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“Dean, Sam just has to get it out of his system. Then he’ll be —”
“Listen I just, uh… I just need to get some air.” Dean says, fingers gripping the bottle tight.
Castiel watches him leave, eyes tracing the tension in his back and shoulders, frowning. When Dean is gone, he leans back against the wall and listens to Sam scream, wishing he could make him stop, make it easier for him, for all of them. He can’t. He’s practically useless in this situation. The most he can do is ensure Sam doesn’t escape or hurt himself, ensure that Bobby’s house is secure and safe, ensure that Dean…
Well. He doesn’t actually know what he can do for Dean. He does what he can, he keeps an eye out for the Winchesters and the man who treats them like sons, and he likes to think he makes things a bit easier for them when he’s successful. But he can hear Dean, shuffling around outside, swirling the contents of the bottle in his hand, and he knows there’s nothing he can do for his pain.
“Please… I can’t… I need some help. Please?”
Castiel closes his eyes, clenches his fists, and for a moment feels incredibly human, feels sick to his stomach with fear and sorrow and anger. He can hear his heart beating rapidly, he can hear his own shallow breaths, he can hear Bobby upstairs, he can hear Sam alternating between shouting and whimpering, and loudest of all, he can hear Dean’s voice, weak in the night air. He’s praying, and maybe Castiel should take this as a sign that he’s starting to have faith, but he knows it’s because Dean feels lost and has run out of options.
He makes sure the panic room is still secured and then flies to where Dean is, appearing behind him with a rustle of feathers as his wings draw back, remaining invisible. Dean turns around when he hears him, and Castiel expects him to start in with the insults, to push him away with harsh words for invading a private moment because Dean doesn’t like looking weak. He doesn’t, though. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something and then stops, looking at Castiel with an expression so open, so pained and broken that it physically hurts him to look.
“Dean,” he says quietly, stepping forward, close enough to reach out.
“Famine was right. He was right about me. Wasn’t he?” Dean gets out, his voice gruff.
Castiel opens his mouth to deny it, to convince him otherwise, but Dean keeps talking.
“He was, I know. God, I’ve known for a long time, but hearing it like that…” He looks down shifting nervously. ”Cas, I’m sorry. I keep trying to tell you that I’m not… You were right, you did give up everything for nothing, and I’m sorry, Cas.”
Something cold and sharp twists in his gut, like an angel blade only worse, and a thick wave of fury runs through him. It’s a fury towards Famine, for breaking Dean when he called him broken, for ruining the progress Sam was making, for forcing them all to go through the detoxing with him again, and more importantly, for making Dean believe something that Castiel knows isn’t true. Something in him snaps.
In the next second, he has Dean pinned flat to the hood of the Impala, holding him there with his hands and will. He brings his face close to the man’s, makes sure he’s looking into his eyes so he knows just how serious he is.
“Cas, what the fuck—” Dean begins, struggling to get up and away, but Castiel growls.
“Listen to me, Dean, listen to me because I am telling you the truth. Famine was wrong. I was wrong. You are not nothing, Dean. I knew exactly what I was giving up and who I was giving it up for. If it were anyone else…” Castiel trails off, looking down at where his hands are fisted in his jacket before looking at Dean again. “But it wasn’t. It was you, and I do not regret my decision. Not even when I said those things to you. I have never regretted choosing you. I would do it again.”
“Why?” Dean chokes out, and Castiel is reminded of the first time he saw the man after he raised him from perdition, when he had asked why me like he couldn’t fathom the idea that he’s important.
“Because Famine was wrong. A soul cannot be broken, Dean. It can never be destroyed. I know this inherently, but I had never had it proven to me until we first met. It took me forty years to find you in Hell. Many of my brothers had died by then, and just as many had turned back. I don’t know why I continued, until I found you and I saw your soul, and it was the brightest thing I have ever seen, brighter than anything in the universe, as bright as an angel’s grace. Even in Hell, even after thirty years on the rack and ten as a demon, you were not dead inside, not like the Horseman told you. You are not dead, and your soul is not the dark nothing he proclaimed.”
Dean’s eyes are wet and his jaw keeps clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold something back, until he says, “You’re wrong, Cas,” rough and defeated.
Castiel blinks down at him, face twisted into an expression of sadness and frustration. How can I show him? His mind is racing and then it screeches to a halt because he knows. Dean has always put his faith in tangible things, and what Castiel has in mind… it’s extreme, it’s horrible, but he knows how to make it better, how to prove to Dean once and for all that he is all that Castiel sees in him.
He flattens one hand against Dean’s chest and uses the other to grapple with his belt. Dean’s eyes widen when he sees what he’s doing and he starts struggling again.
“Cas, Cas what the hell are you doing? Stop, let me up!”
Cas shoves him back down and ignores the hands pushing at him. He finishes pulling his belt loose. He folds in in half and presses it against Dean’s mouth.
“Bite down on this.” He orders.
“Hell no!” Dean shouts, incredulous. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Dean,” Castiel growls again, slamming him harder against the hood of the car. “Trust me. I’m going to show you that Famine was wrong, but I need you to trust me, and bite down on this. This will not be pleasant for you, and I can’t heal you if you break any teeth or bite through your tongue. Do you understand?”
Dean scoffs and opens his mouth to make a witty retort, but Castiel takes the opportunity to shove the leather belt between his jaws. Dean glares at him, face angry, but at least it’s no longer a mask of heartbreak and desperation. Castiel, on the other hand, feels a bit desperate himself now, a feeling only outweighed by his determination.
“I need you to keep as still as you can.” That’s all the warning he gives Dean before he pulls back until he’s keeping Dean in place with one hand on his shoulder, the other sliding down to his stomach, between the arch of his ribs. He takes a deep breath and slowly slides his hand in, past the flesh that he rebuilt, a blinding light erupting around his wrist.
Dean is screaming like he’s dying, and even around the belt, it’s so loud. His eyes are screwed shut and his head is thrown back and his teeth are bared in agony, and no doubt when Castiel retrieves the belt after this, there will be lasting impressions in the worn leather, and he finds that strangely calming. It’s enough to make him focus. He can feel the energy of Dean’s soul, burning hot around his hand, swirling and electrifying, like putting his hand inside the sun. He’s up to his elbow in Dean, in Dean’s soul, and there’s a feeling that he hasn’t felt since he cradled the shivering, Hell-ravaged mess in his grace before returning it to the body he healed as well.
It feels like coming home.
“This is your soul, Dean.” He says. Dean opens his eyes and lifts his head up to look at him. Whatever he sees on Castiel’s face makes his eyes widen. Castiel wonders if it’s because of the brilliant light that is spilling out of his body between them, reflecting in his eyes, or if it’s because his face shows what he feels. Castiel breaks eye contact and looks down at where his arm in disappearing inside Dean’s chest. He carefully shifts his hand, stroking along the fizzing current of energy. The light dims a bit at that, and Dean drops his head back with a pained groan, still biting down on the belt, hands gripping the edges of the Impala’s hood.
“This is your soul,” Cas repeats. “It is the brightest soul I’ve ever laid eyes on. It guided me when I was lost in perdition, seeking you. I know it to be the most extraordinary thing, because even when you refused to come with me, to let me save you, I laid a hand on you and your soul reacted to me. You were seared by the connection that formed, and you bear the mark on your shoulder. I was seared by it as well, but I carry your marks all over my grace, until even my brothers and sisters could see how deeply I had been affected by you.”
“Cas…” Dean grits out from around the leather, the syllable muffled. He’s still in pain, but it’s lessening now as Castiel keeps his hand still, not even entirely a hand anymore, mostly grace, restored to its original heavenly form but still retaining some shape where it collides with Dean’s soul.
“You have seen much and done much, Dean Winchester. Your soul is as sad and strained as your heart, as weary and heavy as your mind, but it is still bright, still beautiful. Famine cannot see this. He wasn’t looking into your soul, Dean. He saw only your emotions. He saw only a shade of you. I see everything. I am the only one who knows just what your soul is capable of.”
Castiel closes his eyes. He slides the hand holding Dean in place from his collarbone to his shoulder, where his brand lies hidden under layers of clothing and grips it tightly, like he did the day he saved him. He tunes out Dean’s harsh, pained breaths and ignores the light behind his eyelids and focuses on directing his grace to glide through the nuclear waters of Dean’s soul. He knows how to make Dean feel what Castiel sees. His grace melts into place and they slot together and the light is rushing around them again.
He strokes Dean’s soul cautiously, but intently. As long as he focuses, it won’t cause Dean anymore pain, but the way Dean reacts to it makes him afraid that he’s done something horribly wrong, because Dean’s mouth opens to release a loud gasp, the belt falling from his lips. His back arches violently off the hood of the car, and his fingers scrabble for purchase on its glossy surface. Castiel worries, fear tightening his chest because maybe he’s gone too far, maybe he’s actually killing him, he must’ve overestimated —
Then his mind goes blank because a moan tumbles from Dean’s lips, and it is not a sound of pain.
It’s pleasure.
And it’s more than what he was going for. It’s so far past what Castiel was aiming for that he almost pulls away completely in shock, almost rips his hand out carelessly, and that would kill him. But instead he just freezes.
“Cas!” Dean pants, lifting his head up again to look at him. His voice is rough from all the screaming, and thick with emotions Castiel can’t identify. “What… What did you just do?”
“Dean, I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Do it again.” Dean demands, swallowing hard. Castiel copies the action, eyes as wide as Dean’s, because surely he doesn’t mean it.
“Cas, please,”
Castiel’s never been able to deny him anything. He pets Dean’s soul again, gingerly, scrutinizing the man’s face for any negative responses, stunned again when he doesn’t get any. Instead Dean drops his head back against the windshield, moaning again, hips twitching upwards like he’s seeking friction because he’s hard. Dean is aroused by this. Castiel is stroking Dean’s soul, something he thought would soothe the hurt, and instead he’s igniting a whole new kind of fire, one that overloads Dean’s mind and reduces him to a live-wire mess of jolting muscles and breathy moans.
He really did not see this coming.
“Dean,” Castiel exhales. “Dean,”
“Cas, c’mon, keep doing that, okay, please. Please.”
Castiel hesitates, hand twitching just slightly, pulling a curse from the man’s mouth. It’s not enough for Dean, apparently, because he surges upwards, and it makes Castiel panic because stupid reckless man! He could’ve ripped a hole right through his soul, could’ve had the same effect as wrecking a nuclear reactor. But he moves his hand in time with Dean’s movements, so he’s up to his wrist now in Dean’s chest, barely enough space to move it because they’re now so close, with his other hand still clasped around Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s hands digging into his back, and his legs are locked around Cas’s waist, pulling them closer together so that Castiel can feel Dean’s erection through layers of clothing. But it’s the look on his face that has Castiel growing shamefully hard within his own borrowed pants, because Dean looks wild. His eyes are still a bit red from almost crying but now the pupils are eating away at the green, and his lips are red and slick from where he’s been biting on them, his cheeks are rosy and he’s glowing, honestly glowing, and it’s not just from the light from the soul that Castiel is still touching. There’s a faint glow under his skin, shining from his eyes, like they weren’t impossibly bright before, and he looks like sin ought to, but sin is dark and mud-colored and ugly, and Dean is the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen.
“You started this,” Dean whispers, and his voice is thunder. “You’re going to finish it.”
And with that he rolls his hips up into Castiel’s and kisses him hard, taking advantage of how his lips parted to gasp at the sudden contact. His tongue is seeking out all of the hidden corners of his mouth, rubbing against his own tongue, and Castiel has no clue why he ever thought kissing like this would be unpleasant every time he saw other couples doing it, because it feels amazing. He ruts forward on instinct, matching Dean’s movements and they both moan into the kiss. Dean breaks away, breathless, babbling, pleading for Cas to keep touching me like you did before come on angel please fuck. So Castiel does, brushes his fingers against Dean’s soul, caressing it again, drumming the patterns of their hearts into it until Dean is keening wordlessly, head thrown back and still grinding against Cas, who’s giving back as good as he gets.
“Come on, come on, Cas, just a little more, please, so close, fuck,” Dean’s words are a blur in Castiel’s ears, but he knows Dean’s on the edge and the idea that he’s the one who brought him there is overwhelming, and his hand clenches loosely on the next pass, so he’s raking the tips of his fingers against Dean’s soul and Dean screams, thrusts up again once and then he’s coming, soiling his jeans. Castiel stares at the look of sheer rapture on Dean’s face, amazed yet again at the bliss he finds there, has never seen there, and the light from the human’s soul explodes between them, radiating sensations of the purest ecstasy so strong that he closes his eyes and simply feels it, feels not only the joy of the sexual act they’re performing but a complete release of everything Dean has been pushing down for all these years, the things that Castiel has basically just torn loose, and he can feel the love Dean has for him, too. It makes him dizzy.
When he opens his eyes, Dean is splayed across the hood of the Impala, legs no longer around him. His eyes are closed and he’s still glowing faintly, even though Castiel’s hand had slid free from his abdomen when he collapsed backwards. He’s shaking, all over, legs twitching convulsively, but his face is the very picture of peace and he stares at him.
He’s still so hard it hurts.
He doesn’t know what do now; should he leave? Dean doesn’t tend stay long after he has sex with strangers, and maybe it would be even more awkward for them because they’re friends. He starts to ask Dean if he’s okay, if he can make it back inside, if he should just leave, but Dean clears his throat and says, “Don’t you dare disappear on me now, feathers,” and his voice is a sleepy mumble, but his eyes open and he sits up.
“You didn’t come.” He says, frowning, like some great wrong has been committed by Castiel not experiencing an orgasm, like it’s worse than what he just did to the human he’s supposed to take care of.
Dean scoots forward along the hood until he’s back in Cas’s space, whispers “let me,” and starts undoing his fly.
“Dean, this is not necessary.” Castiel tries.
Dean shushes him, face buried in the angel’s throat. “Want to, Cas. Been wanting to.”
Cas moans as his hand wraps around his cock, pulling sure and slow, callouses catching in all the right ways. Castiel’s breath hitches, and he feels that fire simmering inside of him, burning hotter as Dean slides his thumb across the slit, smearing the precome he finds there until he’s slick. He increases his pace, and his other hand is sliding down the back of his pants to palm at his ass, fingers brushing against his entrance. Cas’s hips jerk forward at the intimate touch, and they keep jerking forward and back until he’s fucking into Dean’s hand with abandon. He can’t stop moaning, and Dean is muttering dirty encouragements into Castiel’s ear, telling him he’s beautiful, telling him to let go.
Castiel does, hand still tingling from the light he held in it not five minutes ago, and Dean’s name a prayer on his lips.
Dean holds him through it and doesn’t let go.