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I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul.--Bruce Springsteen
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When he was three, Dean could already howl along with Robert Plant to ‘Black Dog’ and ‘Immigrant Song’. By the time his fourth birthday rolled around, he’d expanded his repertoire to The Grateful Dead’s Casey Jones , prompting Mary to roll her eyes while she admonished Stop it John, you’re raising a four-year old Deadhead , like she didn’t hum ‘The Rain Song’ and ‘Hey Jude’ to him at every chance she got.
(Dean doesn’t remember this. His father never handed down these memories to Dean, or used them as a balm for losing his mother; he only mentioned them when Dean was sixteen and John was plastered. That’s when he threw those tidbits out, like tiny spiteful missiles meant to hurt. Still, Dean jealously guarded those little nuggets of a life that might have been his and reveled in the knowledge that at one point in his life, his mother and father were carefree enough to laugh at their respective parenting skills.
Later, when Mary tells him the same story, it’s done with a little less whiskey and a little more bitterness, but she smiles at the end of it, which in Dean’s book is a victory.)
---
Led Zeppelin, Metallica, AC/DC, Bad Company were the bands which formed the soundtrack of Dean’s childhood. John would blast them from the Impala’s speakers as they flew down the road towards some new horror. The rolicking bass would take away from the nightmares, at least in the daytime. The quick, loud beats would also help chase away their father’s moods, until the seething darkness in the man managed to claw its way free. But sometimes, nostalgia and wistfulness took hold of John and turned him introspective instead of inebriated. During those times, he’d put in one of his old Springsteen cassettes and set the Impala on a seemingly never-ending stretch of highway.
Dean remembers waking up in the backseat with the soft strains of ‘The River’ playing through the speakers. The song was barely audible over the sound of the tires against wet pavement. Out the window, the night sky was an endless curtain. Far away from city lights, the stars were almost scorching in the inky black.
His stirring alerted his father. His eyes met Dean’s in the rearview mirror, dark and alert, despite the long stretch of driving and lateness of the hour. “You awake bud?” he asked. He kept his voice soft, aware of Sam, safely blanketed by his leather jacket and snuffling in his sleep.
“Yeah,” Dean answered, just as quietly, crawling to his knees so that he could hook his arms over the bench seat of the front. “What are you listening to?”
“The Boss,” Dad answered. At Dean’s soft noise of confusion, he clarified, “Springsteen.”
That was all he offered in the way of explanation. He left Dean to listen to the yearning twang and croon of the song, until his eyes started to droop. Dean nestled into the pocket of warmth provided by Sam’s body and stared at the stars flashing past the window.
Something opened in Dean’s childish heart, a desperate longing for a place he never knew. He wanted to reach this elusive Eden, even though he didn’t know what he was looking for to begin with. Dean pushed all thoughts of his perfect world away and closed his eyes. Lulled by the song, he drifted to sleep.
The scenario repeats itself through the years. Those nights are infrequent but they occur often enough that the details imprint on Dean’s memory. Years later, he can still recall the quiet rasp of Sam’s breath, the rumble of the Impala underneath him, the night sky above him, and Springsteen singing about lost loves, missed opportunities, and wrecked dreams.
---
The dust settles and life returns to their version of normal and Dean...
Dean is bored .
It sounds awful to say, but for years he’s lived with the weight of What Next What Next What Next on his shoulders, and now, afterward, when there is no What Next , only the mundane toil of everyday life...He goes a little haywire.
He spends hours in the dilapidated gym at the bunker, taping up his knuckles and pounding the ancient punching bag until his muscles ache. The lingering pain is an unsubtle reminder that he’s on the wrong side of forty and that eventually, his body is going to decide the issue of retirement if he doesn’t get off his ass and make his own goddamn decisions.
Sam looks at him with bemusement and pity in his eyes, like he already knows what’s in Dean’s head but he wants Dean to figure it out for himself. It’s annoying, which is why it’s also a good thing that Sam is too busy making doe-eyes with Eileen to bother to look Dean’s way often. Meanwhile, Jack spends his time flitting back and forth between the bunker and heaven, splitting himself between the human and celestial parts of him. Dean tries hard not to concentrate on that. Apart from the fact he just doesn’t like it when Jack is gone, there’s the idea that the kid that he helped to raise (is still technically raising, if anyone wants to get picky about it) now has a part in ruling the whole cosmos, and well. That’s enough to make anyone feel inadequate.
And Cas… Cas adjusts to mortality and humanity with all the grace a former celestial being could be expected to possess, which is to say, he sleeps late, wanders around the bunker at odd hours, develops an unhealthy love for fries and Chinese food, and balances out his impending high cholesterol and heart attacks with an equal love of running. More often than not, he and Cas cross paths on their separate ways to the shower, each sweaty from their various forms of exercise. Dean makes a habit of carefully not noticing just how tightly Cas’ shirt stretches across his chest or the flex of his calves as he walks past him.
Dean cooks and he researches and he even takes on a few hunts. They’re nothing major, just a few salt and burns and one ghoul hunt. As minor as they are, the hunts leave his joints aching and his body bruised. He drives back to the bunker and tries to hide how much he’s hurting. Sam would snicker and even Eileen, who has turned traitor ever since taking up with his brother, would laugh in that particular way of hers (it’s mostly in the eyes). Jack would insist on patching him up, which would make him feel even more like some pathetic has-been, and Cas… Cas would just look at him in that expression saved, it sometimes feels, solely for Dean: a little squint, a tiny frown that starts somewhere in his forehead and ends with the hint of a downturn of his lips. There’s nothing but concern in that expression, and it shouldn’t piss Dean off, but it does, because that concern is just another reminder that he’s getting old , that he’s getting useless , because if he can’t hunt, then what the fuck good is he?
Restlessness settles into his bones. It makes him tap his fingers against his knee while he’s pretending to read, and turns him jittery and anxious. He snaps at Sam, which isn’t a surprise, but it is a surprise when Jack feels the keen edge of his temper. With the eyes of his family on him, Dean pushes his way out of the room with a low noise of frustration. He needs to get away for a while, needs to claw his way out of the bunker’s walls because he’s suffocating here.
And then he wanders into the garage to find Baby, his best girl, waiting for him.
Dean gets in the car, puts her in drive, and doesn’t look in the rearview until the bunker’s long out of sight.
---
AC/DC is his preferred poison of choice when there’s sunlight streaming down on a nice, two lane highway with nothing in front of him but miles and miles of asphalt. The bass thumps through the car to settle in his bones. Between that and the rumble of the engine, it’s the best massage that Dean could get.
Of all the (admittedly few) good things that have happened to him and Sam, finding the bunker has to rank in at least the Top 25. Quite apart from the stashes of lore and supplies that they now have easy access to, it’s been a refuge and sanctuary. The bunker gave Dean his first chance to make something permanent. It was the first time that he said ‘home’ and didn’t mean something with wheels on it, but an actual place that stood firm and never changed, no matter how many times its inhabitants left.
But old habits die hard and the open road sings its continuous siren’s lullaby.
Pushing down the gas pedal and feeling the Impala leap forward into action soothes something inside of him, a piece that he didn’t know was ruffled until it’s smoothed back into place. He listens to the growl of the Impala’s engine and grins. She’s missed the road too, the engine revving sweetly as he accelerates into a turn. The sun beats through the windshield, bathing the interior of the car in warmth. Music rattles the speakers and the different chords make something in his chest swoop and soar in delight. Dean sticks his hand out of the window and spreads his fingers wide, allowing the wind to slip through his fingers like silk.
With no destination in mind, he drives until he grows tired of it. By then, it’s late afternoon and the sun sits low in the sky in front of him. Dean pulls over to the side of the road, a cloud of dust stirred up by the Impala’s tires. He gets out, hissing as his limbs protest the sudden activity after hours of disuse. He clambers onto the hood of the Impala and watches as the clear light blue of the sky darkens and streaks of pink and orange paint the clouds.
He and Sam would do this, back in the early days when the end of the world wasn’t every other week, and they could justify taking a vacation between jobs. They’d get a six pack, maybe a baggie of hash if they’d managed to scope out the locals well enough, and drive to whatever abandoned field took their fancy. They’d crawl out onto the hood and roof of the Impala and watch the stars while they talked about everything and nothing. They’d talked, with the assurance and worry of twenty-somethings who knew they weren’t immortal, about what was beyond those stars. Dean, overcome with nihilism, snorted that there was nothing there at all, just a vast pit of empty after you died. Sam had been closer to the truth. He’d guessed that there was something else bigger than the two of them hiding in those stars.
They had no way of knowing, those two kids (Dean’s heart twists to think of how painfully young he and Sam were back in the days when they considered a salt and burn to be the pinnacle of danger) of what lay beyond the stars. They didn’t know the depths of Heaven’s cruelty or just how deep the plans set out for them were laid. They knew nothing of Hell or of angels.
When Dean’s mind turns to angels, something painful hooks behind his ribs and tugs. There’s really only one angel that’s ever on his mind (no matter how many times Cas says patiently Dean, I’m not an angel anymore, Dean will always remember him walking through that barn door, sparks flying and the wrath of heaven at his fingertips). He’d promised himself, in the aftermath, when they were coughing blood and dust out of their mouths, this time was going to be different. He’d fucked up the last time, sent Cas out on his own and it nearly got him killed. This time, Dean vowed, as he put his hands under Cas’ elbow to help him up on newly mortal legs, he was going to do it right.
And he’s tried to be there for Cas. He’s tried to help him through the pitfalls of humanity, as best as a poor excuse for a human can. Cas, for his part, never exhibits any bitterness over the loss of his grace, though sometimes a deep sadness takes over Cas’ countenance, grief so profound that Dean can only quietly retreat in the face of it. Cas has built a garden on the roof of the bunker. Most days, it seems like it helps. Dean smiles at the thought of Cas’ appearance after he comes in from an afternoon of working outside, the back of his neck burned red from the sun and his nails caked with dirt.
Dean never makes a conscious decision, but somehow he finds himself back in the Impala, her grill pointed back towards the bunker. A cloud of exhaust follows in his wake as he heads back. When he flicks on the radio station, all he gets is static, so it takes him a few tries to land on something that isn’t twangy country or Top 40 hits, but when he does, he settles back into the seat with a soft sigh of satisfaction.
Yeah just sitting back trying to recapture a little of the glory, well time slips away
And leaves you with nothing mister but
Boring stories of glory days
---
The restlessness, the sense of What Comes Next , never disappears entirely, but Dean manages to control it with weekly jaunts. He knows by now that his absences have been noted, and he’d be surprised if Sam wasn’t having Jack keep tabs on him whenever he slips out, but no one says anything to him or tries to stop him. Dean’s willing to count that as a win. He does feel Cas’ eyes following him around the bunker, but Cas has always been a starey little son of a bitch, so Dean doesn’t think too much of it.
At least not until he feels the need gathering behind his fingertips and in his feet, the desire to put as many miles between the safe life and himself, to eat away the miles at 70 mph just for the sheer hell of it. He rounds the corner into the garage, his boots echoing off the metal steps, and comes to a skidding halt.
Leaning against the side of the Impala, way too poised and cool, is Cas. He’s already wearing the leather bomber jacket he’d found in some abandoned closet of the bunker and refused to relinquish (not that Dean had tried too hard to talk him out of the jacket; seeing Cas in that jacket does things to certain parts of his anatomy). His arms are folded, fingers tapping against his biceps. His gaze is steady, with the same weight that always makes Dean feel as though he’s stripped down to his bones. Even though Dean intended this to be a solo jaunt, Cas makes him feel as though he’s running late.
“What are you doing here?” Dean asks, too surprised to be polite.
And Cas, too accustomed to the Winchesters to be either hurt or offended, shrugs, before he half turns, keeping his eyes on Dean but his hand on the door handle.
“Can I come?” he asks, unassuming, yet assured, like Dean’s permission is a formality. All Dean can do is nod.
---
Sometimes, when jobs were scarce or Dad was worn down to the bone with horror and grief, he would put the three of them in the Impala, pick a direction, and drive. Those times were few and far between, which was why Dean cherished them all the more. On these trips, the clench in his father’s jaw would finally relax as he sang along with the radio as they were hurtling down the two lane roads.
During one of these trips ‘Born to Run’ came bursting through the radio, and Dad turned it up so loud that the speakers futzed in protest. Dad had started out humming, but as the song picked up momentum, so did he, until he was singing along at full volume. It wasn’t until the saxophone kicked in that he turned to Dean and Sam. Laughter was in his eyes and Dean had laughed back, elbowing Sam until all three of them were giggling, manic with their glee.
“Come on Dean-o, sing it!” His father demanded, this man who never smiled unless it was to look at a corpse, this man who spent his days in silence, who'd made Dean fluent in the language of grunts and tensed shoulders. He smiled and threw back his head to howl the chorus at the top of his lungs, until Dean couldn't stop himself and he added his voice to his father's, singing and laughing as Sam's voice joined their off-tune warbling.
Together Wendy, we can live with the sadness
I'll love you with all the madness in my soul
Oh someday girl, I don't know when
We're going to get to that place
Where we really wanna go and we'll walk in the sun
But till then tramps like us
Baby we were born to run
---
Back when Cas still had his wings, he treated car rides as an ordeal to be endured so as to appease and indulge Dean. He always wore an expression of haughty disdain whenever he was bundled into the backseat and there was a distinctly un-angelic restlessness in how he would tap his fingers against the seat. Confining , he'd called that method of traveling. And Dean, never content at just getting blood from a stone if he could get its tears as well, had reveled in ruffling Cas' proverbial feathers. More selfishly, he'd wanted--What? Cas to appreciate the finer points of life? To see how Cas dealt with the inconvenience and minutia of humanity? Hoped that maybe Cas would see something worth sticking around?
After Cas had lost his wings, car travel had become a necessity instead of an indignity. He'd found the ugliest piece of motor machinery allowed to cross the highways to make his travels in, but Dean would be lying if he said there wasn't something endearing about the way Cas cared for the monstrosity. He'd seen Cas pat the hood as he walked around the car and noticed the way that his nose wrinkled in indignation every time Dean leveled a well-deserved insult at the behemoth. When the Pimpmobile became a casualty of Metatron’s scheming and vanished somewhere into the wilds of America, Cas had actually been sad.
Still, even Cas’ fondness for his car couldn’t substitute for the times when Dean bundled Cas into the Impala and headed for the tangled backroads. He’d loved those times when Cas joined them on hunts. During those times, he could pretend that maybe these simple hunts could be their lives instead of the thorny mess they were usually embroiled in. Sam, Cas, and the Impala, the three things that Dean cared about most in the same place, and he could relax having them there. He'd drive for hours, long past the limit of a normal person's endurance, just to keep that feeling nestled in his heart for a little while longer.
Their world shrank to the well-worn seats, the quiet breathing, and blaring music of the Impala. As long as they were within the steel of the Impala, they were safe.
---
The ride out of the bunker is spent in contemplative silence, which isn’t surprising. Cas has never been a fan of small talk or inane conversation, though, when the mood strikes, he’ll ramble on about esoteric lore until Dean finds something else to occupy his mind. Cas obviously isn’t in the mood for chit-chat today, not that Dean minds. There's comfort in the silence, in knowing that in this moment at least, no one expects anything of him.
Cas' phone rests on his thigh, but he ignores it. Every time Dean glances at him, he's looking out the window, a thoughtful little wrinkle creasing his forehead. Dean represses the urge to reach over and press his thumb to that line. Selfishly, he likes that line, the same as he likes the thin marks bracketing Cas’ mouth. He likes every reminder that Cas is human, that Cas feels, that Cas stays .
When a particularly jaunty song comes along the radio, Cas will absently tap his fingers to the beat, but he never does something so undignified as actually sing. Dean's never personally heard Cas sing, though he knows it’s happened before. He wonders what Cas' voice would be like--rough? Deep? Would he be able to carry a tune or would his voice just scrape over the melody?
The next song bursts through the speakers in an explosion of drums and Dean grins. He looks over at Cas, who raises an eyebrow.
The first verse of Born to Run echoes through the car and Dean can't help but tap his fingers on the steering wheel and start to hum along to the lyrics. His interest is enough to turn Cas’ attention to the song, where he listens to the lyrics with that intense concentration which never fails to remind Dean that Cas is not wholly of this earth.
It's not a happy song, not in the slightest, but there's something about the energy of it, desperate and manic, yearning and wild, that has Dean's heart soaring with the idea of someday , the dream of escape , the thought that maybe it's not too late--
And he looks at Cas, gazing out the window, eyes fixed on an unknowable point in the horizon, and he thinks that maybe he's not the only one who feels like that.
---
In the late afternoon, the combined growling of his and Cas’ stomach forces Dean to pull over into a diner. They eat their fill, bickering over fries (Cas is a sneaky son of a bitch who orders a salad and yet steals almost every fry off of Dean’s plate) and which pieces of pie to sample (Cas is also a philistine who thinks that the best pie is French Silk, which is almost more of a cake than a pie). By the time they leave, the sun is already well on its journey below the horizon. Here in this part of the world, when the days end, they do quickly and coldly. Dean can't fight the shiver that wracks his body as he makes his way towards the Impala. Cas follows.
"So," Dean says, in the quiet of the car as he waits for the heater to kick on. "I guess that we should head back, huh?"
He doesn't particularly want to--He's had fun today, pretending that he was young and didn't have any responsibilities. It was fun watching Cas’ expressions as the admittedly lackluster scenery flashed by, and it had been more fun to watch Cas’ head droop against the window before he yanked it back up, like admitting that long car rides made him drowsy would have been the end of the world.
So no, Dean doesn't really want to go back, but there's no real reason to keep going. There's not a hunt out this way. Sam, Eileen, and Jack are waiting back at the bunker, and it's stupid not to return home, especially after so long of not having one--
"Or we could keep going," Cas says.
---
Dean checks into a motel and requests two double beds without really thinking about it. When he does think about it, he explains it to himself as nothing more than habit, while refusing to acknowledge the tangled knot of emotions seething in his chest. There, the desire to keep Cas close to him wars with the urge to push him far enough away to prevent anything from happening. Whether or not Dean wants anything to happen is beside the point. It's good enough for him that Cas decided to stay after he lost his grace. Dean's lived on scraps his whole life, and having Cas settle down in the bunker while he gets to gather the tattered remains of his family close is more than scraps; that's a whole damn meal. Dean isn't going to blow that just because he gets hungry for more.
He finds his emergency duffel in Baby’s trunk and brings it into the motel room. It's got enough clothes for four days, or two days split between him and Cas. They could stretch those two days into more if he and Cas get a little lax in their opinions of how often shirts and pants need to be changed and washed.
"You want first shower?" he grunts, going through the bag to find clean boxers.
He looks up just in time to see Cas shrug. "Doesn't matter," Cas says easily, in the manner of angels who never had to share a shower with Sam 'Hot Water' Winchester, whose favorite trick was to leave just enough hot water to make his older brother complacent before the Big Freeze.
"Take it," Dean says, before tossing a pair of boxers and a shirt at Cas. Cas catches them, mostly on reflex, then disappears into the bathroom. A minute later, the water kicks on, and several minutes after that, steam starts to seep in through the crack in the door.
Dean tosses himself back on the bed, tries very hard not to think about Cas in the shower--wet skin, slippery from soap, dark hair plastered to his face as his hands travel down his chest to--
Yep, not thinking about it.
Instead, he grabs his phone and sends off a quick text to Sam.
me and cas are gonna be gone for tonight
Dean glances at the bathroom. He thinks back to that afternoon, Cas' face split in a careless half-smile, and how his own chest had lightened as a result.
maybe make that two nights i'll let you know
---
By the time that he makes it out of his own shower (Cas is a much more considerate showermate than Sam, and it is possible to share a shower without one party using up all the hot water, so suck it Sam), the strain of the day is starting to wear on Dean. Time was, he could drive for twenty hours straight without ever needing to stop, but his body can't handle that kind of abuse anymore. It's with a sigh of relief that he sinks into the scratchy motel sheets. Even though the mattress isn't his memory foam, it's still soft on the dull ache in his lower back as he settles into the pillows.
On the opposite bed, Cas is propped up on the pillows with the blankets already tucked around his waist. He flips through a worn paperback with a modicum of interest. Must be something from the hotel; Dean doesn’t recognize it, and Cas wasn’t carrying a bag with him. Soft music plays through the room; Cas must have gotten bored and fiddled with the clock radio. After a few seconds, Dean recognizes the song.
Ain’t no angel gonna greet me
It’s just you and I my friend
And my clothes don’t fit me anymore
A thousand miles
Just to slip this skin
It sends a melancholy ache through him, but if he notices, Cas doesn't say anything. He turns the next page of his book, mouth pursed in a small moue of concentration. Like this, Dean has a hard time remembering the first time he laid eyes on Cas. Back then, he hadn’t been Cas ( Cas is a comfortable, friendly name, slip it over your shoulders and let it envelop you like your favorite worn-out sweatshirt, the one that has the hole close to the hem that your thumb can wriggle through). No, back then, when he walked into the barn with sparks flying, wind howling, and angelic choirs screaming in Dean’s ears, back then he had been Castiel, commander of a garrison, Angel of the Lord, with all the rights and privileges thereof.
It’s difficult to align the two in his head. Castiel’s eyes shine with celestial wrath, while Cas reads a book with the horrifying title of The Dubious Passions of Mrs. Hanover.
Aided by the song and the liminal quality of the night, the question that he swore to himself he would never ask tumbles from his mouth.
“Do you ever miss it?”
It hangs in the air for a second, a fragile gossamer thing with the potential to destroy worlds, before it starts to fall.
Castiel catches it before it has time to shatter with nothing more than a lift of his eyebrows. He doesn’t look bothered. In typical Cas fashion, he looks like he’s been waiting for Dean to arrive at this question and is just happy that Dean’s finally gotten with the program.
“I assume you mean giving up my grace?” Cas’ expression betrays nothing.
“Yeah,” Dean says. He wants the comfort of his room and his own possessions, but he knows that if they were at the bunker, he and Cas would never be having this conversation. It’s too easy to get distracted in the bunker. There are too many chores, too many responsibilities. Here, in the stark emptiness of a cheap motel room, there’s nothing to keep them from asking the real questions. “Do you--I mean, you must miss it.”
Castiel’s grace was integral to who he was. Losing it would be like if Dean gave up a kidney or a lung, except more, because Dean’s whole soul isn’t wrapped up in his internal organs the way that Castiel’s being was wrapped into his grace. Sitting on a creaky mattress, with scratchy sheets, Dean can’t imagine the depths of loss Cas endures every day.
Cas carefully marks his place in the book with a scrap receipt. He moves with exaggerated care, almost like Dean is a wounded animal. It would piss Dean off, except he feels like he’s only a few short seconds from falling apart. Cas shifts to face Dean, sitting cross-legged on the bed.
Dean has the wild and incongruent thought that he desperately wants to reach out and wrap his fingers around the knobby bone of Cas’ ankle.
“I miss it,” Cas finally says. His voice is even, no hint of either grief or anger. “I miss hearing the hum of creation. I miss being able to heal.” Cas pauses, just slightly enough that most people wouldn’t notice, but to Dean it’s like a red, glaring flag. “I miss being able to see your soul.”
Dean is terrified of what he’s going to see, but he manages to look at Cas’ face. “There are always going to be things that I miss. Sometimes I mourn them. Sometimes I’m angry over them. Sometimes, I feel so much--so much everything , that I don’t know what to do. So I run. Or I go to the garden.” Cas meets Dean’s eyes, unblinking. “Or I go on a drive.”
Dean swallows. To hear that Cas has been beating at the bars of an imaginary cage, or at the all too real confines of humanity, to know that Cas has been going through the same struggles as him… Dean is suddenly very aware of the minimal space between the beds.
“So of course I miss it. I miss it every day. But do I regret it?” Cas’ mouth twitches upwards in a sad smile. “Of course not. How could I? It was my plan to begin with, and without it, we would have never defeated Chuck. We knew at the beginning that we were all going to have make sacrifices. This was mine. After everything that I’ve done to hurt this world… It wasn’t a decision which I regret.”
Cas runs his thumb over a thin white scar that winds down the back of his hand. “Yes, I’m angry. Sometimes I think about how unfair it is, sometimes I just feel disconnected from everything. But then, I look around. I see what we have, the possibilities that we created, and I think it was worth it.” He meets Dean’s eyes again, guileless.
“Does that answer your question?”
Dean swallows and nods. It’s all he can do. The last chords of the song fade as Cas reaches up to flick off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into the perpetual half-darkness of all cheap motel rooms. Dean lays silent as he hears the rustle of Cas shifting on the bedding, then the soft sounds of his breathing deepening into sleep.
He lays awake for a long time afterward.
Night has fallen, I’m lyin awake
I can feel myself fading away
So receive me brother with your faithless kiss
Or will we leave each other alone like this
--Streets of Philadelphia
---
The next morning, after an unsatisfying breakfast of cheap coffee and stale muffins, they pack their meager belongings and get into the Impala. Cas is wearing the sunglasses he picked up on a whim in a gas station the previous day. They’re cheap plastic, but they look good on him, turning his familiar face into something glamorous.
“All right, where to?” Dean asks. He hasn’t pointed the Impala in any particular direction. He’s still waiting for what Cas will say.
The responsible thing would be to head home. Impromptu road trips belong to recent high school graduates, college kids in the middle of a breakdown, or the tetherless and lost. He and Cas are none of those things, and neither of them have a real reason to flee.
Cas slings a careless arm over the front seat as he pulls up the collar of his jacket to ward off the morning chill. “Wherever you want.” His eyes are already fixed on the empty stretch of road ahead of them.
“Well, all right then,” Dean says, before his foot presses on the gas pedal. The tires squeal and the back end fishtails as they head out of the parking lot, towards the horizon, where the sun is just starting to turn from pink to yellow.
---
The idea comes a few hours later, as they hurtle north down the roads.
“Hey.” Dean glances over at Cas. The sunglasses hide his eyes, but from his sharp, upwards jerk, Dean would be willing to bet that Mr. I don’t need naps Dean was dead asleep.
He waits until Cas’ metaphorical feathers are smoothed back into place before he continues. “Have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?”
Stupid question. Cas has been around since the dawn of time. He saw the continents crash into each other and rip apart. No doubt he would have noticed the slow, gradual carving of the Grand Canyon. He looks over at Cas, a glib remark about how one day Cas is going to start showing his age on the tip of his tongue, only to stop. A tense line runs through Cas’ body; his fingers tap a brittle rhythm on the seat. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he stares out the window.
The song bursts in life on the radio, its bright jangling chords discordant in the sudden tension of the car.
“I’ve never been personally,” Cas says, his voice stiff. “I was going to go once.”
Dean shouldn’t push; he should allow Cas to tell the story in his own time, or not at all, as the case may be. But there’s something about the road unspooling in front of them, the open possibility of the clear sky and full gas tank, that turns Dean reckless. He pushes.
“Why didn’t you?”
Cas turns to him. His eyes are still hidden behind his cheap sunglasses.
“You called me and said Sam was dying. So I started making my way to you, useless--”
“You’re not useless,” Dean says sharply. “You’ve never been useless.”
The sardonic tilt of Cas’ mouth says he isn’t buying what Dean’s selling, but he’s also not going to start a fight over it.
“I met one of the fallen angels before I got in touch with you. Hael was her name. She was scared. Confused. Bitter. She was looking for answers. A purpose in her new life. She’d been to earth millennia before, and hadn’t left her mark except in one place. A grand canyon, she called it.” Cas shrugs. It looks like it takes a lot of effort. “She wanted to see it. And I was going to go with her, until…”
“Until I called.”
Cas dips his head, either in acknowledgement or in condemnation. They feel pretty similar to Dean most days. “It didn’t end well,” is all he says, which tells Dean all he needs to know. With how he and Sam live their lives, ‘not ending well’ can have many meanings. Most of them are bloody.
Talk about a dream, try to make it real
You wake up in the night with a fear so real
You spend your life waiting for a moment that just don’t come
Well don’t waste your time waiting
Badlands, you gotta live it everyday
Let the broken hearts stand as the price you gotta pay
Cas coughs. “So, to answer your question, no. No, I’ve never been.”
“We don’t have to. Stupid idea. I just thought…”
“It wasn’t stupid. Your concern is many things, but it’s never stupid,” Cas interrupts, and that’s the thing about Cas. Most days he’s grouchy, grumpy, and a little bit of a dick to be honest, and he can whine and complain better than any ten people Dean knows, but, when Dean is sunk down to his lowest point, Cas shows compassion and caring so deep that Dean has yet to find their limits, or if they even exist.
“I’ve never been. You’d think, right, growing up the way we did, crossing the country? You’d think we would have found our way there at least once, but we never did. Dad was never much for the tourist traps.”
Cas hums, and the car falls into silence tinged with melancholy. Dean thinks about his father, as he would drive steadfastly past the sign for any landmarks, despite his son’s protests (We’ve got a job to do, we need to help people, we don’t have time for childish shit Dean, can’t you try to be a little less selfish and think about someone else for a change?) . Cas thinks about whatever the hell it is Cas thinks about (blood on his hands, the hatred in the eyes of those who used to call him brother, the cold on his shoulders as both Heaven and Dean turned their backs on him in this terrifying new world).
It’s Cas who breaks the quiet. “We should go,” he says, his gaze fixed on an unknowable point on the horizon.
“Are you sure?” Dean chances a look at Cas, who remains inscrutable, even without the help of sunglasses to hide his eyes.
“Yeah.” Cas’ voice sounds as sure as it ever does, no hint of hesitation or wavering. “It would be good. For us.”
There’s something in the way that he says for us, like he’s hinting around the edges of something neither of them ever talks about. Not for lack of wanting, but for lack of something else. Courage maybe.
That for us sits in the car, waiting for Dean to do something about it.
The next chance he gets, he turns the car off of its northern path and points the nose of the Impala westward.
For the ones who had a notion, a notion deep inside
That it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive
I want to find one face that ain’t looking through me
I want to find one place, I want to spit in the face of these
Badlands, you gotta live it everyday
Let the broken hearts stand as the price you gotta pay
Keep moving till it’s understood
And these badlands start treating us good
---Badlands
---
They need more clothes. Their two shirts aren’t going to last for much longer, and Dean’s aware that a certain...odor has come to settle around the two of them.
He and Cas find the nearest box store and hit the racks of cheap, mass-produced clothing. Armed with Charlie’s credit card, they load up on extra pairs of socks, boxers, jeans, and shirts. It’s enough to last them until they hit a laundromat.
Dean catches Cas stroking idly over the material of a soft, navy sweater. “You should get it,” he offers, not saying what came to the forefront of his thoughts: that blue would bring out your eyes and your hair and your skin. He still has some modicum of pride left to him.
Cas turns to him, startled; he obviously hadn’t realized Dean was standing so close. “Do you think?” he asks, rubbing the fabric together between his thumb and index finger. “I don't really need it.”
“Cas, live a little. We have a magic credit card. No limit. It can stretch to afford this.”
“Fine.” Cas tucks the sweater over his arm. As he slides past Dean, on his way to pick up a few extra socks, his hand comes to rest heavy on Dean’s shoulder. The warm bleeds through two layers and straight into Dean’s skin. “I’m happy to be here with you, Dean.”
“Yeah, superstores always make me giddy.”
Cas’ eyes narrow in a squint. “You know what I mean.”
Dean swallows. Trust Cas to get serious in the middle of shopping for cheap clothing. Getting touchy-feely in the middle of the men’s department was not really on his agenda, but he won’t hurt Cas’ feelings by cheapening what he’s trying to do.
“Yeah, I do,” he says. “And you know...it’s the same for me. I’m happy too.” Forgetting his prior ban on therapy sessions while shopping, he laughs. “I think this might be the best I’ve felt since...well, a long time.”
“Good.” Cas tilts his head. A warm smile, held mostly in his eyes, lights up his face. “Now, I’m going to look for more underwear.”
“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean curses. He watches Cas march away, then pulls out his phone to text Sam.
yeah we’re not going to be back for a while. everything’s cool tho call us if something comes up
---
They stop for the night in a small town called La Grange, in Wyoming. By then, Dean’s stifling a yawn every other minute. His ass aches with the strain of sitting and driving for hours on end and his stomach churns unhappily with the remnants of a greasy fast food dinner.
Dean slaps a fifty across the cracked, Formica counter of a motel that smells like cigarettes, weed, sweat, and something else less pleasant than those. At his elbow, Castiel sways with the force of his yawn.
“So that’ll be…” The clerk looks behind Dean and raises a sardonic brow.
“A double,” Dean says, more snappish than usual.
It’s not like he hasn’t heard it before. Driving around everywhere with Sam, they got more than their fair share of innuendo and raised brows, and that was from people who weren’t actively shipping them. But it’s different with Cas, in the same way that Cas’ for us is different.
“Whatever you say dude,” the clerk says, before shoving a key card across the counter at him.
“Thanks,” he says, hopes it sounds like fuck you very much, as he shoulders his duffel and walks out of the office. Cas follows behind him, soundless and compliant, which is very unlike Cas. He must be feeling the strain of long hours spent in the car as well.
Cas has taken to sleeping like a duck to water, so Dean’s not surprised when the first thing he does is fling himself onto the nearest flat surface. He doesn’t even bother to kick off his shoes before he’s snoring softly.
“Dick,” Dean mutters, without cause.
Even though he’s aching with exhaustion, he still forces himself to go through his nightly routine. He showers and brushes his teeth, mostly on autopilot, and then puts his phone on the radio app so he can listen to music and erase the buzz and fizz of the motel’s electricity. If he were at the bunker, then he would down a few fingers of whiskey before making the long way back to his room. But he’s not at home, so he makes do with a few mouthfuls of tepid tap water in a shoddy plastic cup.
He walks out from the bathroom and into the room. He keeps quiet, aware of Cas sleeping just a few feet away. He stands at the foot of the bed, content just to watch. Was this how it was like for Cas, all those years of being an angel? Did he get the same sense of peace that Dean gets now, where he can just drink his fill, without worrying about the tension of actual interaction?
In the first few days after they’d won, they were all careful with each other, to the point of awkwardness. No one knew quite how to address Jack (should they refer to him as Kid? God?). It was clear that whatever he had been, it certainly wasn’t what he was anymore. Sam and Eileen were tiptoeing around each other, unsure of how to build a relationship without the constant pressure of the end of the world pressing around them. Dean and Sam were like newborn puppies, testing the feel of grass beneath their feet for the first time, awed at the possibility of a world without a puppet master.
And Cas…
Those first few weeks were hell for them all, but especially for Cas.
It had been Cas’ plan, in the end. Chuck was too powerful to be beaten outright and too canny to be lured into a trap. It would require sacrifice in order to defeat him, and, in true Winchester fashion, Cas had chosen to take that burden on himself.
He’d waited to tell Dean and Sam until he, Jack, and Rowena had created the curse. If everything went according to plan, the curse would strip and bind Chuck’s powers, keeping the world in balance but rendering him powerless. It took all of Rowena’s skill, and a good bit of Jack’s power in order to create, but finally, there it was.
The curse was nestled inside Cas’ grace, a perfect ticking time bomb within an angelic Trojan Horse. Chuck wouldn’t be so careless as to thoughtlessly blunder into a curse. No, he would have to take it for himself, and having seen Jack’s power, he would be cautious before engaging with him. It would take someone else, a perfect victim, to lure him out.
Castiel’s plan had worked to perfection, though it certainly hadn’t seemed like it at the time.
Enraged by the one of his angels standing in direct defiance and intent upon vengeance, Chuck had reached out to take Castiel’s grace. However, he was neither kind nor careful. The removal wasn’t the clean, surgical slice of Metatron’s knife. Instead, it was a rough, clumsy grab, intent on causing as much pain as possible on extraction. Cas’ harsh, guttural scream had echoed through the field and haunted Dean’s sleep for nights to come. It had seemed endless, and perhaps it was, until, finally, Castiel lay gasping on the ground, mortal, and Chuck stood with Castiel’s grace in his hands. It was then that the curse had activated, swirling around Chuck in reams of bright light. The last Dean saw of the man who had formerly been God, was his bewildered anger before he vanished. He, Sam, Jack, and Cas had limped away from the field, trembling with the knowledge of a changed world.
Recovery had been slow. There were countless nights of listening to Cas scream, caught in the grip of fever and nightmares as his body adjusted to the violation. Dean well remembers the sleepless nights he spent at Cas’ bedside, watching him writhe in sweat-soaked sheets, clinging to any sort of anchor in his delirium. It had been then that he reached out, uncaring of any ridicule, and held Cas’ hand in his. Cas had gripped his hand and laced their fingers together, his sweaty palm sliding against Dean’s dry one. Dean had held on, unwilling to let go, and in the morning, he’d been rewarded with Cas’ lucid blue eyes blinking at him.
Then, after almost a week spent in a feverish sleep, Cas had stopped sleeping altogether. Haunted by a persistent insomnia, Cas had taken to traversing the bunker’s hallways long after everyone else had gone to bed. Dean would hear him moving around, footsteps echoing against the floor. He’d watched the bags grow under Cas’ eyes, until the bags were starting to pack their own luggage, and he’d never felt so helpless. Cas was hurting and there was nothing he could do. Every time he asked, Dean just got a wan smile and a “It will get better,” in reply.
And Castiel was right, as he so often was. The sleepless nights faded and normalcy returned. The first time Cas insulted him over breakfast, in his sly, unobtrusive way which took Dean several seconds to realize that he’d been attacked, he’d almost wanted to hug him. Instead, he’d flushed, snapped Fuck you Cas, and stormed off towards the coffee maker. Cas’ soft laughter following him there. Dean had kept his back turned so he could hide the wide grin stretching his cheeks. No doubt Cas had known it was there, but it was nice to keep some things secret.
Still, even with their newly restored equilibrium, a few vestiges of those first, awful weeks remain. He and Cas are still a little too polite with each other, unaware of how the other fits into their orbit, with everything that’s changed. It was fine, somehow, when Cas was an angel, and it felt like their every interaction had an expiration date on it. Then, Cas’ presence was a gift instead of a guarantee, and Dean was so happy to have any second that he never bothered wondering about how this would affect their futures. Having Cas move into the bunker on a permanent basis is everything Dean ever wanted, but he’s never been good with getting what he wants. He’s terrified to look too closely at it, convinced someone’s going to yank it away just as soon as he starts to enjoy it. So he treats Cas carefully, tiptoeing around him in the bunker, and takes to examining their every interaction, wondering where he went wrong.
Another trait still clinging from those first weeks is Cas’ ability to sleep at the drop of a hat. In the bunker, Dean catches him curled into various places, indulging in catnaps. The library seems to be his favorite place, but he’s also caught Cas dozing at the kitchen table with his head pillowed on his arms, or stretched out in the gym on top of the wrestling pads. Dean even caught him napping in the garden, the sun beating warm on his face.
Right now he’s sprawled on his stomach on the bed, one arm twisted awkwardly underneath him. “Idiot,” Dean breathes. Fondness bursts through his chest and twists at his guts, until he can’t tell whether it’s pleasure or pain.
He kneels at the foot of the bed, working at the laces of Cas’ shoes. It’s harder than it sounds, untying someone else’s shoes, but he was picking locks by the time that he was eight. It’s not impossible.
“Dean.” Cas’ low rumble is barely intelligible. Lucky Dean’s become somewhat of an expert in deciphering his sleep-rough mumbles.
“What?” he asks, when it becomes clear that Cas isn’t falling back asleep until he gets a response.
“I’m glad,” Cas says. Apparently satisfied with the non sequitur, he slumps back down, leaving Dean at a loss.
“Asshole,” Dean huffs, tugging at Cas’ shoes until they slide off his feet. After a moment’s pause, he tugs Cas’ socks off as well. He’d be damned if he did this for anyone else, but there’s something about Cas that turns him soft and twists him up and over until he can’t tell which way is north. “Still a cryptic little bastard, aren’t you?”
Even with everything that’s different, some things are never going to change between him and Cas. For that, he’s glad.
“I’m glad it’s you,” Cas murmurs, after Dean stands up, wincing at the twinge in his lower back. “I’ve always been glad it was you.”
Something massive and unfathomable starts to open beneath Dean’s feet. It’s been opening for eleven years, until he’s standing on the furthermost ledge, feet scraping at the edge and sending pebbles skittering below. Dean’s avoided falling into the pit so far, though he doesn’t know why he fought the descent. Perhaps he was worried it wouldn’t live up to his expectations, or he was terrified of the fall and of the possibility that, at the end, there will be no one there to catch him.
It would be easier to jump than to fall. He knows this, the same way he knows that soon, the choice will be taken from him.
But not yet. Not tonight. Tonight he gets to nurture that exquisite pain that feels like happiness as he walks around the edge of the bed, fingers trailing over Cas’ shoulder to the back of his neck. He indulges himself by running his fingers through Cas’ hair and savoring the thick softness of it.
Thousands of angels, Castiel had said, in one of his rare moments of chatty nostalgia. Thousands of angels had laid siege to Hell to rescue him. Yet out of all of them, it was Castiel who had wrapped his grace around the tattered remains of Dean’s soul, whose wings had snapped wide, before launching them upwards and into the light, bellowing out to anyone who would listen.
Dean Winchester has been saved.
Thousands of angels and it was this one, impossible being who managed to find him.
“I’m glad it was you too,” Dean whispers.
You’ve gone a million miles
How far would you get
To that place where you can’t remember
And you can’t forget
---Secret Garden
---
“We should go here,” Cas says the next day, without warning.
There’s no one else on the road so Dean takes his time craning his head to look at Cas’ phone. Cas doesn’t make it easy--his phone bobs and weaves like it’s vying for the final heavyweight title, so much so that Dean finally has to grab his wrist to keep it steady.
“Grand Teton National Park? Why?”
Cas looks out the window, which is his go-to tell for when they’re coming up on something viciously important to him, but he’s already decided to play his cards close to his chest. He still does that, more than Dean would perhaps like. Cas doesn’t lie, not outright, but he’s still a big fan of the lie of evasion.
“I was there, once, and I found it quite beautiful.”
From the reticence in Cas’ voice, Dean knows there’s a hell of a lot more to that story than Cas is telling him, but what the hell. Dean feels like a kid let out of school for summer break. Sam had sent a reply to his previous text, in language so carefully unemotional that Dean knows Eileen had a hand in writing it: Ok sure. Be safe.
Dean has a sinking suspicion Sam’s not referring to the monsters lurking in the night.
He shakes off that thought and returns to the sunny, bright, vacation feel, the one where anything is possible, where golden days sprawl in front of them and the only limits placed upon him are the ones which he creates.
“Sure, all right,” Dean agrees, and turns the car north the next chance he gets.
---
They end for the night just outside Caspar, Wyoming. Tired of takeout and pizza, and itching to experience something new, Dean suggests going to a bar. Cas’ agreement comes so easily that Dean can’t help but suspect he was feeling the same stagnation.
They end up in a tiny, roadhouse bar, set off of the town’s main street. Inside, it smells like stale beer, peanuts, and cigarettes. It’s the smell which accompanies many of his childhood memories, and Dean inhales deeply. Next to him, Cas looks a little less than enthused, and Dean gives him a sharp elbow in the side to lighten him up.
“Charming,” Cas comments, before sliding into a cracked, vinyl booth. It sighs, a weary reminder of the thousands of asses which came before.
“Come on, take a deep breath,” Dean recommends, tossing the remnants of a peanut shell at Cas. “Really take in the scent of sweat.”
The look Cas levels at him could have destroyed buildings back in the old days. Dean’s still not wholly convinced it won’t.
The arrival of their waitress saves either of them from replying and within short order they’re given beers, burgers, and fries. Dean eats with gusto--no matter how many home cooked meals he makes in the bunker’s kitchen, he’ll always have a fondness for greasy burgers topped with plastic cheese. Along with his need for foods heavy in cholesterol, he also indulges another of his vices: watching Cas eat.
It had been pleasing to discover that Cas is the least picky eater Dean’s ever encountered. There are still foods Sam won’t touch, no matter how much Dean tries to smother them with cheese or salt, while Dean retains a childish distrust of anything made with egg whites or whole grains. But Cas eats it all: Sam’s quinoa, Dean’s burgers, even the dubious desserts Jack concocts. He’s a damn bottomless pit, and Dean loves him for it. He loves the little smile Cas gives him as he sets a plate of food in front of him, loves the quiet, Thank you Dean, that feels like so much more than gratitude for a simple meal. He loves even more the heartfelt, That was very good Dean, and he loves even more how Cas never sounds condescending or surprised, just like he’s acknowledging a given fact.
“I’ve got this,” Cas says when the waitress brings the check, and he shifts to pull out his wallet. He slides two crisp twenty dollar bills at the waitress and smiles when she takes it, murmurs, “keep the change,” ignoring the fact that he just gave the woman something like a 110% tip.
“Big man,” Dean says, mostly to hide his irrational flare of hurt. “When did you get so flush?” He would have noticed if Cas had a job. He would have paid attention.
Cas shrugs but there’s a hint of pride in the seemingly modest tilt of his head. “I sold a little bit of produce at the farmer’s market the other week.” He leaves it at that, but Dean’s been to the Lebanon farmer’s market and he knows the prices of produce. In order to have that kind of cash floating around, Cas sold more than a little bit.
“Well, nice job.” Dean takes a sip of his beer and grins at Cas, ignoring the foam moustache covering his upper lip. “Now you can keep me in the luxury to which I’m accustomed.”
“Indeed,” Cas comments dryly, his eyes flicking around to take in the cracked vinyl seats, the chipped wood floor, and the cheap beer.
“Shut up.” Dean shoves away from the table, suddenly jittery with the need to move. He feels like a kid sometimes, around Cas, doing better and more, trying to get his attention-- Look at me, look at me, look at me . “Bet you one of those twenties that I can beat you at pool.”
Cas lifts an eyebrow but slides out from the table. “Pool is basic geometry and I’m an excellent mathematician. Are sure you want to make that bet?”
“Your math against my natural skill? Bring it on, big guy.”
His cheeks flare as the last bit slips out, but if Cas notices, he has the kindness not to bring it up. Instead, he holds a pool cue towards Dean, eyebrows raising in challenge.
“Shall we?” he asks. For all his previous arrogance, Dean swallows hard as he accepts the stick.
---
Everybody’s got a hunger, a hunger they can’t resist
There’s so much that you want, you deserve much more than this
But if dreams came true, oh wouldn’t that be nice
But this ain’t no dream we’re living out through the night
And girl, you want it, you take it, you pay the price
--Prove It All Night
By the time they stumble out of the bar, not only is Dean nursing a pleasant buzz, but he’s also fifty bucks the richer. He didn’t necessarily intend the second, it’s just that it’s almost second nature by now for him to hustle someone. And really, what is he supposed to do when some drunk asshole comes barging up to him and Cas, running his mouth? Not take the challenge and, subsequently, his money?
Plus, twenty bucks out of the fifty is Cas’, so there’s that.
Cas takes his loss with typical aplomb, his mouth twisting in a wry grin as he hands over the twenty. Besides, he’s already pickpocketed Dean’s wallet and used the cash to buy them more drinks, the little bastard.
The last two drinks have the potential to tip them over the line from ‘tipsy’ to ‘wasted’, plus the asshole which Dean hustled earlier is looking uncharitably at him and Cas, so Dean decides it’s time to make their exit. Cas goes willingly, his arm slung across Dean’s shoulder. Their boots crunch along the gravel parking lot, while Dean tries not to pay too much attention to how Cas’ bare skin brushes the tiny hairs at the back of his neck. Daring more than he would if they were at home, he ducks his head close to Cas and breathes in the yeasty-sour scent of him.
“You’re trashed,” he says, as the two of them wobble towards the Impala. She’s parked at the back of the lot, far away from any other cars. Dean doesn’t trust her around drunks, and probably part of him knew that he and Cas were going to spend at least a few hours sleeping it off in the car.
“Look who’s talking,” Cas says. His hips bump into Dean’s as they walk, and Dean’s suddenly by the simple pleasure of having Cas falling over him, drunk as a lord. His feet come to a screeching halt and the world crashes into him, tilting wildly on its axis.
“Dean, are you all right?” Cas asks, a hint of worry in his voice as he rests one hand gently between Dean’s shoulders.
“Fine, I’m fine.” Dean takes a deep breath, trusting in the night to keep the blush on his cheeks hidden. Absurd, how easy he is for Cas, how simple happiness becomes when Dean pauses to let himself consider it. Happiness comes in simple, ordinary things: an arm across his shoulder, a body pressed into his. The solidity of knowing there’s someone who would give a shit if he were to fall on his face.
Music spills out from the bar. The guitar strings spark his interest, while the singer’s smooth crooning wraps around his chest. Dean dares to look at Cas. The planes and angles of his face are illuminated in the flickering street lamp. He's overcome with the stone-cold certainty that he knows where this road ends, and that all he needs to do is just continue down it to end up at his destination.
“Hey.” Dean lurches forward, not nearly as unsteady as he was even just a few seconds ago, and grabs at Cas’ hands. Cas makes a small, muffled noise of surprise, but he follows Dean’s lead, with a bemused expression, as Dean spins him around the parking lot.
Between the third and fourth poorly executed turn, a low chuckle starts to vibrate in Cas’ throat. Dean grins in response as his hand rests at the small of Cas’ back, pulling them together.
A persistent little voice in the back of his head whispers now, tells him to act before it's too late. That’s the hunter in him talking, the paranoid, uncertain part which screams to take anything that’s offered with both hands and run before the universe realizes that you might have gotten something good out of the deal. But Dean’s not that anymore, not completely anyway. With a little difficulty, he dismisses the warning whispers. Now becomes not yet, becomes him relaxing into the cool night breeze brushing past his cheek and the feel of Cas swaying against him to the fading chords of a song.
He has time. For now, he’s allowed to enjoy this.
You hear their voices telling you not to go
But they made their choices and they’ll never know
What it feels like to steal, to cheat, to lie
What it’s like to live and die to
Prove it all night, prove it all night
---Prove It All Night
---
The next morning, Dean wakes with a killer headache. Luckily Cas is there, holding out a mug of cheap, hotel coffee and two pills. Dean swallows, eats a few cheap donuts and danishes, and then they’re on the road again, on their way to Wyoming.
They’re both feeling lazy and indulgent. Cas’ hand hangs out the open window, hand rising to twist the slipstream of the car through his fingers. On the straight-aways, Dean takes his hands off the steering wheel, trusting the Impala’s alignment as he air-slams his way through drum solos. Debates and conversations flow as the Impala eats up the road, and Dean can’t help but think Yes. This is how it was always supposed to be.
---
At Grand Teton National Park, Dean kneels at the edge of a lake. Tiny rocks dig into his knees through the fabric of his jeans, but he ignores them. The water laps up to the edge of his boots and turns the toes dark. Even in summer, the water is so cold that Dean can feel the chill through his boots. The calm water is a shade of blue he didn’t think existed outside Cas’ eyes.
He sees why Cas found some kind of peace here.
Rocks crunch as Cas comes to stand next to him. His hand falls easily to the back of Dean’s neck, fingertips sneaking underneath the collar of his shirt to rest at the top knob of his spine. Dean exhales and relaxes into the contact, eventually tipping over to rest his head against Cas’ thigh. Cas hums and scratches through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. In his hands, Dean turns to putty, and there’s no shame in it, just acceptance.
He and Cas stay by the shores of the lake for a while, Dean with his head pillowed against Cas’ thigh and Cas with his fingertips tucked underneath the collar of Dean’s shirt. Dean’s thoughts wander, through the trials he and Cas have faced, to wondering what Sam, Eileen, and Jack are doing, to pondering the future. Cas’ jeans are soft against his cheek and his fingers are a constant comfort. Dean allows his thoughts to drift and he wonders if it was always this easy.
---
They’ve barely made it out of Grand Teton before Cas starts poking at his phone. Dean resists the bait as long as he can, but before too long he’s asking, “Whatcha got there Cas?”
Probably he shouldn’t let Cas know how easily he can be played, but it’s not like Cas hasn’t known for a while. So he doesn’t bother to feel offended when Cas looks up, a hopeful glimmer in his eyes.
“Redwood National Forest is about seventeen hours away. It’s in California,” he adds, unnecessarily.
“Christ,” Dean groans, “you know how expensive gas is in California?” He turns the wheel westward.
---
The road to California unspools before them, with enough twists and turns to spark Dean’s adrenaline as the Impala hugs the curves. He looks at Cas in the passenger’s seat. His enthusiasm must be infectious because Cas smiles at him. The late afternoon sun glints off the rims of his cheap sunglasses. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen Cas this relaxed, like he’s finally learned how to inhabit his skin.
Dean thinks maybe, after all these years, he’s finally doing the same.
---
Well I got a job and tried to put my money away
But I got debts that no honest man can pay
So I drew what I had from the Central Trust
And I got us two tickets on that Coast City bus
Well now everything dies, baby that’s a fact
---Atlantic City
Dean still dreams of Hell.
It’s not something he’ll tell Sam, but some nights he’ll wake with the stench of brimstone and sulfur thick in his nose and copper at the back of his throat as screams and cries echo in his ears. His hands will remember the feel of a rusted scalpel, remember the exact resistance that flesh gives to a blade before it splits. All the nightmares and depravities of Hell will unfurl before his eyes, and some sick twisted part of Dean which never quite managed to remove Hell’s taint will squirm in delight.
Dean wakes up gagging.
For one sick moment he thinks that he’s going to vomit right on the bedspread, but the nausea recedes until he’s left only with a churning in the pit of his stomach. His throat is sour and bitter and he tries to swallow away the taste. He only succeeds in making his stomach more unsteady. “Fuck,” he whispers, years of concealing his troubles from Sam forcing him into near silence.
He’s also forgotten that Cas isn’t Sam.
“Dean?”
Dean jerks upright. The bitter taste of adrenaline clogs his veins and snaps at his fingertips. The slatted blinds of the motel window throw a little light into the room, just enough to make out the second bed at the opposite side of the room. Cas is a barely distinguishable lump underneath the covers. Shadows shield him from view. The only part of Cas that’s readily visible is the gleam of his eyes peering at Dean from underneath the comforter.
Dean swallows as he wills his racing heart to slow. “It’s all right Cas. Don’t worry about it. Just go back to sleep.” He closes his eyes, only to have the memories of the dream rush up in a vicious wave. His eyes snap open to the darkness of the room and he inhales a shaky breath.
“You’re upset.”
It’s just like Cas to find his most delicate point, put his finger on it, and press. Dean closes his eyes and bites back a curse.
“It’s nothing, all right? Just...please Cas. Go back to sleep.”
He wants to crawl away like a wounded animal and lick his wounds in peace. He’s always been uneasy after these dreams, snappish the next day until Sam retreated in wounded dignity. He accepted the muttered dick underneath Sam’s breath, because what was the alternative? Telling his baby brother that he’d dreamed of vivisections the night before? That worse, there was a sick longing in those dreams, a twisted delight in how the blood pooled in his hands?
But that was Sam, who, even though he would never admit it, has always needed to see Dean as infallible. Even as he reminded Dean that he was only human, Dean knew that Sam needed him to be his older brother, the one with all the answers, the one who could kill the monsters, get the girl, and do it effortlessly. As badly as Sam needs him to play that role, Dean needs it as well.
Cas met him at his worst. Cas has never needed him to be anything other than what he already was.
And that’s terrifying.
Cas eyes shift. A truck drives by the motel, horn blaring. Its lights glance through the window, just long enough for Dean to get a glimpse of Cas’ face. It’s filled with everything that Dean feels but can’t say, every emotion pressing against his ribs whenever he looks at Cas out the corner of his eyes.
A tight fist squeezes around his heart. Dean struggles to breathe.
“You must know,” Cas begins, his voice too soft and gentle for the quiet, dark room. It presses against the hurt, tender place in Dean, as painful as it is comforting. “You must know that whatever you asked of me, I would do.” The flicker of Cas’ eyes disappears as he closes his eyes, then reappears. Dean doesn’t have to see his face to know that Cas’ gaze is fixated on him.
A lump rises in Dean’s throat. He tries to take in a few gulps of air, but it’s like his lungs have stopped working. He lowers his hand to his knee, observing with faint interest the trembling of his fingers.
“All you have to do is ask.”
Dean wants. God, does he want . His chest aches with it. The divide between his bed and Cas’ bed looks like it’s across a deep trench. Cas makes it sound so simple. All you have to do is ask.
With heavy, stilted movements, Dean slides his legs out of bed. The hotel carpet is scratchy against the soles of his feet. Less than five feet away, Castiel waits.
Neither of them speak as Dean takes the short two steps across the divide. The only sound in the room is the soft rasp of their breathing. When Dean puts his hand on Cas’ bed, the rustle of the sheets is deafening.
Up close, Cas’ eyes are huge. He never blinks as he shifts backwards, leaving enough room for Dean next to him. Dean’s knee hits the mattress. Almost immediately afterward, his body collapses in a slow arc. The mattress cradles his body as the sheets, still warm from Cas’ body, settle over him.
The pillow smells like the shampoo Cas uses. Dean turns his face into the fabric and breathes deep in a ragged inhalation that’s torn from his base part. For years he’s denied himself any comfort and shunned simple kindnesses.
Cas lays on his side, facing him. After a moment, he moves, slowly enough that Dean could stop him if he wanted. He doesn’t want. Dean watches Cas’ hand as it descends. After what feels like an eternity, Cas’ long fingers curve around the dip of Dean’s waist.
At the touch of Cas’ hand, a harsh sob tears from Dean’s throat. Blindly, he reaches out, not stopping until his hand wraps around the muscle of Cas’ bicep. He curves into Cas, feeling the heat of him, the solid expanse of his chest. His nose squashes into the hollow of his collarbone, head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. Cas’ arms wrap around him, surrounding him with their embrace.
Dean pulls Cas close as he presses their bodies flush together. Each of Cas’ touches offer comfort and Dean fills his chest up with it, as much as he can handle. After a moment, Cas’ fingers begin to leisurely stroke through his hair.
Dean exhales in a ragged release. He knows that he should say something. The moment is ripe for it. The words are sitting on their heart. All they need is acknowledgment.
Dean falls asleep to the feel of Cas’ fingers combing through his hair and the knowledge that those words won’t stay unsaid forever.
Now our luck may have died and our love may be cold but
With you forever I’ll stay
We’re going out where the sand’s turning to gold
So put on your stockings babe cause
The night’s getting cold
Well now, everything dies baby that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
---Atlantic City
---
The next morning, Dean wakes in a tangle of limbs. Cas’ elbow digs into his side, while his face is pressed against Cas’ chest. He takes a moment to appreciate the steady rise and fall of Cas’ breaths and the constant beat of the heart underneath his cheek. Warmth bubbles in Dean’s chest as he looks at Cas’ sleep slack face. Even with a thin tendril of drool winding its way out of the corner of his mouth, he’s still the best looking thing that Dean’s ever seen.
His bladder will soon reach the point of discomfort. Eventually, they’ll have to face the realities of the day. His stomach is already making tiny rumbles of discontent. If they want to make it to California by this afternoon, they’ll need to leave within a few hours.
But for now, Cas’ body is warm and comforting. The arms that wrap around his shoulders are both possessive and reassuring, bleeding devotion through their touch. Dean closes his eyes and snuggles closer into Cas’ chest. He matches his breathing to Cas’, deep, steady inhales and long, luxurious exhales. Before he has a chance to worry about what happens the next time he wakes up, he drifts off into sleep.
---
The next day, as they cross the state line into California, Dean lets his right hand sit, palm up on the seat between him and Cas. After a moment, Cas gently lays his hand atop of Dean’s. Their palms connect and their fingers lace together.
That night, Dean asks for a single king bed while Cas waits silently behind him. The slight pressure of his fingertips against the small of Dean’s back speaks volumes. They perform their nightly rituals without much fuss, bumping elbows and hips over the bathroom sink as they jostle for place. They slide into the bed, each on their respective sides, but they gravitate towards the center and each other. The television plays in the background, but Dean’s much more interested in the wash of Cas’ eyelashes against his cheek and the soft curl of his hair on his forehead.
It doesn’t take long before Cas is asleep. Only a few minutes later, drowsiness tugs at Dean’s eyelids. He scoots further into the mattress, wrapping his fingers in the hem of Cas’ shirt as he curls closer to his body. He presses his forehead to Cas’ and looks down at him the best he can, almost going cross-eyed from the effort. Cas shifts and his nose brushes against Dean’s in the parody of a kiss.
Dean looks at him until he can’t anymore, until he thinks his chest might burst with the emotion of it, and thinks I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this man.
---
Don’t turn me home again
I just can’t face myself alone again
Don’t run back inside
Darling you know just what I’m here for
So you’re scared and you’re thinking
Maybe we ain’t that young anymore
Show a little faith there’s magic in the night
---Thunder Road
The redwoods stretch so far above them that even when Dean tilts his head back and squints, he still has difficulty making out where they end and the sky begins. Next to him, Cas sways as he looks towards the sky. The look of genuine wonder on his face is so enticing that after a few moments, Dean isn’t watching the trees; he’s watching Cas.
“Some of these trees are over 2,000 years old,” Cas calls over to him, unselfconscious in his awe. “They’ve seen the rise and fall of the Roman Empire and witnessed countless natural disasters.” Cas’ voice drops so that Dean can barely hear him. “They’ve withstood averted apocalypses and the collapse of Heaven…” Cas lays a gentle hand on one of the mossy trunks. From him, the gesture is more reverent than if he’d kneeled. “Their roots stretch out for miles underneath the earth and their canopies support entire ecosystems.”
A seemingly endless torrent of facts pours out of Cas. It’s rude for Dean not to pay attention to him, but his mind is busy wrestling with the glorious impossibility that is Cas. He ponders at the marvel of an angel in love with humanity and the well of infinite kindness and hope that Cas seems to possess. He considers Castiel as a whole: angel, rebel, and human. Finally, Dean marvels at their luck. Every twisted road and wrong turn, every mistake and blunder and still their paths led them here, to Castiel standing amongst ancient trees that are still just youngsters compared to him. How many ways could they have failed and never gotten to experience this? But they’re here now, whole and human and so wonderfully alive. Dean’s chest expands to the point of bursting. He’s a cup spilling over, warmth and joy and bliss and love pouring out of him underneath the dappled sunlight.
Dean strides over to where Cas is standing, with only the rough burr of Cas’ name catching in his throat to herald his arrival.
Time moves in jerks and spats. Suddenly, he’s standing in front of Cas, startled blue eyes flicking to his face. “Dean, what’s wrong--” he starts, cutting himself off as Dean’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, fingers pushing into damp curls.
“Yes or no, Cas?”
He should have taken time to practice what he’s going to say. From the moment that he and Cas spent their first night in bed together (from the moment Cas slid into the passenger seat of the Impala, from the moment he looked at Cas and said I’d rather have you cursed or not , from the moment that Cas laid his mark on Dean’s skin), Dean’s known that this is where they were headed. If he had allowed himself to dream about it, he would have imagined his fingertips stroking over Cas’ skin while he whispered adoration into Cas’ ear. It should be better, but it’s him and Cas, which is probably the only thing that’s ever mattered.
At the end, yes or no is all that matters.
“Yes,” Castiel whispers, his voice gravel rough, “yes Dean, yes--”
And Dean kisses him there, amidst the trees stretching up to the heavens. And when he kisses Cas, when his lips finally push against Cas’, it feels like coming home.
---
And my car’s out back if you’re ready to take that long walk
From your front porch to my front seat
The door’s open but the ride it ain’t free
And I know you’re lonely for the words I ain’t spoken
But tonight we’ll be free, all the promises will be broken
---Thunder Road
By the time they make it back to the hotel, Dean is jittery with nerves. He knows he and Cas are dangling on the edge of some precipice, but he doesn’t know how or when they’re going to step off it or what waits for them at the bottom. He knows that the simple act of walking into their motel room is something which is rife with implications.
“You take the first shower,” Cas tells him. It’s an order, but it’s not really a suggestion either. There’s no reason to refuse, so Dean walks towards the bathroom.
His hands perform an interesting dance on the way as several different instincts war within him. At first, his hands reach for the hem of his shirt to shed his clothes on the way to the shower, as they would if he were at the bunker. At the same time, reflexes born of repression and doubt force his hands into stillness. Dean doesn’t strip in Cas’ presence. His skin prickles at the vulnerability inherent in the gesture, even though he knows Cas would avert his eyes.
“Dean, I hope you’re not overthinking on my account.” And then, softer, “All you ever had to do was be yourself. I hope you know that’s all you ever have to do.”
Once again, that too-full feeling takes over Dean’s chest. After so many years of not feeling anything, now he feels too much, and he can hardly tell which way is up in the midst of his inner turmoil. What he knows is that everything inside of him--happiness, gratitude, fear, need--all exist in a messy tangle, and at the root of the knot is Cas.
In one smooth motion, he yanks his shirt off and lets it fall to the ground. For all the angst that it caused, it’s immediately forgotten. Dean has more important concerns. Namely, the former angel flipping through a battered paperback.
Cas looks up as Dean walks towards him, eyebrows lifting in a wordless question. His expression is confused only for a moment before it settles into something resembling satisfaction as Dean bends over him. His hands cup Cas’ cheeks, tilting his head towards a better angle. Their lips meet and Cas releases a happy sigh into Dean’s mouth. Dean knows well the dangers of demon deals, but he thinks that making one might be worth it, if only so he could hear Cas make that noise every day, for the rest of his life.
The thought hits him, powerful as a truck. He doesn’t need a demon deal to ensure that Cas sounds happy every day . Now, he has the power and the privilege to do it for himself. The realization is strong enough to make his knees buckle. He goes sprawling forward into Cas, the latter absorbing his weight with only a startled oof of protest. There’s an awkward tangle of shifting limbs, during which Dean’s head strikes the headboard and he lets out some inventive curses. Cas asks him what’s wrong, and Dean doesn’t answer because, for once in his life, nothing’s wrong.
“Dean?” Cas sounds worried, which is the opposite of what Dean was aiming for.
He places a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of Cas’ neck, tongue darting out to taste the sweat drying on Cas’ skin. He doesn’t miss the small shiver which runs through Cas’ body, or his soft noise of pleasure. Dean scrapes his teeth over the vulnerable flesh, leaving red furrows that fade almost immediately, just to hear Cas’ low groan.
Dean wants more--his whole body is screaming at him for more, blood rushing to fill his stirring cock--but he forces himself to stop. He pulls back to peck kisses up Cas’ neck, to the hollow just behind his ear, and across his jaw to his mouth. Cas sighs, lips curving up in a sweet smile.
“Fuck, I love you,” Dean sighs thoughtlessly.
He doesn’t realize the words have left his mouth until Cas’ hand flinches on his cheek. Heart freezing, he pulls back, far enough that he can see the dazed, wondering expression on Cas’ face.
“You mean that.” It comes out as a statement, not a question. Cas’ thumb strokes over the slick skin of Dean’s lower lip.
A blush creeps up the back of Dean’s neck. “Yeah,” he says, wanting desperately to break their intense eye contact and wanting desperately to fall into Cas’ eyes. “Thought it was obvious.”
Cas smiles then, warm and inviting and everything that Dean loves about him. “You must know that I feel the same about you,” he tells Dean then, hand settling in warm and steady at the back of Dean’s neck.
A helpless laugh burbles out of Dean. He knows, he truly did, but it’s one thing to know, in the back of his mind, the same way that he knows Sam’s birthday and how to replace a valve in the Impala, and it’s another thing to have Cas whisper it to him, intimate and soft. He drops his head to Cas’ shoulder, pressing into Cas so hard that his nose stings.
“I really hope you were planning long-term, because I don’t…” Dean trails off. He can’t give voice to all the emotions pressing against his chest.
“I rebelled for you, I fell for you, and I have died for you.” Castiel softens the memories by scratching gently at the base of Dean’s skull. “Exactly what part of any of those speaks of a temporary arrangement?”
Dean kisses him then, hard and fierce, tongue pushing at the seam of Cas’ lips. Cas opens his mouth to him and Dean moans into the kiss, crawling further into Cas’ lap.
He’s forgotten the simple pleasure of kissing someone with no greater goal in sight, just the slick feel of lips against lips. His stubble catches against Cas’ chin, sparking a pleasant burn just underneath his skin. He settles into it, straddling Cas and sinking into him, arms wrapped around his broad shoulders and hands tangling in his hair. Cas’ hands span over his lower back, almost scorching against his bare skin.
Dean loses himself in the slow strokes of Cas’ hands up and down his spine, in the push and pull of their mouths. It feels like they’re becoming one flesh, Cas’ tongue against his, Cas pressing into him. He rocks against Cas, setting a rhythm that makes them both gasp. He’s half-hard in his pants and when he rocks back down, he can feel Cas’ corresponding erection against the curve of his ass. The friction is satisfying, but for the moment, Dean doesn’t feel the need to move further. This is nice, his hands in Cas’ hair, gripping the strands to pull Cas’ head back and bare his throat. Dean nips a line down Cas’ neck, sucking little bruises along the way.
Dean reaches the hollow of Cas’ collarbone and works his way back up, kissing the bolt of Cas’ jaw. Then it’s Cas’ turn to repay the favor and he does, nipping at the lobe of Dean’s ear before working his way down to Dean’s shoulders. Each kiss lights a fire in Dean and the only way he can extinguish it is by kissing Cas again, and again, and again, until he’s drowning.
Eventually they slow, lips swollen and raw. Bruises bloom over tender skin, marks of possession and love. Dean lays his head on Cas’ shoulder. Even at rest, he can’t stop himself from brushing kisses over Cas’ skin. It’s a newly discovered addiction, and not one he’s likely to give up any time soon. Cas seems to have succumbed to the same desires, his hands restlessly roaming over Dean’s back. His fingertips trace over Dean’s vertebrae, and Dean shivers.
“You still need a shower,” Cas finally says, the words molasses slow and thick against Dean’s heated skin.
“So do you.” Dean pulls back, brushing his hand over the sweat beaded against Cas’ forehead. He rests one deliberate thumb into the hollow of Cas’ throat and strokes over the soft skin. “Care to join me?”
A wrinkle appears between Cas’ brows. “I thought you said that shower sex was complicated.”
Dean laughs. The sound is pure and direct. It fills the dank hotel room with light and warmth. “Horndog,” he says affectionately, ducking down to press his lips to the bow of Cas’ upper lip. “I said shower together, not fuck in the shower.”
“Oh.” Is he imagining it or is there a hint of disappointment in Cas’ voice? “Very well then. If that’s what you want.”
Castiel taps at his hips, indicating that Dean should move. Dean rolls off, then watches, his mouth suddenly dry, as Castiel sheds his clothes without a trace of shame on his way to the bathroom.
“Hell fucking yeah,” Dean mutters, before he’s stumbling behind him.
---
At night, I wake up with the sheets soakin’ wet
And a freight train running through the middle of my head
Only you can cool my desire
Oh, oh, oh
I’m on fire
---I’m on Fire
---
Showering with Cas is the best worst exercise in self-control that Dean could have ever envisioned.
By the time he makes it into the room, steam billows from the shower. Cas stands in the dingy tub. He’s the best looking thing this room has ever or will ever see. Dean swallows hard as he watches the water sluice down Cas’ shoulders, down his chest, to his waist, and down…
“Holy fuck,” Dean whispers, forgetting for a moment that he’s supposed to be cool and suave.
Cas looks up at him, shakes the water from his hair. His teeth flash white in a grin that, while mocking, isn’t cruel. “Join me,” he says, stretching out his hand in an invitation. It’s then that his eyes flick down over Dean’s body. Dean’s pleased to see he’s not the only one without any sort of game. Cas’ mouth drops open as his tongue rests on his lower lip for several long minutes. Even in the flickering light of the bathroom, Dean can catch how Cas’ pupils expand as they come to rest on his half-hard cock.
“Like what you see?” He’s half-teasing, half-sincere, and he really hopes Cas picks up on that.
“Yes, very much so,” Cas answers, all sincere. His fingers caress the soft soft of Dean’s wrist and inner arm. “Please. Join me.”
With that, he pulls Dean into the almost scalding waters of the shower and proceeds, without ever touching Dean’s cock, to take him apart.
Dean’s heard people use the phrase ‘worshipped’ to describe how their lovers treated them. Until now, he never understood what they meant. Worship is a pale description of what Cas does to him, but it’s the best that his limited vocabulary can come up with on short notice.
Fingertips trace over his torso, starting at his jaw, then traveling over his shoulders and down to his chest. Cas pauses to tweak a nipple. A pleased, dark smile spreads across his face at the resultant moan. Because he’s an asshole, he does it again before he dips his head and takes the nub into his mouth. His teeth scrape over the sensitive flesh before he flicks it with the tip of his tongue.
“Fuck!” Dean cries out. One hand flies out to brace himself against the shower walls, nails digging at the tiles, while his other hand cups the back of Cas’ head. “Cas, please…”
He doesn’t know what he’s begging for. Cas to stop? Cas to never take his mouth off of him? It’s too much and not enough, Cas’ mouth on his skin, teeth nibbling at the most sensitive places.
Then it’s gone, and Cas is back to trailing teasing touches over him. Dean shivers and shudders as Cas’ fingers trace over the skin of his chest, down to the wiry hairs at his groin. Dean holds his breath, restraining himself from bucking up into the touch, all to no avail.
Dean is straining towards and away, caught between overload and not enough. Between all of the physical sensations rocketing through his body is the greater realization. This is Cas, Castiel, Angel of the Lord, the being that Dean’s been in love with for over a decade. If he focuses too long on that, it’s overwhelming, so he retreats into the comfort of snarkiness.
“You planning on making a move anytime soon?”
“Eventually,” Cas answers him, sounding too smug for his own good. “For now, hand me the soap.”
“Are you kidding?” Dean groans, even as he passes the soap and a washcloth to Cas. “You seriously want to take an actual shower?”
“Well, we were out in the sun all day. We did work up a sweat.” There’s something wrong with how reasonable Cas sounds as he starts to work the cloth over Dean’s shoulders, down to his chest. This time, Cas only spends a few moments thumbing over his nipples before he swipes the cloth down to his waist and then his hips.
“You’re so lovely,” Cas says as he moves the washcloth over Dean’s stomach in small, tight circles. “I’ve always thought so, even before I could see your physical body.”
Trapped in a haze of heat and lust, Dean barely comprehends the words as they wash over him. It takes effort to catch them and bring them back down. He has to examine each for meaning and determine how it adds to the others. When he does, he scoffs.
“‘m not,” he slurs, voice catching as Cas scratches his nails over the dip of his waist.
It’s not false modesty. Dean knows exactly what he looks like. The crowning glories of his face are a slightly crooked nose, broken one too many times from one too many hunts, and lips too full and delicate for his otherwise masculine features. His shoulders, chest, and back are littered with scars, the thick white tissue curling around his ribs and turning him into some patchwork creature. As the years pass, his stomach softens more and more, his cute little pudge turning into something a little less cute and a little more middle-aged. His legs are bowed out, awkward as a penguin, scarred as the rest of him with a trick knee to boot.
“Not that I wouldn’t love to stand here with you and debate over your painfully low self-image, but I did have other plans.” Castiel’s voice is light but also leaves no room for argument. Dean still opens his mouth because he never could let a compliment sit, but Cas claws his fingernails in, hard, to the flesh just above his hips.
“Ow! What the fuck, Cas?”
“I’m sorry.” Through the heat and steam of the shower, Cas smiles at him, oddly serene, before he drops to his knees. “I thought you were about to be stupid. My mistake.”
Dean knows he’s being played. There’s no way Cas doesn’t have at least three ulterior motives when he’s on his knees, still smiling up at him, hands smoothing over the soft hairs of his thighs. But he finds that he doesn’t care, especially when there are no real losers in this game.
He strokes through the wet tangle of Cas’ hair before he settles for cradling his head in both his hands. His thumbs smooth over the fine lines at Cas’ eyes. Ever since he became human, those lines have deepened into actual crow’s feet. Maybe because Cas is finally showing his mortality. Maybe because Cas finally has reasons to smile.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” Dean breathes as Cas deliberately brushes against his balls with delicate fingertips.
“I hope not.” Cas’ forehead presses against his hip. His mouth is close enough to his half-hard cock that Dean can feel his breath when he speaks. He shudders with the effort of controlling himself, but Cas never moves. “That would defeat my purpose.”
Something hot and wild jolts through Dean at those words. My purpose. He tugs on Cas’ hair, forcing his face up. The water hits Cas’ face at odd angles, causing him to flinch as he squints into Dean’s face. His expression is more than a little miffed. Dean tangles their fingers together and pulls upward. Cas resists, confusion on his face.
“What?” he murmurs, his voice soft enough that the pounding of the shower almost drowns him out. It’s clear that he wants to stay where he is, but Dean can’t--He can’t.
“Come here,” Dean asks, pulling again at Cas’ hands until Cas finally has to acquiesce to his request. He wobbles coming up, but Dean’s hands automatically stabilize him until Cas is pressed flush to his chest. This close, skin to skin, Dean can feel Cas’ arousal pressing against his own, but that’s a minor concern. For now, he has to try to and soothe the raging fire that Cas’ words have lit in him.
“You realize that you just worked yourself out of a blow job,” Cas grumbles, but the words are tinted with affection as he turns his face to capture Dean’s lips.
“Rain check,” Dean says between kisses. “You’ll make it up to me.”
“You’re awfully confident.” Cas’ fingers drift down Dean’s back, tracing the lines of muscle and scars. He ends just at the crack of Dean’s ass, his fingers drifting teasingly between Dean’s cheeks. “Maybe I won’t feel like it later.”
“No, I’m pretty certain you’re a sure thing.” Dean nips along the shell of Cas’ ear just to feel his shiver. “Now come on, the water’s getting cold.”
When Dean was younger, he would have listened to the threat in Cas’ words and ignored the tease. He used to assume Cas always had one foot out the door. The Dean of yesteryears would have taken whatever he could get from Cas and never wondered about the possibility that there could be something more. But Dean’s older and, he’d like to think, a little bit wiser. He’s learned, through lessons taught in blood, Cas isn’t leaving any time soon.
So he pushes his arousal to the back of his mind. It simmers, willing to be delayed for the moment. He and Cas finish their shower, bumping into each other and generally getting into each other's way, especially as the water temperature rapidly devolves from warm to tepid. “Shitty hotel water heaters,” Dean curses, slapping at the controls. The water shuts off abruptly, leaving him and Cas to scramble out of the bathtub in their search for towels.
The towels are the typical, scratchy motel fare that seem more interested in scraping off the top layer of skin cells than actually soaking up water. After a brisk scrubbing, Dean’s skin is pink and damp. The sheets cling to the curves of his body as he crawls into bed, Cas on his heels.
Dean lays on his side, head propped on the heel of his hand. With his other hand resting on the dip of Cas’ waist, he allows himself the rare luxury of inactivity. His eyes roam over the bits of Cas revealed by the sheet. His shoulders and the hollow of his clavicle, Dean already knows well, but he hasn’t catalogued how they look still glistening from their shower. Below, Dean’s eyes are drawn to the small mole just beside Cas’ left nipple, before he looks at the dusky peak itself, tightening in the cool air. Dark hairs dust across the expanse of his chest, thickening below his navel into a trail which disappears under the edge of the sheet.
Dean feels the weight of Castiel’s eyes resting on him, as Cas performs the same perusal. It’s different now that they have permission to look. His skin prickles in anticipation as he hears Cas’ breathing deepen. Eventually, one of them has to move.
For a millennia old being, Castiel has never mastered the art of patience.
He moves forward, a low growl trapped in his throat and takes Dean’s lips in a harsh kiss. It’s like being kissed by a tempest, unyielding and fierce, and Dean groans into Cas’ mouth, even as Cas gentles their kiss into something bordering on reverential. Cas slings his leg over Dean’s hips, while Dean rolls onto his back, chuckling as Cas clambers on top of him, boxing him in with his elbows and knees. For his part, Cas can’t seem to stop running his fingers through Dean’s hair, tracing down to his jaw and throat.
Dean’s cock, already interested in the proceedings, quickly fills out against his thigh. Already, there’s a low ache in his balls that warns him that he’d better do something about it this time. . Thankfully, it looks like Cas feels the same as his lips follow the path of his fingers, down Dean’s cheek, to his lips, and then his throat.
“If you’re not interested, now would be a good time to tell me,” he says in between nipping a necklace of kisses around Dean’s collarbones.
“You’re a pretty smart guy,” Dean gasps, twisting his fingers in Cas’ hair. “Did you ever think I was uninterested?”
“No,” Cas says, after a short moment’s contemplation. “Afraid, certainly. Pig-headed, yes. But never uninterested.”
“A whole handful of knuckles with that compliment,” Dean mutters, then stops that train of thought as Cas’ mouth closes around one of his nipples. “Ah shit, Cas, that’s good. You can use your teeth, if you want, just a little--” Cas teeth score his flesh in a hint of a bite and Dean keens. “Yeah, that’s it, fuck yes.”
“Dean.” Cas pulls away from his flesh. It takes Dean a moment to focus. Most of his attention is centered on Cas’ pink lips, swollen from kisses. “I want you in my mouth. Is that acceptable?”
God, Dean loves him. Is that acceptable, like there was any part of him that could ever say no.
“Sounds fucking great to me,” and with that, Cas is off, working his way down Dean’s chest to his stomach. Dean squirms under his lips, especially when Cas pays a little too much attention to the soft pudge around his lower belly. “Stop,” he whines, which only causes Cas to nip harder. Later, there will be impressions of his teeth in the soft flesh.
“You told me I could do this,” Cas points out, imminently reasonable as ever. His hands are like iron shackles, pinning Dean’s hips to the bed.
“Not that. It’s embarrassing,” Dean snaps, though his protest comes out as little more than a breathy moan.
Cas cocks an eyebrow up, like he’s honestly considering Dean’s request. “I don’t see why. It’s a part of you, and I adore all of you. This,” he places a long, open-mouthed kiss to the softness underneath his navel, “is me showing how much I adore you.”
Dean wants to argue, he really does, but there doesn’t seem to be a point. Cas isn’t going to listen to him anyway, and it’s not like he wants him to stop. Not when he’s working his way down to his hips, licking around the spurs, down to the crease between his thigh and groin.
“You’re so lovely,” Castiel murmurs, ghosting his fingertips over Dean’s straining cock. “I’ve always thought so.”
Dean can’t help his low whine of protest anymore than he can stop his hips shifting restlessly, to the point where Cas has to pin them onto the mattress. “Cas, please,” he asks, without knowing exactly what he wants.
He looks down the length of his body to meet Cas’ eyes. His pupils are blown wide, black almost eclipsing electric blue. Dean shivers. As much as he wants Cas’ touch on him, Cas wants to touch. It’s awe-inspiring.
“Sweet boy,” Castiel finally whispers, something dark and pleased curling around his voice, “of course I’ll give you what you need.”
He doesn’t give Dean another chance to speak as he closes his mouth around the head of Dean’s straining cock. The tip of his tongue rubs against his leaking slit before pressing just underneath the head, at the spot guaranteed to drive Dean wild. Cas’ lips form a seal as he slides his mouth down, engulfing him in sinful, wet heat.
If Dean had thought about it (he has, in dark nights spent in motel rooms with Sam sleeping just feet away, in his room at the bunker, wondering if that would make a difference now that he has technical home, he’s thought about it in showers and in bars, whenever Cas smiles, god, he’s thought about it), then he would have assumed that Cas probably wouldn’t be awesome in bed. Enthusiastic certainly, and Cas has always been a quick study, but he wouldn’t have expected the nimbleness of his tongue as it curls around his shaft, or the cunning fingers wrapping around the base of his rock and rubbing gently. He certainly wouldn’t have expected Cas to pull off of him in a long, slow slide, and barely give Dean enough time to whimper at the loss before he tongues at his balls.
“Shit!” Dean barks. He doesn’t mean to twist his fingers so harshly in Cas’ hair, but it doesn’t seem like Cas minds. Dean feels the vibration of his low moan against his skin. It jolts through him and pulls a noise out of his own throat. His hips buck into the loose circle of Cas’ fist, the sensation pitifully meager for his needs. “Cas, fuck, come on, you’ve got to stop.”
Cas finally, mercifully, pulls away, leaving Dean shaking. He’s a sight, hair a disaster from the shower and Dean’s attention, lips pink and slick, and eyes almost black with desire. He’s the embodiment of everything Dean ever wanted and everything Dean thought he would never get.
“Problem?” Cas’ hoarse voice sends another shiver through Dean.
“No, not a problem,” Dean decides. “But I wanna touch you too. Come here.” He pats Cas’ thigh for emphasis, until Cas finally gets the picture and shifts to lay on his side. Dean rolls over and performs an ungainly scooch until he can get his mouth right where he wants it: ghosting over the tip of Cas’ dick.
At the first touch of his tongue, Cas’ hand reaches out and clamps down on his hip. His fingertips dig bruises into Dean’s skin, and Dean groans encouragement, even as he closes his lips around the head. Precome blurts out onto his tongue and he can feel Cas getting impossibly harder against his lips. Dean closes his eyes to take it all in: the bitter, salt taste of Cas, the girth stretching his jaw, the aborted jerks of his hips as he fights the urge to thrust into Dean’s mouth.
Awkward positioning be damned, Dean would be perfectly content to suck Cas off right here, if he didn’t also have a very specific fantasy waiting to be played out. He takes his mouth off of Cas, delivering a teasing little flick of his tongue to the head before he squeezes his cock softly to get his attention.
The look Cas gives him, hazy eyed and undone, is a thing of beauty. “Not that I’m not enjoying what I’m doing, but I think you were doing something as well?” Dean grins as he shoves his hips forward, making his intentions impossible to misinterpret.
He’d said before that Cas was a quick study, but he’s grateful for it now, as Cas immediately divines his meaning. Within seconds, his lips are wrapped around Dean’s cock.
Dean quickly discovers his mistake. Before, when Cas had his lips around his dick, he’d been sure that Cas was trying his hardest to make him come. But now, as Cas tongues determinedly at his slit and sucks, he realizes that before was just Cas amusing himself. Now he’s going down on Dean with intent.
Though Cas would deny it until his dying day, Dean knows full well that he has a competitive streak about a mile wide. It’s led to several arguments between them, as well as several ill-advised bets, but now, it’s fucking perfect. As determined as Dean is to make Cas come, all that focus is reflected on his body ten-fold as Cas bobs his head up and down. Little moans and grunts spill from his throat as he bobs his head, and this whole thing is going to be over embarrassingly fast.
Dean doesn’t approach his edge so much as he careens towards it, almost twelve years of pent-up lust and desire making themselves known in a fierce ascension. He’s been on edge for so long today that it’s a miracle he’s held out this long. Cas’ mouth is something unholy and divine, and his fingers are nothing short of a miracle.
Maybe it’s luck or maybe it’s the strange intuition which Cas seems to have in regards to Dean, but either way, something leads to Cas pulling off of Dean’s cock. Bereft of his touch, Dean glances down. His whine of protest cuts off short as he locks eyes with Cas just as Cas sucks leisurely on his own fingers. No one should look that smug deep-throating their own digits.
Dean trembles in anticipation as Cas returns to suck at the head of his cock. Mercifully, Cas doesn’t make him wait as he traces his fingers over Dean’s balls before sliding them further back. A single spit-slick finger circles around his hole, applying gentle pressure. Dean’s hips thrust forward, wholly out of his control, as he jerks between Cas’ mouth and Cas’ finger.
He’s so close to falling apart that he’s shaking. He lets Cas’ cock fall from his lips as he pants, his hand grappling uselessly at Cas’ body before it lands on his head. “Please, Cas, come on,” he whines, almost unaware of what he’s asking for.
Cas slides the tip of his finger into him just as he presses the tip of his tongue to the sensitive spot just underneath the head of his dick, and Dean wails as his muscles clench and release. Molten heat boils over, and he comes in harsh, uneven jerks into Cas’ mouth.
Cas licks at him in slow, leisurely swipes, until Dean whimpers at the sensation. His hands sweep over every part of Dean’s body they can reach, and Dean focuses on those calming strokes as his heart rate starts to slow. “Shit,” he finally whispers. He laughs, a small, pleased noise. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“I’m delighted to hear you say so,” Cas replies. Dean blinks as he comes back to himself. It takes him a long moment to decipher not only the strained note in Cas’ voice but also the cause for it. He catches on at about the same time Cas decides to take matters into his own hands, literally.
He bats Cas’ hand away from his cock, ignoring Cas’ frustrated sob. One solid push has Cas sprawling onto his back, and from there, Dean easily flips and slides in between his legs. “I’ve got you,” he tells Cas, looking up the length of him, before he takes Cas’ cock into his mouth.
No teasing here: he can feel the tension and need thrumming through Cas’ body, as well as hear it in his choked gasps and moans. Cas is desperate and on the edge, and it’s Dean’s great privilege to take him over.
He doesn’t close his eyes as he takes as much of Cas as he can into his throat. Thousands of things are happening at once, and Dean can’t bear the thought of missing any of them: how Cas’ back arches as his hips push into his mouth, how he tips upwards his head to bare his throat, how the muscles of his stomach clench, or how his fingers twist in the sheets.
“Dean,” Cas gasps. His hand flails for purchase, which he eventually finds on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, I’m not… I can’t… Dean, I’m going to--”
Dean pulls off for just a second, loosely jacking Cas until he forces him to look down. “Let go,” he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to the head of Cas’ cock before he slides all the way down to where wiry hairs press at his nose and lips.
It’s been a while since he’s done this, but his muscles still remember how. Dean takes a deep breath, fighting against the instinctive reaction to gag as Cas’ cock bumps at the back of his throat. With effort, he relaxes his throat. When he does, he feels the brief panic and flare of airlessness as Cas’ cock pops into his throat.
It’s only for a short moment that he holds Cas in the tight embrace of his throat. Warned by Cas’ low cry and the clench of his fingers against his shoulder, Dean swiftly pulls back, just in time for Cas to release into his mouth. He swallows as a reflex, listening to Cas’ soft sobs of completion. Dean doesn’t pull off until Cas softens against his tongue.
Cas’ hand hangs limply on Dean’s shoulder. After a moment, he twitches his fingers in a weak caress. “Hell,” he murmurs, sounding loopier than Dean’s ever heard him. With what looks like a good deal of effort, he lifts his head to look dazedly down at Dean. “Why weren’t we doing that all along?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Overcome by a wave of tenderness, Dean hides it as best he can, by pressing his lips to the inside of Cas’ knee. There’s a knot of scar tissue there which he never noticed. He wonders whether it was a leftover from Jimmy Novak, or whether Cas managed this new wound all by himself. He shoves the thought of past injuries and wounds aside and focuses on the glorious present. Miles of glorious, naked skin are bared for his worship. Cas’ glorious naked skin is open for his worship.
He slides up Cas body, pecking playful kisses against his stomach and chest. He sucks at a nipple, just to hear Cas’ indignant squawk. “Hey, angel,” he murmurs, when he’s stretched out along Cas’ side. He’s clingy and trying to hide it, but he can’t stop himself from resting an arm across Cas’ waist or from slotting a leg neatly between Cas’.
A small frown mars Castiel’s face. “That’s a technically incorrect name, seeing as how I’m no longer in possession of my grace. Even if that weren’t the case, you calling me angel as a term of endearment could be compared to me calling you human. I find neither--”
Dean kisses him, effectively stopping his no doubt lengthy discourse. If he’d known that this method existed for shutting Cas up, he would have employed it years ago, and probably saved the both of them a good deal of pain and suffering.
“Shut up, Cas.” Dean softens the words with a kiss to Cas’ jaw. The rough stubble scratches at his lips. Far from being deterred, Dean nuzzles against it, enjoying the burn. “If you don’t like angel, I could always call you something else. Sweetheart? Babycakes? Honey? Darling?”
Dean catches the roll of Cas’ eyes. “You could call me Castiel,” he suggests dourly.
“Boring. I like angelcakes.”
Cas’ expression is flat and humorless, but Dean spies a hint of mirth lurking in the blue depths. “Dean.” He licks his lips. “Baby.”
Coming from Cas, the pet name is awkward and stilted, and the hottest thing Dean’s ever heard. “Yeah, Cas,” he whispers, tracing over the outline of Cas’ lips with the tip of his finger. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”
Cas smirks, clearly proud of his ability to undo Dean with a single whisper. If only he knew. For years, his simple presence has been enough to unravel Dean at the seams.
He stifles a yawn against Cas’ shoulder. “All right, big guy. I don’t know about you, but I’m about worn out.”
“I hadn’t realized that I would be so tired afterward.”
Dean absently pats Cas’ chest. “That’s how you know it was really good sex.”
“Oh.” Cas’ hand, which had been tracing abstract patterns along Dean’s skin, pauses for a short moment before it continues. “So it… It was good, then?”
Dean laughs for a moment, not realizing the sincerity behind Cas’ question. It’s only when Cas doesn’t respond that he understands. “Are you kidding?” He twists so that he can kiss at the top of Cas’ head. “I don’t know where you learned to give blowjobs, but wherever it was, I’m a little grateful and a lot jealous.”
“Oh. All right, then.” Cas sounds mollified, but he rolls on his side and curls closer to Dean. “I know that physical pleasure is important--”
“Hold up.” Exhaustion sinks bone-deep into him, but he can’t sleep. Not when Cas has dumped this on his lap. “I mean, yeah, I like sex as much as the next ten people. You get why, sex is fucking amazing. But, if it meant being with you… If it meant seeing you happy… As long as I’ve got you, none of that’s important.”
“You mean that?” Cas’ voice is small and achingly vulnerable.
Dean hooks his finger under Cas’ chin to tilt his face upward. “Look, stupid. I want you, not some sex god. If that was important, then I’d just go run out and get myself a porn star and be done with it. It’s you that I want, any way you’ll allow me to have you.”
Cas’ eyes shut and a pleased smile spreads across his face. “That’s good.” He opens his eyes, blinking lazily. “I do enjoy sex, though. Just so you know.”
“Yeah. I think I figured that one out.” Dean kisses Cas’ forehead. His stomach wriggles happily at Cas’ satisfied hum.
Part of him still reels in disbelief. This can’t be his life; Dean Winchester doesn’t get nice things. He keeps waiting for someone to snatch him away, for a hand to rip away the curtain to reveal the terrible truth. But the seconds tick away, and Cas remains, warm and solid in his arms, and Dean allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this is his reward.
---
Familiar faces around me
Laughter fills the air
Your loving grace surrounds me
I dream of you in my arms
I love myself in the crowd
---Mary’s Place
Sunlight filters through the flimsy curtains, washing gently over Dean’s face. He yawns, then freezes as the events of the previous night come rushing back. He takes quick stock of his situation. He’s naked, which doesn’t surprise him, and a thin patina of sweat has glued the sheets to his body. Dean tries to reach down and flick away the blankets, only to find his right arm unresponsive.
Panic rushes through him, old reflexes left over from his hunter days, but it quickly passes. He’s not under attack here, he hasn’t been captured. Well, unless you count Cas’ head pillowed on his arm as being captured. If that’s the definition, then Dean will happily remain a captive.
Disturbed out of his slumber, Cas grumbles. One blue eye flicks open to glare at Dean. “Dean, I love you, but it’s entirely too early to be awake.” He closes his eye with a decisive gesture, tugging the blankets up around his shoulders.
Dean makes no move to stop him or to rescue his arm. He knows they need to be on the road fairly soon, but he can’t stop thinking about Cas’ words, delivered so casually they can’t be anything but the truth.
I love you.
Dean keeps smiling even as he drifts off to sleep.
---
“It’s seventeen hours from here to the Grand Canyon,” Cas says, in between bites of pancakes. A dribble of syrup runs down his chin, and Dean has to restrain himself from leaning across the table to lick it off. “So it’ll probably take us two days to get there.”
“You ain’t telling me nothing I don’t know.” Dean speaks around a mouthful of eggs and bacon.
“So, two days to get there, and then what? Home?” Cas carefully avoids Dean’s eyes, focusing instead on cutting his food into miniscule bites.
Dean shrugs. “I hadn’t thought about it, honestly. I guess.” It’s hard to tell, with Cas angled away from him, but he thinks that something in his face falls. “Unless…” He grins as Cas perks up. “I mean, I’ve never visited Austin, Texas, but I hear they’ve got a hell of a night life there.”
“Yeah?” Cas gulps down his coffee with the fervor of a true addict. “Sounds interesting.”
Cas could probably give two shits about the nightlife of Austin, Texas. But he feels it, the same as Cas: he doesn’t want to go home, not yet. Not while there’s still an open road ahead of them.
“All right, Grand Canyon, then Austin, and then where?”
Cas smiles, secretive and teasing. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll make it up as we go along.”
Dean’s laugh fills the small space of the diner. Several other bar patrons look over and dismiss them, some with rolled eyes and some with indulgent smiles. Laughter continues rolling out of Dean, until he has to knuckle at his eyes to brush away the tears. Cas’ eyes sparkle and dance as he watches Dean with a pleased smile.
“Shit, Cas, that’s all we’ve ever done,” Dean finally wheezes. On a whim, he reaches across the table to entwine his and Cas’ fingers. He squeezes, and stars burst in his chest as Cas squeezes back. Through stupidity and blood, it took him and Cas twelve years to reach this spot. Dean can only hope that an infinite amount of years span out before them.
They finish their food and pay, then make their way to the Impala. Cas slides his sunglasses on, tapping an idle beat against his knee as Dean eases the Impala out of the parking lot and back onto the road.
His left foot finds the gas pedal and he drives.
---
Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
Well the night’s busting open
These two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels
Climb in back, heaven’s waiting down the tracks
Oh, come take my hand
We’re riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh Thunder Road, Oh Thunder Road
---Thunder Road
~*~*~*~*~*