."
Dean rubs his hand over his face; the more he learns about demons, the less he wants to know. "But Gadreel is an angel."
"Potato, potahto. The only difference between angel possession and demon possession is that angels need permission."
"An imprint," Dean mutters, shaking his head. "And I can use it to track him?"
"You can't, but Cas can."
Dean's phone buzzes again; he thumbs the reject button without looking at the caller ID.
+
Abaddon nearly skins them alive.
The spell Crowley thought would kill her just roll off her like water, and Dean learns the hard way that angel blades don't hurt her any more than Ruby's knife had. Crowley pulls a disappearing act the moment things start going south; Dean deals with the two stunt demons easily enough, but Abaddon slams him into several walls and corners him in a third floor room that looks like an office, and Dean catches himself praying as he's escaping the warehouse through a window, rattled by the seering pain in his knee and shoulder and Abaddon's shrieked promises to wear his skin when she murders Sam and Cas with her bare hands.
Cas calls as Dean is speeding past Lincoln, and Dean curses as he digs his phone out of his pocket. His hand is shaking and covered in blood.
"Yeah?"
"Dean," Cas says, his voice rough and tight, angel-frantic. "Dean, where are you?"
"Nebraska."
"I heard you pray."
"Yeah, sorry about that. Abaddon likes to play with her food, and I -- I guess old habits die hard.
"You were hunting Abaddon? Alone?"
"I wasn't alone," Dean says, frowning out the window. The sun is starting to rise, burning the horizon pink and gold. "I had Crowley with me."
Cas makes a short, disgruntled noise. "Crowley? You were -- "
"It's fine, Cas. Everything is fine."
"Working with Crowley is not fine." There's a short, tight silence, like Cas is expecting Dean to argue, then a quiet sigh that rumbles in Dean's ear. "Just come home. Your brother is worried, and I -- I dislike hearing you pray when I can't come to assist you."
+
Dean gets back to the bunker sometime after midnight. It feels different than it did when he left -- colder, emptier, less lived in -- and he has a brief moment of panic at the top of the stairs, his hand curled over the heavy banister, his fingers worrying over the gouge left behind by Kevin's crossbow bolt, worried that Sam and Cas have left him, gone away somewhere, until he hears quiet movements in the next room. It's Cas, sitting at Sam's favorite table in the library, leafing through a book that looks ready to crumble into dust; he glances over when Dean comes through the door, his face softening in a way that makes it difficult for Dean to breathe. He has to clear his throat twice before he can speak.
"How is he?"
"Much better," Cas says, leaning back in his chair, his tan coat rasping against the old leather. "He improves every day. I believe he'll heal even faster now that you've come back."
Dean shrugs, clenching his hand around the strap of his bag. "I doubt that."
Sam is asleep, snoring loud enough to be heard through his closed bedroom door, and Dean finds himself selfishly grateful for that as he creeps down the hallway to dump his stuff. That probably makes him a coward, but he isn't sure he can handle the alternative right now; he has driven too many hours and too many miles for the kind of argument Sam will want to have. He almost goes to sleep himself, because his eyes are burning and he's exhausted in a way he can feel in his bones, but he's too strung out on coffee to lie down without twitching, so he ends up in the bunker's huge kitchen, barefoot and yawning and going through the motions of a pot of chili. He isn't really hungry, and Cas doesn't need to eat anymore, but cooking has always calmed him, and chopping onions and opening cans of beans will give him something to do with his hands.
Cas wanders into the kitchen as Dean is thinning the tomato paste with more beer than is strictly necessary, his coat off and his hair rumpled, and Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye, unable to do anything else. The grace Cas stole has returned some of the awkward stiffness Dean remembers from their pre-Purgatory days, like it doesn't quite fit him right, perhaps because it isn't really his, but he's still weirdly human in a lot of subtle ways. He squints less, gestures with his hands more. Right now he has one hip cocked against the counter, next to the pile of peppers and onions Dean is dumping in the pot, even though angels don't get footsore or tired.
"He was worried about you," Cas says finally.
Sighing, Dean turns until Cas is no longer in his line of sight. "I don't want to talk about it." He can still feel the tension on that bridge like a weight around his neck, the stench of wet asphalt and the furious curl to Sam's mouth as he told Dean to just go. "He's angry."
"He is angry, and he has that right. That doesn't mean he rested easy while you were gone, working with Crowley, of all people, and unwilling to answer your phone."
"Damn it, Cas," Dean snaps, slamming the chili powder on the counter because he can't open the cap. "Don't, okay? Just don't."
"I did not rest easy, either."
"You don't rest anymore."
"It's true, I no longer require sleep. That only made it worse." Cas crowds in closer, cradling Dean's elbow in his hand, tugging on the fold in Dean's sleeve until Dean gives in and meets his eyes. "When I wasn't tending your brother, I had nothing else to do but worry about your safety."
Dean kisses him before he realizes what he's doing, curling his chili-sticky fingers into the collar of Cas' shirt. Cas goes incredibly, inhumanly still for a moment, then carefully leans into return it, his lips parting and his hand sliding up to frame Dean's jaw. Then he makes a soft noise into Dean's mouth, and it snaps Dean back to reality quicker than a hard punch to the gut.
He nearly trips over his own feet as he backs away, and he half mumbles sorry over his shoulder as he escapes back to his bedroom.
+
It only takes Cas ten minutes to come for him. Dean has a pile of distractions spread out on the bed -- a couple of skin mags, several lore books, two or three newspaper articles that might be cases -- but he isn't looking at any of it when Cas lets himself into Dean's room without bothering to knock. He's just sitting on the foot of his bed, tasting Cas' mouth on his tongue and staring down at his boots.
"Dean, I -- "
"Cas, don't. I shouldn't have don't that."
The silence is horrible. Dean's heart hammers in his chest, louder than the clock ticking on the nightstand; Cas shifts his weight from foot to foot, his clothes rustling and his shoes whispering against the carpet.
"Why not?"
Dean forces himself to look at Cas, really look. His head is tilted to one side and his eyes are very, very blue. "Because you're an angel again, and I'm -- "
"Do not finish that sentence," Cas says sharply. "I don't want to hear it."
"You asked."
"I didn't intend for you to belittle yourself."
Dean looks away, half hoping Cas will just leave if he doesn't say anything, but he already got away with being cowardly once today, and nothing about Cas has ever been easy. The bed creaks tiredly as Cas sits down beside him; he rests his hand on Dean's knee and leans in until his lips are just barely brushing Dean's ear.
"I've been on this earth since before it really was earth, and the hardest thing I've ever done was let you drive away from me in Rexford. You are worth more than you know."
Dean closes his eyes and turns his head enough to catch Cas' mouth.
+
It feels like it shouldn't be this easy at first, the way Cas arches into Dean's hands, the way Cas finds every spot on Dean's body that makes Dean curse and clutch at the sheets. Dean thought it might be clumsier, since neither of them have done this with a man, but they fit together seamlessly, their cocks flush and their legs tangled, Dean's fingers pressing bruises into the jut of Cas' hips, Cas' nails leaving pink scratches that mirror the line of Dean's ribs. The old bed creaks as Cas rolls them over, straddling Dean's waist, shifting in a way that makes heat coil at the well of Dean's spine; Dean can't stop kissing Cas, can't keep his hands out of Cas' hair, can't stop moaning Cas' name.
It's even worse when Cas pushes inside him; the noise Dean makes seems to echo off the walls, should be embarrassing for how desperate it sounds, but Dean just makes it again as Cas starts to move, his fingers knotted in the hair at the back of Cas' neck, his mouth open and wet at the corner of Cas' jaw, his face flushing hot because Cas won't shut up, because Cas keeps murmuring about how wonderful Dean looks like this, about how long he has wanted to do this. Dean can't remember when he started wanting Cas, except that it's probably been years; he'll probably regret all that wasted time later, but right now Cas is fucking into him long and slow, leaning in close so that Dean's cock is rubbing against his stomach, so that he can bite kisses into Dean's neck, breathe into the hollow of Dean's throat. When he finally wraps his hand around Dean's cock, Dean arches up to meet him, pulling Cas down for a kiss and digging his heel into the back of Cas' thigh hard enough to leave a mark.
He comes with Cas' tongue in his mouth and Cas' free hand cradling his cheek, his hips twisting as he tries to push back onto Cas' cock and fuck up into Cas' fist at the same time. Cas makes a dark, rough noise in the back of this throat, then follows Dean over the edge, his back curving in a long, beautiful line and his grace just flaring behind his eyes.
+
Dean falls asleep with his head on Cas' shoulder and his arm around Cas' waist, and if he dreams of anything at all, he doesn't remember it in the morning.
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~3,300
Summary:"Look at you, all suited up," Dean says, because he has to say something, because Cas wearing a shapeless tan coat is familiar territory, one of the few constants Dean has had in his life besides his brother and his car, because Cas is an angel again, and the stiff set of his shoulders feels like a knife between the ribs, stabbing at something tired and worthless deep inside Dean' s chest.
Notes: Coda for 9x10; vague spoilers for the 9x11 promo.
[@AO3]
It rains the night Kevin dies, not hard and not for long, just enough to soak Dean's shirt as he carries Kevin's body into the woods behind the bunker. The moon is barely a sliver and half hidden by the tops of the trees; Dean gets three feet into digging a grave before the depth of his selfishness finally punches him in the gut. Kevin died like a hunter, and he deserves better than a few handfuls of wet dirt, but a grave means a body, and a body means Dean can keep pretending that there's still hope, that there's still a chance someone can fix the horrible fucking mess he has made.
He throws the shovel out toward the treeline, flexes his aching hands.
The pyre catches fire with a sound like thunder, like a door blowing closed in a wind storm, and Dean takes a breath choked with forest-rot, dead leaves and cold, damp earth. The rain starts to drizzle off, but the sky stays purple and angry, the stars shrouded by clouds that seem low, leaning into Dean's shoulders, pressing on the back of his neck.
+
"Look at you, all suited up," Dean says, because he has to say something, because Cas wearing a shapeless tan coat is familiar territory, one of the few constants Dean has had in his life besides his brother and his car, because Cas is an angel again, and the stiff set of his shoulders feels like a knife between the ribs, stabbing at something tired and worthless deep inside Dean' s chest.
+
"Just go."
It's raining again. Dean's throat tightens around the stench of wet asphalt and the anger creaking over his brother's voice, coating it like rust.
+
Dean sleeps hard his first night alone, dead to the world, sprawled on a cheap motel bed and drowning in Maker's Mark. After that, he stares up at the water-stained ceiling until his eyes burn and the sky starts to bruise, drifting off to sleep in short, restless snatches and dreaming of all the shit he wants to forget -- Crowley pushing needles into Sam's head, April stabbing an angel blade into Cas' chest, Kevin's body crumpled on the floor, his charred eyes staring up at Dean like an accusation.
One night he dreams of hell, in a way he hasn't in years -- vivid and full color, every horrific sight and smell. Alistair's voice is nearly as sharp as his razor, and both come slicing out of the shadows until everything is open and raw and slick with blood and Dean wakes covered in a cold sweat and clawing at the dingy sheets. There is a real fire in the pit, Ruby hadn't been lying about that, but Dean had spent his first thirty years there shivering in spite of the fire, chilled to the bone from pain and fear and from constantly being exposed.
+
"Hello, Squirrel. I'd say it's good to see you, but you actually look more constipated than usual."
"You stupid son of a bitch," Dean snaps, drumming his fingers on the bar as Crowley slides onto the stool beside him. "I told you I'd kill you if I ever saw you again."
"You did. Which is why I'm here, in this bacterial breeding ground pretending to be a bar. You're thoughtlessly impulsive and a complete danger to everyone around you, but you're not dumb enough to stab me in a public place. Not in front of fifty witnesses."
"Are you sure about that? These witnesses look drunk."
"Hardly. Happy hour only started twenty minutes ago."
Dean sighs and takes a long drink of his beer. "What do you want?"
"I have a business proposition for you. Granted, it will involve a few uncomfortable days on both our parts, because working with a demon seems to chafe you in the manhood and I do hate the smell of a martyr boiling in his own oil, but -- "
"Get to the point."
"There's just no foreplay with you, Squirrel. No wonder Cas was such a sourpuss the other day."
Anger crashes over Dean like a wave, twisting into his gut with the force of a living thing; he clunks his beer on the bar and reaches for the angel blade at his hip. "Just get out." Crowley had been right earlier -- there are too many people around, and Dean is sitting too far from the door to make a clean exit -- but he isn't sure he cares anymore. "Get out right now and I won't shove this right between your eyes."
"We need to kill Abaddon."
"You want to hunt with me."
"Not an ideal partnership, I admit, but we both seem to be a little short on friends just now. Besides, I do love a good buddy comedy."
+
It takes Crowley three days to find Abaddon, three days Dean spends breaking in a new bottle if whiskey and pacing his shitty motel room until he's too exhausted to dream. The weather takes a sudden turn, burning hot enough when the sun is out that sweat beads at Dean's hairline and prickles at the back of his neck. The air conditioner in the room makes more noise that air and smells like wet dog; Dean salts the windows and paints a devil's trap in front of the door, though he isn't sure why he bothers. Crowley would find a way in if he really wanted to slit Dean's throat, and at this point he'd only be doing Dean a favor anyway.
He ignores Cas' first five or six calls because he doesn't want to talk to anyone or thing about anything, but Cas calls another two or three times, finally leaving Dean a message that practically drips with impatience, his gravelly voice and bristling sighs digging at something underneath Dean's skin, something Dean isn't willing to examine too closely, not when he's five hundred miles away and Cas is an angel again. Dean stares at his phone for close to ten minutes, waiting to see if Cas will call one more time, then curses under his breath and dials Cas' number, tucking the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he pours himself another drink.
"Dean. Are you all right?"
"Yeah," Dean, says, sitting on the egde of the bed. "I'm -- I'm okay."
"We haven't heard from you in several days."
Dean finishes his drink, his hand shaking as he sets the glass on the nightstand. "Yeah, I've been -- how's Sam?"
"Healing. Though, I believe he'd heal faster if you'd come home."
"I can't. I have things I need to do. I need to kill Gadreel. I need... " Dean sighs into the phone and rubs the back of his neck. "Cas, I can't."
"He's worried about you. We both are."
"Don't."
+
Crowley tracks Abaddon to an abandoned warehouse a state and a half over, just far enough away that Dean has to pack up his stuff and check into a new motel room. The warehouse is both derelict and huge, the windows covered with boards and the sagging roof a jagged line against the bluish night sky; Dean figures the best option is to stake it out for a little bit, so he parks the Impala a block down the road, hiding it in the shadows of a broken street light, sweating in the driver's seat and trying to pretend he doesn't have the King of Hell riding shotgun. Crowley doesn't reek of sulfur the way most crony demons do, but Dean can still sense it, a dull burn that sours the coffee he's drinking and darkens the familiar leather-and-gas smell of the Impala.
"I need to find Gadreel," Dean says about two hours in, because the silence is making is skin itch. His phone buzzes in his pocket; he doesn't need to check to know it's Cas.
"No. Absolutely not. I only signed up for your last angel adventure because it was a ticket out of your dungeon. You don't have a carrot big enough to lure me into another one."
"I don't want your help. I just want to know if I can do it."
"Not by yourself. You'll need your brother."
Dean shifts in his seat and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "No."
"Look, I don't know what this little domestic drama of yours is about, and I don't care, but I will tell you you're not going to find Gadreel just by driving this noisy piece of overcompensation all across the country. If you really want to get the job done, you'll need Moose and the little angel that could."
"Why?"
"Possession leaves a trace behind. An imprint, if you will. Why do you think demons ride their meatsuits so hard? With the right spell, a living vessel can give up all a demon's secrets -- including, a general idea of where it's smoked off to. Leaving a corpse behind instead of a breather destroys the evidence."
Dean rubs his hand over his face; the more he learns about demons, the less he wants to know. "But Gadreel is an angel."
"Potato, potahto. The only difference between angel possession and demon possession is that angels need permission."
"An imprint," Dean mutters, shaking his head. "And I can use it to track him?"
"You can't, but Cas can."
Dean's phone buzzes again; he thumbs the reject button without looking at the caller ID.
+
Abaddon nearly skins them alive.
The spell Crowley thought would kill her just roll off her like water, and Dean learns the hard way that angel blades don't hurt her any more than Ruby's knife had. Crowley pulls a disappearing act the moment things start going south; Dean deals with the two stunt demons easily enough, but Abaddon slams him into several walls and corners him in a third floor room that looks like an office, and Dean catches himself praying as he's escaping the warehouse through a window, rattled by the seering pain in his knee and shoulder and Abaddon's shrieked promises to wear his skin when she murders Sam and Cas with her bare hands.
Cas calls as Dean is speeding past Lincoln, and Dean curses as he digs his phone out of his pocket. His hand is shaking and covered in blood.
"Yeah?"
"Dean," Cas says, his voice rough and tight, angel-frantic. "Dean, where are you?"
"Nebraska."
"I heard you pray."
"Yeah, sorry about that. Abaddon likes to play with her food, and I -- I guess old habits die hard.
"You were hunting Abaddon? Alone?"
"I wasn't alone," Dean says, frowning out the window. The sun is starting to rise, burning the horizon pink and gold. "I had Crowley with me."
Cas makes a short, disgruntled noise. "Crowley? You were -- "
"It's fine, Cas. Everything is fine."
"Working with Crowley is not fine." There's a short, tight silence, like Cas is expecting Dean to argue, then a quiet sigh that rumbles in Dean's ear. "Just come home. Your brother is worried, and I -- I dislike hearing you pray when I can't come to assist you."
+
Dean gets back to the bunker sometime after midnight. It feels different than it did when he left -- colder, emptier, less lived in -- and he has a brief moment of panic at the top of the stairs, his hand curled over the heavy banister, his fingers worrying over the gouge left behind by Kevin's crossbow bolt, worried that Sam and Cas have left him, gone away somewhere, until he hears quiet movements in the next room. It's Cas, sitting at Sam's favorite table in the library, leafing through a book that looks ready to crumble into dust; he glances over when Dean comes through the door, his face softening in a way that makes it difficult for Dean to breathe. He has to clear his throat twice before he can speak.
"How is he?"
"Much better," Cas says, leaning back in his chair, his tan coat rasping against the old leather. "He improves every day. I believe he'll heal even faster now that you've come back."
Dean shrugs, clenching his hand around the strap of his bag. "I doubt that."
Sam is asleep, snoring loud enough to be heard through his closed bedroom door, and Dean finds himself selfishly grateful for that as he creeps down the hallway to dump his stuff. That probably makes him a coward, but he isn't sure he can handle the alternative right now; he has driven too many hours and too many miles for the kind of argument Sam will want to have. He almost goes to sleep himself, because his eyes are burning and he's exhausted in a way he can feel in his bones, but he's too strung out on coffee to lie down without twitching, so he ends up in the bunker's huge kitchen, barefoot and yawning and going through the motions of a pot of chili. He isn't really hungry, and Cas doesn't need to eat anymore, but cooking has always calmed him, and chopping onions and opening cans of beans will give him something to do with his hands.
Cas wanders into the kitchen as Dean is thinning the tomato paste with more beer than is strictly necessary, his coat off and his hair rumpled, and Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye, unable to do anything else. The grace Cas stole has returned some of the awkward stiffness Dean remembers from their pre-Purgatory days, like it doesn't quite fit him right, perhaps because it isn't really his, but he's still weirdly human in a lot of subtle ways. He squints less, gestures with his hands more. Right now he has one hip cocked against the counter, next to the pile of peppers and onions Dean is dumping in the pot, even though angels don't get footsore or tired.
"He was worried about you," Cas says finally.
Sighing, Dean turns until Cas is no longer in his line of sight. "I don't want to talk about it." He can still feel the tension on that bridge like a weight around his neck, the stench of wet asphalt and the furious curl to Sam's mouth as he told Dean to just go. "He's angry."
"He is angry, and he has that right. That doesn't mean he rested easy while you were gone, working with Crowley, of all people, and unwilling to answer your phone."
"Damn it, Cas," Dean snaps, slamming the chili powder on the counter because he can't open the cap. "Don't, okay? Just don't."
"I did not rest easy, either."
"You don't rest anymore."
"It's true, I no longer require sleep. That only made it worse." Cas crowds in closer, cradling Dean's elbow in his hand, tugging on the fold in Dean's sleeve until Dean gives in and meets his eyes. "When I wasn't tending your brother, I had nothing else to do but worry about your safety."
Dean kisses him before he realizes what he's doing, curling his chili-sticky fingers into the collar of Cas' shirt. Cas goes incredibly, inhumanly still for a moment, then carefully leans into return it, his lips parting and his hand sliding up to frame Dean's jaw. Then he makes a soft noise into Dean's mouth, and it snaps Dean back to reality quicker than a hard punch to the gut.
He nearly trips over his own feet as he backs away, and he half mumbles sorry over his shoulder as he escapes back to his bedroom.
+
It only takes Cas ten minutes to come for him. Dean has a pile of distractions spread out on the bed -- a couple of skin mags, several lore books, two or three newspaper articles that might be cases -- but he isn't looking at any of it when Cas lets himself into Dean's room without bothering to knock. He's just sitting on the foot of his bed, tasting Cas' mouth on his tongue and staring down at his boots.
"Dean, I -- "
"Cas, don't. I shouldn't have don't that."
The silence is horrible. Dean's heart hammers in his chest, louder than the clock ticking on the nightstand; Cas shifts his weight from foot to foot, his clothes rustling and his shoes whispering against the carpet.
"Why not?"
Dean forces himself to look at Cas, really look. His head is tilted to one side and his eyes are very, very blue. "Because you're an angel again, and I'm -- "
"Do not finish that sentence," Cas says sharply. "I don't want to hear it."
"You asked."
"I didn't intend for you to belittle yourself."
Dean looks away, half hoping Cas will just leave if he doesn't say anything, but he already got away with being cowardly once today, and nothing about Cas has ever been easy. The bed creaks tiredly as Cas sits down beside him; he rests his hand on Dean's knee and leans in until his lips are just barely brushing Dean's ear.
"I've been on this earth since before it really was earth, and the hardest thing I've ever done was let you drive away from me in Rexford. You are worth more than you know."
Dean closes his eyes and turns his head enough to catch Cas' mouth.
+
It feels like it shouldn't be this easy at first, the way Cas arches into Dean's hands, the way Cas finds every spot on Dean's body that makes Dean curse and clutch at the sheets. Dean thought it might be clumsier, since neither of them have done this with a man, but they fit together seamlessly, their cocks flush and their legs tangled, Dean's fingers pressing bruises into the jut of Cas' hips, Cas' nails leaving pink scratches that mirror the line of Dean's ribs. The old bed creaks as Cas rolls them over, straddling Dean's waist, shifting in a way that makes heat coil at the well of Dean's spine; Dean can't stop kissing Cas, can't keep his hands out of Cas' hair, can't stop moaning Cas' name.
It's even worse when Cas pushes inside him; the noise Dean makes seems to echo off the walls, should be embarrassing for how desperate it sounds, but Dean just makes it again as Cas starts to move, his fingers knotted in the hair at the back of Cas' neck, his mouth open and wet at the corner of Cas' jaw, his face flushing hot because Cas won't shut up, because Cas keeps murmuring about how wonderful Dean looks like this, about how long he has wanted to do this. Dean can't remember when he started wanting Cas, except that it's probably been years; he'll probably regret all that wasted time later, but right now Cas is fucking into him long and slow, leaning in close so that Dean's cock is rubbing against his stomach, so that he can bite kisses into Dean's neck, breathe into the hollow of Dean's throat. When he finally wraps his hand around Dean's cock, Dean arches up to meet him, pulling Cas down for a kiss and digging his heel into the back of Cas' thigh hard enough to leave a mark.
He comes with Cas' tongue in his mouth and Cas' free hand cradling his cheek, his hips twisting as he tries to push back onto Cas' cock and fuck up into Cas' fist at the same time. Cas makes a dark, rough noise in the back of this throat, then follows Dean over the edge, his back curving in a long, beautiful line and his grace just flaring behind his eyes.
+
Dean falls asleep with his head on Cas' shoulder and his arm around Cas' waist, and if he dreams of anything at all, he doesn't remember it in the morning.