Archive of Our Own

The couch in Bobby's office, when not covered in a shitload of books, was an optimal place for a nap. Dean was working up to one now, hidden from the glare of the afternoon sun by his jacket tucked around his head. Bobby, sitting behind his desk with his nose in Sam's laptop, had seemingly forgotten Dean was there, a state of affairs he intended to keep in order. All he had to do was lay very still and not snore too loud.

The floorboards in front of him creaked every few seconds, making it difficult to concentrate on falling asleep. Sam, forfeiting his God-given right to sit in a chair, instead stood in the middle of the office, swaying from side to side absently as he scoured news bulletins for a possible job. He was within smacking range, but that would mean announcing to everyone that Dean was not in fact sleeping, so he kept his hands to himself for now.

"Why is the news so boring this week?" he heard Sam wonder aloud.

It took Bobby a moment to answer. "Demon spring break," he offered absently.

"Yeah, well," Sam huffed, followed by the sound of print paper rustling as he turned over the leaflet in his hand. "Where to, though?"

"Be grateful for the dry spell," Bobby replied, unconcerned. Dean could hear him refilling his glass. "Been busy lately."

"It's just weird," Sam murmured, and sounded like he was going to offer a theory as to why when a scrape of wings filled the room.

Dean pulled the collar of his jacket down, squinting from the sun, and saw Cas filling the doorway. The sight of him was a cold slap to the face; he looked exhausted, defeated.

Sam was the first to react. "Cas?"

"Hello," he said politely, glancing around the room. He didn't look like he was searching for anything in particular, but there was still a disappointed tug of his brow at whatever he found.

"It's been a while," Sam continued. "How's it—you know, going? Up top?"

"Very poorly." His eyes fell to Dean. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I have a favour to ask."

Sam answered before he had the chance to. "Yeah, 'course. Need us to look for another weapon?"

"No."

Understanding that nap time was now officially over, Dean sat up. The couch twanged at the movement, and his jacket fell into his lap. He leaned forward to stretch his back out, rubbing at his eyes. "What's up, Cas?"

"I don't mean to disturb you," he said, looking between the three of them. "I can see that you're—busy."

"Very funny." He met his eyes, saw the weariness in them, and his next words came out gentle. "What do you need?"

"An afternoon," he replied. "Here."

Dean raised a brow. "In Bobby's office?"

"The premises in general," Cas clarified. "If I could stay on them for a few hours."

Sam exchanged a glance with Dean before clearing his throat. "You wanna just—hang out?"

"I won't intrude," Cas assured them. When he offered nothing else, Dean stood up and shrugged his jacket back on.

"You hiding from your lieutenants or something?"

"They know I'm here." His tone was sharper than usual, defensive on the outset. The topic was not up for discussion. "Please answer my question."

"Are you in trouble, Cas?" Sam asked. "Do you need help with—"

"No, and no." He looked over Sam's shoulder at Bobby, his staring more severe than usual. His head inclined, the threat clear; do not make me ask again.

Bobby nodded, frowning but acquiescent. "Sure thing, yeah."

At that, Cas seemed to deflate a little. The hard set of his shoulders softened, and his mouth tugged at the corner in what could generously be described as a smile. "Thank you."

There was a beat of awkward silence that followed. Cas on a good day was prone to exiting conversations whenever it struck him; every word out of him now sounded forced, as if being pushed through a membrane.

"Well, there's a bed upstairs if you wanna rest," Bobby offered. "And the garage if you want some place to yourself. You can make yourself comfortable in here too, if you like."

"That's fine, thank you," Cas said quietly, hand coming up to touch a gouge in the doorframe to Bobby's office.

Sam cleared his throat. "Cas?"

"I'll find a place for myself," he said absently, hand falling away from the door. He stood in place, as if rooted there, his attention clearly elsewhere.

Sam snuck Dean another look, worry plain on his face. Guess it was his turn to do something about this.

"You wanna take a walk?" Dean offered, trying for a casual tone and falling just short.

"As I said, I won't intrude."

"You're not," Dean assured him, ducking past and clapping him on the shoulder as he headed for the door. "Come on."

Cas was silent as Dean led them out into one of the lots. The rows of scrapped cars glittered in the sun, and Dean picked a rusty line to walk down so he wouldn't get blinded. The gravel crunched underfoot as he zigged and zagged them through Bobby's salvage yard, far enough away from the house that privacy was guaranteed. He didn't know if that was something Cas wanted, but he was clearly holding himself back.

Following quietly and unobtrusively beside him, Cas was doing a poor job of looking like himself—or, well, whatever passed for himself in Jimmy Novak. Every visible line of his body was tightly strung, his movements too precise and careful, as if he were rehearsing each step. His expression was distant, and not in the usual way. There was a deep and mournful set to the faint creases around his eyes, the look of a man who had long ago lost the energy to go on and had to continue anyway.

"That bad, huh?" Dean finally hedged after several minutes of silent, rigid walking.

"I am losing," Cas reported, detached and clinical. Dean could almost hear the grief in his words. "Whole garrisons are dead; others are flipping their loyalties." He paused to frown at the ground. "It is… difficult to describe the magnitude of what's happening."

"And you need a breather," Dean surmised. "In a scrapyard in South Dakota."

"Yes," Cas agreed.

Dean smiled. "Anywhere in the world and you pick here?"

Cas stiffened beside him, eyes searching his face. "I can leave."

"No, it's—no." He shook his head. Dean led them deeper into the lot, rounding a corner so that they were headed towards the speciality license vehicles. He had no idea how the hell Bobby got a hold of a cement truck, but it offered shade, so they stood behind it.

When he came to a stop, Cas halted in the middle of the lane, as if pulled by some tether, and stared out at the sea of rusted roofs. Dean studied his profile, which was just as severe as the rest of him. He could see each and every year on Cas' face, and he had a lot more to his name than most people.

It was freaking him the hell out. "You okay?" Dean asked, and gently smacked his arm when he didn't respond. Cas glanced down at the contact, and then met his eyes.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," Cas said instead of answering him. "I thought it important to ask permission before I rested here."

"Dude, it's no big deal, really." Cas went back to looking at nothing in particular, and Dean used the opportunity to stare recklessly at him. Even his hands, normally loose and arranged carefully at his sides, were balled into fists, his knuckles pressing whitely against his skin.

A muscle by Cas' mouth twitched. "I appreciate it." He exhaled slowly. "I find this place… comforting. Peaceful."

Dean cast his eyes around the yard, at the busted and broken vehicles lined up haphazardly across the gravel and concrete. The air smelled metallic and dusty, making the back of his throat itch. It was a home, of sorts, but he could think of a lot nicer places.

"Cas," Dean tried again, and he finally looked at him. "You good?"

"No," Cas whispered, "but that's not important."

"It's a little important," Dean countered. "Gotta blow off steam sometime to keep yourself sane. We could go out for a beer, hit up some—"

"No," Cas said again, and came to stand beside him. At their backs was the massive, cracked drum of the cement mixer, imposing and cool to the touch. "No. I would like to stay here."

"Well, you must want something." Cas frowned at him, and Dean spread his hands in an exasperated gesture. "Dude, you could hang out at the top of Mount Everest if all you wanted was some time to yourself. But you're here, at Bobby's, so it's for a reason."

Cas looked at his feet. "Yes," he said eventually.

Dean leaned back against one of the tires. The truck bed came up almost to his shoulders. "You wanna talk about it?"

"As I said, it's difficult to describe."

"Try me."

"I would prefer not to."

Dean blew out a breath. "Okay," he muttered. "No bars, no talking. We can go into the garage and shoot rats."

That got Cas' attention. He frowned. "Why?"

"You can blow them up with your mind, right? Jedi mind trick stuff?"

"I don't know what that is," Cas told him. "And I don't want to kill rats."

"Bobby's got a nest in there he's been meaning to clean out. It's good target practice. I can show you how to use a gun again."

"I would prefer not to do anything violent."

The dig sat at the tip of his tongue, well, Cas, that's all I got besides telling you to sit on your thumb, but he didn't voice it. There was a weariness to him that Dean had never seen before—to his words, to the look in his eyes, to the way he held himself. He knew angels didn't sleep, but he didn't realise they could tire, either.

"You just wanna forget," Dean murmured finally.

"Forget?"

"About the war," he said, and gestured above them. "You know, temporarily."

Cas let out a slow breath, but after a moment, he nodded. "It's an incredibly selfish thing to want."

"Pretty understandable, though."

"I suppose."

Dean pursed his lips, considering. "Does alcohol work on you?"

Cas tipped his head. "Peripherally," he replied, disappointment faintly colouring his words.

"Can't imagine that." Their shoulders brushed, and Dean shivered as a bead of sweat travelled down his temple. It was warm outside despite the time of year, but in the shade it was cool. "Jacking off works too, you know."

"That doesn't sound very appealing."

"Not in a scrapyard it doesn't," Dean agreed. He crossed his arms and bowed his head. "Look, man, I don't know what you want."

"You don't have to follow me around," Cas said. The defensiveness crept back into his voice. "I'm perfectly capable of standing here on my own."

"And leave you out here to mope?"

The furrow in his brow deepened. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"No, look—" Dean sighed. "It's just—you haven't been around a lot. I know you're busy," he hurried to continue, seeing Cas' lips part to offer an explanation. "I get that, I'm not mad. But you look… tired. And upset. And it feels weird to let you wander around Bobby's place by yourself while we stay inside and try to find work for the week."

Cas was silent for a moment, staring straight ahead at the busted up Ford ranger in front of them. "I recall you were sleeping when I arrived," he said finally, and with the same relieved tilt of his mouth as before. It made something in Dean's chest tighten; it also made him come to a decision.

He shoved away from the bed of the truck and touched Cas' shoulder. The contact made him flinch, though he didn't pull away, and Dean stepped closer, enough that he could feel the tension radiating off of his body.

Cas straightened, eyes searching Dean's face. "You've expressed a need for personal space before—"

"You want me to pull away?"

"No," came the immediate reply. Cas watched him carefully as Dean pressed him gently against the massive tire and bed of the truck, hands on his arms. He looked intrigued, bewildered, surprised. He also looked eager, and it got Dean's blood jumping. It was hard to read what was interest from Cas and what was just—well, Cas, but the parting of his lips and soft flush in his throat was all the confirmation Dean needed.

"Relax," Dean whispered, and squeezed where he had his hands wrapped around Cas' biceps. He tipped his head closer, Cas' features smoothing into a pale blur, Dean's mouth just shy of his lips. "You're strung tight."

"Dean—" Cas closed his eyes, and his throat worked. He looked like he was working through something. He didn't pull away.

Dean hesitated, just in case. "What is it?"

"Thank you," Cas whispered, the words coming out strangled, and Dean breathed a laugh into his mouth as he kissed him.

The reaction was immediate; Cas melted into him, his fingers finding purchase wherever they could—a hand on Dean's sleeve, a fistful of where his jacket met his hip. He made a low noise in the back of his throat that surprised the both of them, and Dean kissed him again, pressing closer, their chests touching now.

He kissed Cas, again and again. It wasn't frenzied, because he didn't want to overwhelm him, though already Dean could feel the ache to press deeper, move faster, grip tighter. Cas for his part was doing his best to keep up, moving on instinct rather than experience. He was clumsy, but earnest, holding fast to Dean's jacket like he was weathering some storm.

It had been a long time since someone had responded this way to a simple kiss from him. Frantic and hungry, not just to be touched but to be touched by Dean specifically. It ignited something deep inside him, and when he opened his mouth to press his tongue gently against Cas' lower lip, he felt himself shudder at the moan it drew out of him.

When breathing became an emergency, he pulled away, gasping, resting his nose against Cas' cheek. One of his hands found the back of his neck, curling into his hair. He needed an anchor, too, as it turned out.

"Dean," Cas said breathlessly, reverently, making him grin.

"Do angels—need to breathe?"

"I do right now." He felt Cas nudge at his mouth with his own lips, already pressing for more but unwilling, even now, to move first.

Cas was a solid column of warmth against his body, and Dean clung to him as he sucked air into his lungs. It was dizzying, heady in a way he wasn't used to. He didn't normally enjoy making out with someone who wasn't experienced with it; didn't have the time to instruct or teach what should be a quick and painless transaction. But the eager and clumsy press of Cas' hips and hands and jaw against his own made him ache. He shouldn't be doing this here—not in a fucking scrapyard, not with Bobby and Sam in the house. Cas deserved more than that.

He also sure as hell wasn't about to pull away, so he'd have to make do.

"Tilt your head up," he whispered, ducking low, and Cas complied easily. He rewarded him with an open, wet kiss just below the jaw, and felt his throat shudder with another strangled noise. Cas' hands shifted restlessly, across his arms, his hips, unsure of where to place them.

"Dean," he rasped, arching up into the press of his mouth, now just under his ear. "What do I—"

"Exactly what you're doing," Dean whispered against his skin, breath blowing across the shell of his ear. Cas was shaking. "Relax."

That proved to be a much more difficult task. Cas was still stiff, still tense, even as he was pressing into Dean, letting him carry his weight. Dean could feel him hard against his thigh, and the random shift of his hips probably meant Cas was unused to this, too. The thought made his heart pound. Maybe there was something to sleeping with virgins, after all.

His hand untangled itself from Cas' hair, sliding down his chest before landing on the buckle of his belt. It was a challenge to unhook with one hand, but his other one was busy, pulling at the collar of Cas' shirt to expose more of his throat. The column of his neck was rough, faintly stubbled, and it burned pleasantly against Dean's mouth.

Buckle undone, he cupped his hand between Cas' legs, over his pants, and felt his entire body tense up even more. A hand wrapped around Dean's wrist—not to pull him away, but to steady him, to hold him still.

"Cas?" He kissed his jaw, dragged his head up. Cas' eyes were closed, brow furrowed and a deep look of concentration on his face. Dean felt a grin pull at his mouth, and he touched his cheek to get his attention. "Hey."

"Dean," he said again, as if that was all he was capable of saying, and then his eyes opened. Even now, he looked strained, strung up. There was still something far away in his expression—stresses that he couldn't shake off.

It was impressive, in a way. "God, you're wound tight."

Cas swallowed, letting his head tip forehead, pressing into Dean's shoulder. He didn't say anything; just drew in more breath. It was, again, difficult to judge where Cas was at. He was wired, and clearly happy with what Dean was doing, but he didn't want to overwhelm him.

Dean, with his hand still between Cas' legs, flexed his fingers, and felt him jolt. "You good?"

Whatever came out of Cas wasn't a laugh, exactly. A sharp exhalation of breath. "I don't know how to answer that," he responded, breathless.

Right. Had to shoot straight with Cas. He didn't seem to have all his faculties in order at the moment, anyway. "I meant," Dean murmured, flexing his fingers again, "you want me to keep going?"

"Oh." Cas shifted his head, closer to Dean's throat. "Yes. Please," he added, strangled. The words came out like a confession. As if to reinforce his request, his hips rolled up into Dean's palm, like it was the only thing that could solve his problems right now.

All it took was a flick of Dean's thumb to unbutton his trousers; another to pull down the zipper and slip his hand inside. Cas was hard and hot against his hand, and Dean felt Cas' fingers dig deep into his biceps at the contact.

"Relax," he reminded him, running his hand up the length of his erection. Cas was panting in his ear now, breathing erratic, hips moving unevenly. He was already slick with pre-come, and Dean laughed again. "Jesus, you're like a time bomb."

Cas, ambivalent to that assessment, merely rolled his hips up into Dean's hand again. A noise rumbled low in his throat, approaching a whine, and Dean felt Cas' mouth nudge at his cheek again, a voiceless but very obvious request. More than happy to oblige, he kissed him, properly this time, hot and open, and was rewarded with another shuddering moan from Cas.

Dean tightened his grip around Cas, fisting working between his legs. He could feel himself straining against the fly of his jeans, aching and uncomfortably hard. Unable to do anything about it right now, he rubbed his hips into one of Cas' thighs, shivering at the miserably insufficient contact. He needed himself hot and hard in Cas' hand, or his mouth, or—

"Dean." The word brushed his ear, only audible because of how close they were. He could hear the edge of uncertainty in it, the tiny kernel of fear that he was approaching a threshold he couldn't come back from, and was reaching out for another anchor. Dean wondered briefly if Cas had ever even come before.

"It's okay," he whispered, just as breathless, hand still working up and down the length of his erection. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. "You're good, Cas, you're so good—"

He came hard. Cas was practically curled around him, clinging desperately to his shoulder and hip, gasping into the collar of his jacket as he came all over Dean's hand. The noises he made, muffled into the fabric of Dean's coat, were almost enough to do his head in. He felt his cock throb inside his pants, aching for the same relief Cas was arching up into, and finally—finally, Dean felt him relax.

Cas was dead weight in his arms, held up only because he was pressed against the truck behind them, hands fisted uselessly in Dean's jacket. Cas gasped when Dean retracted his hand, and he braced it on the bed of the truck beside them, bothered by the thought of dirtying Cas' coat with the mess on his fingers.

Dean pressed a kiss to his temple, which was damp with sweat, and smiled tightly in triumph. "Cas?"

"Dean."

He laughed quietly. "You still in there?"

Cas dragged his head up. There was a faint pink indentation on his forehead from where it had pressed into Dean's jacket, and his hair was tousled. More importantly, however, was the expression on his face; it held only a quiet, tired awe, like he was watching the sun approach the horizon.

He cleared his throat, and a small but very genuine smile tugged at his mouth. "Yes," he replied finally, and a quiet bubble of laughter escaped him, which seemed to surprise him.

"Good." Dean shifted his hips, wincing. "Cause I'm—"

All at once, the languid expression on Cas' face dissolved. It solidified quickly, growing hard and sharp, and the grip he had on Dean turned purposeful as he pushed him away.

He stumbled. "What—"

"I have to go."

Dean stared at him, dumbfounded, his dick still throbbing in his pants. "You what?"

"Dean, I'm sorry, I—" He stared off into the lot, listening to something only he could hear, eyes darting around rapidly. "I have to go," he repeated, tone resolute, looking back at Dean. "Now."

Dean closed his eyes, swallowing down the hammering pulse in his throat. "You're serious—"

Cas grabbed his arm again. "I realise this is poor timing, Dean, I'm sorry, but I must leave," he said quietly, quickly, in the tone of a man with one foot out the door. He was already elsewhere, lingering only to offer parting condolences.

"That's it?" Dean ground his teeth together, barking out a harsh laugh. "Well that's just great, Cas, that's awesome. You're welcome, Jesus—"

"I'm sorry," he offered one final time, sidestepping Dean, and with a great sweeping of wings, he was gone.

His heart was beating so hard it made his vision shake. Dean leaned an elbow against the bed of the truck, which was still warm from where he'd had Cas pressed up against the steel, and gasped in cool, rusty air. He shivered as the wind blew on the back of his neck, leaving him cold and sweaty.

A stitch formed in his throat as he tried to process what had just happened. Dean looked down at the wetness of his own hand, and let out a harsh breath. Blood beat across his cheeks; his dick was still tenting his jeans; he could feel the stubble burn around his mouth from where he'd been kissing Cas' jaw.

"Fuck." He leaned both arms on the truck bed, pressing his head against them, trying desperately to calm down—to not look like he'd just fucked Cas in the yard. It would take Sam and Bobby exactly two seconds to figure out what he'd been doing, and he was not about to have that conversation with them, now or ever.

He shifted his weight to the other foot, wincing at how tight his jeans were, and swore again. His only options were to give himself the worst case of blue balls he'd had in years, or jack off in Bobby's salvage yard, and it was hard to decide which was the worse option.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, shoving away from the truck and fumbling for his belt and zipper. His face flushed hot all over again, and shame coursed through him at how little relief the palm of his own hand offered.

They got busy again real fast. A batch of angry cadavers roaming university basements in Minnesota took a week to put down; a vampire in Laramie, Wyoming took another. They stayed in the Midwest as much as they could, close to Bobby's, which turned out to not be that difficult. Whatever brief respite from supernatural events they'd had was gone now, and looking at the wad of folded up newspaper clippings Sam carried around in his wallet, it didn't look like they'd get another anytime soon.

Cas was nowhere to be found. He didn't answer any of their calls, and he offered no indication of when he'd next visit. Sam tried on more than one occasion to ask Dean about what happened with their conversation in the scrapyard, the undercurrent in his voice hedging and careful.

"Nothing," Dean would always tell him, and always Sam would give him that look that said I know you're lying.

He knew what his brother was working up to; a talk about how Dean could be inelegant with people. Not intentionally, no, he knows it's not on purpose or anything, but it can sometimes put people off, you know? Especially when they have a lot on their plate, or maybe aren't familiar with that sort of teasing, which Cas definitely wasn't.

"I'm not saying it's your fault, or anything," Sam was telling him from the passenger seat as they drove down the interstate, in the quick way he spoke when he anticipated being interrupted. "If you don't wanna talk about what you guys discussed, that's fine—"

"It was about the fucking—weather, Sam," he said harshly. "It was bullshit nothing. I don't know what his problem is. He just left."

"Right," Sam hummed, meaning the exact opposite of that. "Look, I know Cas is really busy. I don't think he's avoiding you, or us. But he seems temperamental lately, and it's hard to know what bothers him sometimes. I'm just saying we gotta be extra patient with him. Right?"

Dean wanted to tell him it wasn't like that. He didn't get into any kind of argument with Cas, or tell him to fuck off—he didn't do jack shit. The opposite, in fact. Cas was the one who vanished into thin air the moment he got what he came for, without so much as a thank you, ma'am. But Dean wasn't about to offer the truth, so he offered angry silence instead. If Sam wanted to think that meant he had a point, then fine. He'd let him think that all the way into next Sunday.

The weeks dragged on. More jobs piled up, more freak sightings of things that shouldn't be on this side of the Atlantic, much less in Bumfuck, Ioha. It meant they relied on Bobby more than usual to track down information on what they were hunting, and Dean held more facts in his head about Transcaucasian folklore than any man should have a right to. It seemed to excite and concern Sam in equal measure; he was obsessed with being prepared, even more than usual, and discovering weird shit to hunt meant doing countless hours of research in new sections of the library. It was fucking annoying, mostly, and usually pointless, but Dean had to admit he'd missed seeing Sam dork out like this.

Six weeks out, a ten hour drive back from Montana put them just shy of Sioux Falls. It was snowing hard and fast, and driving against it made Dean's head spin so bad they had to pull over. He wanted to get back to Bobby's so they wouldn't have to pay for another night in a motel—or sleep in the Impala—but driving in this kind of weather was asking for a crash.

"God, I'm hungry," Sam muttered. They both had a bench to themselves in the car, getting as horizontal as possible.

Dean reached over to the glovebox and fumbled with the clasp. He fished around inside until his fingers touched a granola bar wrapper, and he held it out in offering over the backrest.

Sam snorted. "How old is that?"

"Do you want it or not?"

"Not really," Sam admitted, and then took it from him. The sound of him peeling it open filled the cab.

"We'll get breakfast in the morning," Dean assured him, burrowing deeper into the meagre sanctuary of his coat. The cold from outside seeped in through the windows, taking a jab at any inch of exposed skin.

"Can't wait to have a shower," Sam muffled around the granola bar.

Dean hummed in agreement. He hoped they could spare a few days off, too. He'd fucked his shoulder up digging up graves in Western Montana, and sleeping in his car wasn't doing him any favours. Maybe that was why Bobby was so goddamn pissy all the time. Maybe when he was Bobby's age he'd have a lot more than a shitty joint or two to contend with. He hoped he never got that old.

He slept fitfully. The wind rocked the car every so often, and snow pelted the windows. There was only so much rest a man could get with his knees tucked up to his chin and a headache for a pillow, even as exhausted as he was. When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he was almost relieved he didn't have to keep pretending he was asleep.

Dean dug his cell out of his jeans and accepted the call without looking at who it was, squinting as the harsh light of the screen filled the cab. "Yeah?"

"Dean." Bobby's voice came through rushed, on edge. He grabbed the backrest and pulled himself up, snapping to attention.

"What is it?"

"It's Cas."

His chest clenched. "What happened?"

"Well, he's—" There was a rustling on his end, like something being quickly rearranged. "He's on my couch right now."

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's injured, I think."

"Injured?" Dean rubbed at his eyes, trying to will himself into full consciousness. "How the hell do you…."

"Injure an angel? Dunno, but he got blood all over my fridge. He asked for you both."

Dean pulled his sleeve back and checked his watch. 4:12AM. "We'll be there in two hours."

"Hurry," Bobby said ominously, and that was the end of the call.

He didn't bother to wake Sam. The snow was letting up a little; enough that driving wasn't such a nightmare. He quickly got back onto the highway, where the roads were salted, and hauled ass to Sioux Falls.

The sun was just starting to show itself when he pulled into Bobby's place. Sam had woken up about an hour ago, still in the back seat, asking questions Dean didn't have answers to. He didn't know what had happened; he didn't know if Cas was alright. He didn't even know if he was alive, though he kept that to himself.

They unfolded out of the car, and Dean had to hold fast to the driver side door for a minute to keep himself steady. His calves were numb with static; his knees ached from being bent for so long. It had been two days since he'd last showered, and his mouth was full of sour cotton. God, he needed a beer. Across the hood, Sam was groaning as he stretched his back out.

"Let's go," he muttered, slamming his door closed.

The cold air was a slap to the face, and he welcomed it as they crossed the driveway up to Bobby's front door, shoving inside. "Bobby?"

"In here," he heard from deeper inside the house, and Dean cut through the kitchen to get to Bobby's office. On the bottom of the fridge door was an Enochian sigil drawn messily in blood, and he ignored how shaky and desperate the strokes looked as he ducked past.

Just as Bobby said, there was Cas, laid out on the couch. He was on his back, hand clenched around a cloth pressed into his side. He'd bled through his shirt, and crimson stained the inside of his trench coat. Cas was very still, though his chest still moved occasionally to draw in breath.

"Jesus," Dean muttered, and walked over to the couch. "Cas?"

His eyes opened. They were clouded over with pain. "Dean," he croaked.

Relief rocked through him, and he steadied himself with a hand on the coffee table. "What happened?"

"My lieutenant," Cas said roughly, looking thousands of years old again. "She betrayed me."

"Is she dead?"

"Yes." Cas grabbed his arm to keep his attention. His fingers were cool. "You remember the Enochian sigils I showed you?"

"The protection wards?"

He nodded. "Paint them on the windows," Cas instructed. "In blood."

"How many?"

"Four. One in each cardinal direction."

Sam had ducked in behind him, and offered his arm to Dean—along with his pocket knife.

They made quick work of the sigils. The blood frosted on the windows, but the lines were unbroken and clean, made even with the use of a rag. Dean kept his hands steady, fingers clenched tight, as Sam welled his blood into a small bowl for use, face tight and pale.

"What do these do, exactly?" Sam asked as Dean applied the last sigil to the west-most window in Bobby's house.

"Prevents angels from zapping in here or seeing Cas."

"That can't be good," Sam murmured.

Dean didn't offer his thoughts. He made sure his lines were straight.

When they returned to the office, Bobby forced Sam to sit down and drink a Coke while he bandaged his arm. Dean went back to the couch, sitting on the coffee table and watching Cas, rigid with pain, breathe uneven breaths.

"How worried do we have to be?" he asked, quiet enough that the others didn't overhear.

Cas opened his eyes again, head rolling slowly on the pillow until he looked at Dean. "I'll live," he muttered, sounding somewhat disappointed at the prospect. "You applied the sigils?"

"Yeah."

Some tension drained from his face. "Then we'll be fine."

Dean glanced over his shoulder, towards the desk where Bobby was looking after Sam's arm. "Is that all you needed us for?"

"I was afraid you would—be found by Raphael, used as leverage against me." He winced, adjusting the rag at his side. "You're safe here."

"I thought angels couldn't track us."

He looked at Dean again, expression resolving into something even more grave. "Raphael is capable of more than you know."

Dean was trying to think of a response to that when Bobby spoke up. "All patched up," he was saying, slapping Sam on the shoulder, and then snapped his fingers at Dean. "You two, go on upstairs and clean yourself up. You both stink."

Dean frowned down at himself, unable to argue with that assessment. "Cas—"

"Is fine right where he is," Bobby told him. "Go on."

With monumental effort and a final glance at Cas, Dean shoved himself up from the coffee table, stumbling towards the doorway. Sam followed after him, just as ungainly.

He let Sam have the shower. Instead he went to the nearest guest bed and collapsed onto the mattress, only pausing long enough to kick off his boots. He was asleep before his head hit cotton.

It was deep into the evening when Dean woke. He could hear voices downstairs; he could smell whatever greasy pizza Bobby must have ordered. With a groan he got his good arm under him and shoved himself ungracefully off of the bed. The mud and the blood that has dried on his coat littered the bedspread in rusty flecks, and he made a silent promise to clean it up later.

Because he wasn't a fucking Girl Scout, he forced himself to shower and change first. Sam would've woken him if something bad happened to Cas, so there was no reason to rush downstairs in a huff to see if he was alright. He took longer than he needed to; stood under the hot spray until his skin hurt. Then he shaved for good measure, scrubbed his teeth clean, and finally, he dressed. By the time he got downstairs, two boxes of pizza had been pillaged, and there were a couple empties littering the kitchen table. The messy Enochian sigil Cas had painted onto Bobby's fridge was still there, now a dark brown.

Dean grabbed a slice as he passed, his stomach growling at him. It was hard to remember when he'd last eaten.

"Sleeping beauty," Bobby greeted as he stood in the doorway, and Dean met his eyes, then Sam's, before glancing at the couch. Cas was still there, though he was sitting up now, a hand to his side. He looked even more haggard than the last time he'd stumbled into Bobby's.

"All freshened up?" Sam asked, and there was a knowing look on his face. Not judgemental—more like concerned, like he knew that Dean had been stalling. Like he'd be asking him about it later.

Dean ignored it, taking a large bite of his pizza. "As I'll ever be," he muffled. "Cas? You good?"

Cas looked up from the fresh rag Bobby had given him. His eyes were familiar; the same intense expression, the same confounding warmth that made Dean want to shield his face and turn away. But there was nothing else to it, no added weight, no flicker or spark. No indication he had any opinion—or even memory—of their last meeting in the scrapyard.

"Better," Cas said after a moment, sounding uncertain. "It's not fatal, merely incapacitating." He shifted on the couch, wincing. "I have to… I have to get back."

"Now?" Sam asked. "You can't go anywhere, Cas. You're pretty beat up."

"I'm aware." He looked at Bobby. "I appreciate you helping me. I wasn't sure where else to go."

"It was nothing," Bobby said immediately, chagrined at the earnest gratitude in his voice. "You've done a lot for us."

Cas nodded, though it was more in acknowledgement than agreement. It was difficult to tell whether he was done speaking or merely thinking through his next words, so Dean wandered further into the office.

"How long is it gonna take for you to heal up?" He forced himself to the other side of the room, leaning back against one of the several cluttered tables in Bobby's office, next to Sam, shoving more pizza into his mouth. Cas tracked his movements, expression tight with pain, but collected and level. Dean replaced the twinge of disappointment in his gut with more pizza, quickly finishing off the slice.

"A few days, perhaps," he said quietly, looking to the carpet as if it would have answers. "The fight was… draining."

"Sorry to hear that," Sam replied just as softly, mouth twisting in sympathy. "Is there anything we can do?"

"No. I have to return."

"You can't—"

"I will do all that I am able," he interrupted Sam, tone more firm now. "And I can do this. I've already been here for far too long."

"Can doesn't mean should," Sam countered, undeterred. "You're—you look like crap, man."

"Can you even stand up?" Dean asked.

Taking that as a challenge, Cas attempted just that. His upwards trajectory was good, but then he kept moving, stumbling forward, and then Dean was across the room, his hand under his elbow to stabilise him.

"That's what I figured," he muttered."

"I'm more capable in my true form." Cas sounded aggravated, edging towards grouchy, but he didn't let go of his grip on Dean's bicep. Again, his fingers were cool—too cool, maybe. He remembered them being warmer in the scrapyard. "This vessel is damaged. It's imprecise."

"You sure?" Sam asked. "We can patch your, uh—body up."

"You haven't already?" Dean asked, glaring at Bobby, who threw his hands up defensively.

"He wouldn't let me near him! I barely talked him into using that rag."

"So you're still—" Dean pushed aside Cas' coat to look at the wound, at the blood covering his shirt. "Bleeding. That's great."

"I will not die," Cas reminded him. His voice was thin; his face was pale. He looked dizzy.

"Glad to hear that. Sam, go get the med kit."

"Human medicine will not heal this wound—"

"But we can keep your body from dying." He heard Sam move behind him, heading for the pack in the kitchen.

"I can repair whatever damage Jimmy Novak's body sustains," Cas protested. He was fighting against Dean's attempts to sit him back down onto the couch, and there was a surprising amount of resistance left in him. Dean took that as a good thing.

"So repair it, then," he said in challenge, and Cas met his eyes again. His nostrils flared briefly.

"I can't at the moment," he ground out. "But I will—"

"Sit your ass back down and let us patch you up," Dean finished for him.

Sam came back with the kit, and Dean forced Cas down onto the couch again. Further attempts to argue that he was fine were ignored, and he glared sullenly into the corner of the room as Dean held him still and Sam took out antiseptic wipes, bandages, and a sewing kit.

Carefully, Dean rucked up his shirt far enough to expose the wound, and sucked in breath through his teeth. It was difficult to look at directly; not because it was grizzly, although it was, but because the mouth of the wound shimmered with a wavering incandescence that made Dean's head spin. It seemed to refract and move at random, as if glancing off the surface of a pearl, shifting under some unknowable light source.

"Maybe we should… take him to the hospital," Sam said after a moment, frowning at the wound. "It looks deep."

"It looks like someone shoved a strobe light in there," Dean corrected him.

"What?" Sam looked at him. "It looks like a normal stab wound."

"You can't see the—the glowy? Thing? The light?" He gestured at the injury. Sam's frown deepened, and when he looked at Bobby, he only shook his head.

"I don't see anything, Dean."

Dean sighed. "Whatever. We aren't going to a hospital unless you wanna let him fingerpaint on the windows to keep other angels away. I'm sure the nurses will love that."

Sam frowned at him for a long moment, clearly deliberating on whether to push more on the glowy comment, before dropping it with a sigh of his own. "All I'm saying, this is gonna suck for Cas." He glanced up at him with a sympathetic grimace. "Maybe you should drink."

"Leave me alone," he rasped, brushing weakly at Dean's hands on his shoulders. "I don't need—" He hissed as Sam swabbed the area clean, looking for a moment like a cornered animal, eyes wheeling wildly between Sam, Dean and Bobby. His expression made it clear that he was trying to find the most reasonable of the three, and for some reason, he landed on Dean. "This will be ineffective," he counselled him. The grip he had on Dean's wrist was tight. "And unpleasant for all of us."

"We aren't letting you walk around with an open wound in your gut," Dean told him. "Stop bitching and keep still."

To his credit, Cas did as he was told, though he made no secret of how irritated he was. Dean kept a good grip on him, and let him dig his fingernails into his forearm as Sam sewed him up. They left deep crescent marks in his skin, but Cas didn't make a sound. Bobby offered him a forty of whiskey at one point, but he refused that, too.

"There isn't enough alcohol in South Dakota to intoxicate me," he informed them, teeth clenched as Sam threaded the needle.

"Sucks to be you," Bobby replied, and took a swig.

Sam made quick work of it, despite having to stare into the equivalent of a small sun as he did so. Or, well, Dean supposed he didn't. He'd ask Cas about that later. It made the burn on his shoulder tingle if he thought about it for too long, so he resolved not to.

Once Cas was stitched back up, Sam covered it with a bandage. "All good," he announced, wiping his hands on the rag Cas had been using. "Except your clothes, I guess."

"I'm not—" Cas exhaled loudly through his nose. "What I'm wearing is fine."

"Yeah, sure, just get blood all over the upholstery," Bobby cut in. "It's not like I don't got enough shit to clean up."

"There's fresh clothes upstairs," Dean suggested, and Cas was gearing up for more protests when Sam grabbed his other arm and helped haul him off the couch.

"You're really beginning to aggravate me," Cas said as they dragged him out of the office.

"The feeling is mutual," Dean muttered. "Can you walk up the stairs?"

Cas gravely informed him of all the various ways in which he could travel, including the non-Euclidean ones. It didn't sound like bragging, exactly; more like an adult correcting a very curious and misinformed child about how the world works. Sam snuck him a smile over Cas' head, and Dean decided he would let him ramble on about how majestic he was if it made him feel better.

They sat him in one of the guest rooms, on the edge of the bed. Cas frowned at his hands, silent and sullen.

Sam scratched at the back of his head, voice low. "What now?"

"I got this," Dean assured him. "Shouldn't be too hard."

Sam raised a brow. "You're gonna dress Cas?"

"I'm gonna help him change his shirt, dumbass."

"I see." Sam's mouth quirked, and oh, did Dean ever want to hit him.

"Is there a problem?"

"None, just—surprised." He lowered his voice further. "You seemed pretty pissed about it, last few weeks."

"I'll be 'elegant', alright?" Dean shoved him. "Go on."

That seemed to calm whatever bug was flying around Sam's brain about it, because he nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

There was a moment of silence before Cas spoke. "Why are you doing this?"

Dean turned to look at him. "You mean helping you? Because you showed up here asking for it?"

"I explicitly did not," Cas corrected him.

"So you keep saying." Dean went to one of the drawers and pulled out a shirt and sweater. He figured angels didn't get cold, but it was still hammering snow outside, and he couldn't imagine Cas in just a t-shirt. That seemed far too scandalous.

Cas watched him silently, a wary and confused look on his face, and then frowned at the offered clothing. "I told you, I don't need to change."

"Humour me. And Bobby."

His jaw clenched. "This is ridiculous."

"You asked for us to come here," Dean reminded him sharply, careful not to raise his voice. He didn't want Sam to overhear and think he was right. "You could have gone anywhere, just like last time. But you didn't."

"No," Cas agreed. He looked away. "Thank you for coming. I wouldn't have asked were it not necessary."

Dean frowned. "Necessary?"

Cas eyed him. "Yes," he said cautiously, as if unsure what portion of his statement was in question. "You're clearly busy, and I can't afford any distractions at the moment.

"Distractions," Dean echoed, his jaw clenching. "Right."

Cas offered no further explanation; he didn't even have the decency to meet his eyes. Instead he stared off into the room at nothing, brow slightly furrowed in thought. Already he was distant, retreating inwards, his mind elsewhere.

Dean tossed the shirt and sweater on the bed beside him. "Get dressed," he ordered, and then left the room.

As he had told Sam, the stitches in his side did nothing to heal the wound he had sustained from Rachel. It did, however, put to rest the worry he had for Jimmy Novak's body. It would not expire, or need significant reworking. A task he normally thought nothing of, but right now, it was difficult to even be present.

He did as Dean had asked him to do, replacing his ruined collared shirt and jacket with the undershirt and navy blue sweater set out for him. Struggling in and out of his own clothes took more effort than he anticipated, and he hated how weak it made him feel. Even here, he was exposed and vulnerable. It felt like the sky could slice him open if he stood under it long enough.

Castiel didn't need sleep, but he did allow this body to rest, reclining back on the bed. It was far more comfortable than the couch downstairs. The only problem was that there was no stimulus in this room; nothing to sufficiently fracture his attention so that he did not have to dwell on Rachel collapsing in on herself in his arms, dying for a man who was only using her as an instrument of chaos.

He needed desperately to return to Heaven. He could, if needed, do so now. What he told the men downstairs was not a lie; he would not die from his wound. It would take what little reserves of energy he had left to him, but he was capable of pressing forward, should he be called upon. And he was being called upon—he could hear the cries of his siblings, asking for guidance, for fresh orders, for deliverance from the burden of freedom. Castiel did not know what to tell them. A purging of his ranks would be required when he returned to the barracks, to reveal all those who had turned against him. He would have to destroy more of his own siblings, and threaten the men still loyal to him with brutal punishment should they even consider betraying him.

He could do that now, if he was very careful; if he held himself close together; if he trusted no one; if he guarded against the wrath mounting inside of him. He would have to commit to perfect judgement, free of vengeance or sympathy. It would, strangely, be close to how he was used to operating, before all of this, before Dean Winchester. He would have to give himself orders, and then he would have to follow them completely.

Castiel remained on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

It was difficult to judge how much time had passed. The sun disappeared from the window, replaced by the hazy night sky only seen in large urban centres, whose light hid all stars from view. Snow still fell, though it fell now in soft, small pellets, collecting on the windowsills and looking much like the salt hunters coated their homes with. It was entirely aesthetic, and yet it strangely made him feel safer. A wall between him and the open sky, however humble.

There was a knock at his door, startling him. "Cas?"

Sam Winchester. Castiel moved to speak, and found he needed to clear his throat before he could. "Come in."

A beam of light spilled across the floorboards as Sam entered the room, closing the door softly behind him. His hand went to the lamp by the door, bathing the room in soft yellow light. "Cas, hey," he whispered, approaching the bed cautiously. There was a plate of reheated pizza in his hand. "We didn't know if you were still here, or awake, or—"

"I have no need for sleep."

"Right. And you don't want to eat, I'm guessing."

He sat up. It was more difficult than he would have liked, but he still managed to fold himself into a sitting position, feet now on the floor. Sam offered help more than once, but he refused it. A bead of sweat tracked down his temple from the effort, and while he didn't need to breathe, this body was nonetheless breathless from the movement.

"No," he answered, and gestured to the bed for Sam to sit. "Thank you."

"That's what I figured," Sam said goodnaturedly as he sat down. He set the plate aside on the edge of the bed, peeling a pepperoni off a slice of pizza and pushing it absently into his mouth. "How you holding up?"

Castiel searched for an adequate response. "I'm alright," he lied eventually.

"It's okay if you're not," Sam told him. Castiel could feel the concern radiating off of him; a bright and constant thrum of compassion for others that never seemed to falter. "Sounds like you have a lot on your plate."

"In truth, I'm stalling," he informed Sam, looking down at the hands he had clasped between his knees. The words came easily; Sam always found a way to understand him, even when he struggled with it himself. "My path forward is deeply unpleasant. I would like to remain here on Earth, but it is unwise to do so."

Sam nodded, and the bed rocked faintly with the movement. "Yeah, I get that."

"And…." He hesitated. "I believe I've overstepped a boundary in calling you back here. I'm sorry for that."

"You said it was for our safety, right?" Sam shrugged. "It's not like it was a choice."

"It was for your own safety," Castiel confirmed. "But it was also an indulgence. The betrayal was weighing on me. I felt alone." It was normally a temptation he could resist, and had been doing exactly that for the last several weeks, but his confrontation with Rachel had destroyed his last, thin reserves of self-restraint.

"It's not a big deal, really. We were heading back here anyway when Bobby called. And we would've come, even if you hadn't asked." Sam offered him a smile. "You're a good friend."

"Not recently. I understand Dean is upset with my behaviour."

Sam made a dismissive pfft noise. "He'll get over it."

Castiel frowned at him. "How?"

"Like he always does. That's just how he is. You get used to it eventually."

Castiel absorbed that information. Perhaps his perspective had been too narrow. He considered Sam's own. "And how do you… make him get over it?"

"I don't make Dean do anything," he said with a huff. "But he's just—he's worried, and stressed. Like we all are. He's got this… thing." Sam frowned. "Do not tell him I said this to you, 'cause he'll just get mad, but—I don't know. He's really touchy about people leaving sometimes. I think he gets it in his head they're leaving him specifically. You just happened to push that button in him. I don't think it's personal."

"You mean last time I was here."

"Yeah, and then staying away for like six weeks. Which is fine," Sam said hurriedly. "It is. We're not mad that you're busy, and we know you can't always answer if we call. I'm pretty sure Dean agrees with me there. It's just an emotional response, and he's bad at dealing with it." He picked at another pepperoni. "Did you guys have an argument or something? I mean last time?"

"Not exactly," Castiel said vaguely. He knew how little Dean wanted to share this with his brother, and he wouldn't betray that. But he also knew how poor of a liar he was, so he tread carefully. "He didn't do anything to push me away. I was called upon by my lieutenant mid… conversation, and I could not delay. It seems to have upset him a great deal."

Sam nodded. His mouth twitched, though he didn't offer an explanation why. "Okay," he said after a moment, like he'd come to some decision. "Maybe mention that again to him? He'll probably get over whatever mood he's in. I really don't think it's a big deal."

"That's a good idea," he said, swelling with relief. He could move forward with a plan. It made him feel ready. "Thank you, Sam."

"Yeah, no worries. You gonna stay here tonight?"

"I'm not sure," he said, glad he could speak truthfully again. "I am capable of returning to the barracks, but I am vulnerable, and I don't know how many more of my men are agents of Raphael. If I am betrayed a second time, I could very easily die."

"Oh." Sam cleared his throat. "How long will it take for you to heal up?"

"Unknown. A few days, perhaps. But I cannot delay that long."

"And you're sure there's nothing we can do?"

There was another knock on the door, interrupting them, and Sam looked up. Castiel could feel Dean on the other side.

"Come on in," Sam called, and Dean sidled in through the door, as if afraid to open it too wide. His eyes slid past his brother, landing on Castiel.

"You're still here," he said, sounding mildly surprised, expression unreadable. "Figured you'd flown off."

"I told him he could stay for the night," Sam interjected, and stood up from the bed. He retrieved the plate from the edge of the mattress, and nodded to Castiel. "I gotta get back downstairs. Glad to see you're alright."

He shouldered politely past his brother, letting the door click shut behind him. Dean's eyes flicked between him and the door, brow arching. "Did I interrupt something?"

"Sam was just asking if there was any way you could aid me," he said, watching Dean walk further into the room. He went to fiddle with a small, decorative statue on top of the dresser.

"And is there?"

"It's not something I would ask of you," he replied. That got Dean's attention; he looked over his shoulder, frowning.

"What do you mean?"

"It's not important. I'd like to speak of something else, anyway."

"Sure." Dean leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. He looked completely unreachable, though he was only a few feet away.

"There is another apology I owe you," Castiel began. "For my departure, last time I was here. I promise you I wouldn't have left had it not been urgent." And it had been—a call from Rachel. The thought made something sour twist inside him.

"You said sorry for that already."

"I've come to understand you're still upset."

Dean rubbed a finger across his forehead, smoothing at the furrows there. "I'm not—" He cut himself off with a sigh. "I'm not. It doesn't matter."

"I believe it does," Castiel pressed. The movement of Dean's fingers stopped. "I seem to have given the impression that I was using you, reinforced by my request you come here. That is not the case."

Dean's brow raised. "Okay," he said after a moment. When he said nothing else, Castiel frowned.

"'Okay'?" he echoed.

"You say you're not using us, I say okay. I believe you."

Castiel studied him. It was difficult to judge Dean's mood by expression alone, and he was closed off from him, shielding himself carefully from deeper observation. He looked angry, and exhausted, and afraid. There was something else, as well, something he could not place, but it made Castiel ache.

"You still seem upset," he said finally. He didn't know what else to say.

Dean's shoulders rolled; he shifted in place, uncomfortable. A sharp breath escaped him, too bitter to be called a laugh. "You sure now how to treat a guy, Cas."

He looked away. "I didn't… I didn't intend to leave so soon."

"But you waited 'til you got your rocks off."

Cas frowned. "No, Dean—"

Dean wasn't finished. "If you don't wanna do any of the work yourself that's fine, just tell me upfront so I don't have to jerk off behind a fucking truck again. Jesus," he muttered, shaking his head and looking away. There was a flush creeping up his throat, though not in arousal this time. Embarrassment, Cas thought, or maybe shame, and the ache inside him grew worse.

"I promise that isn't the case," he said quietly.

A muscle at Dean's jaw twitched. "Really? You said we—or I—you said we were distractions."

"Yes."

He looked up at that, startled at the easy agreement. "Is that all we are, then? Distractions?"

"I'm not saying it as an insult." He looked down at his hands again, trying to find the correct thing to say. "You're angry that I left suddenly, that I have been gone for weeks. That I have not answered your prayers."

"Pretty PG-13 summary, but yeah, that's a start."

Undeterred, Cas pressed on. "My duties in Heaven were not the only things keeping me away. I've been avoiding returning to Earth on purpose."

"What?"

Castiel looked up. "I have been avoiding you on purpose, Dean. For my own benefit."

A muscle near Dean's eye twitched. "Your own benefit," he said flatly.

"Yes."

He could see that he was losing Dean. Castiel understood that the truth was often the most viable strategy when talking to him, though Dean usually did not appreciate his delivery. Thinking back to what Sam said, about leaving, he began another attempt.

"It's difficult to leave," he murmured. "When I am here, with you. I would like nothing more than to remain on Earth; to depart from the war in Heaven. But doing so would kill all of us—including you. So I keep my distance. I returned only because I needed a place to hide, and in a moment of self-pity, I called out for you. I should not have done so."

Dean was quiet for a long moment. Cas could see him processing slowly what he'd said, and hoped the words were the right ones this time.

Then, Dean cleared his throat. "Let me get this straight," he said evenly, the tone of his voice carefully controlled. "You're avoiding me because I'm—what? A distraction? To your battle upstairs?"

"I get the feeling I'm not explaining myself properly—"

"No, Cas. I hear you loud and clear." Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Look, man, if I'm such a problem for you, you can just—"

"Lisa and Ben," Cas said hurriedly, and Dean flinched at their names. "You avoid them because you dislike saying goodbye. Because they make it difficult for you to think about your work, your duties elsewhere. You worry that your very presence in their life puts them in danger."

"That's different—"

"How so?"

Dean let out an exasperated noise. "Because they're—I don't need protection, I don't need you defending me."

Cas fixed him with a hard stare, incredulous. "You and I both know that isn't true."

"I'm not some damsel! I don't need saving!" He shoved away from the dresser, agitated, fidgeting. "I got along just fine before you showed up—"

"You were in Hell before I showed up," Cas reminded him sharply, and Dean went still, jaw shifting. "And saving your life afterwards required open rebellion. I do not regret the decisions I've made in serving you. But I am telling you that—" He took a deep breath. "That angels do not interfere in the lives of humans for a reason. We grow attached."

That was only a partial truth. He knew of others, those who had given up their Mandate to live on Earth, though there weren't many. None of them showed any particular affinity for the fate of man—none except him.

"Dean." He gestured to the bed beside him. "Please sit down."

"I don't want to." He shifted his weight, restless, pacing the length of the room.

Castiel watched him patiently. "I would like to resolve whatever resentment you feel. But I need you to tell me what that is."

"It's not—" He stopped and clenched his jaw. "It's everything I've already said."

"Which we seemed to have worked through."

"I'm not weak," he spat, like an afterthought.

"I never said you were."

"You're treating me like some—" He looked at the door, as if just realising they may be overheard, and lowered his voice. "I'm not a housewife. I'm not—we aren't even—" His throat worked. "I give you one handy in a parking lot and now you're doing the whole noble soldier thing. It's weird."

Something slid into place. The words came out of his mouth, measured and calm, but his hands shook with the effort of speaking. "I've lived for thousands of years, Dean," he whispered. "Not once have I ever allowed someone to touch me the way… the way you did. I don't have the words to impress upon you the effect it's had on me." Even now, Castiel had difficulty processing it. The memory of the scrapyard, of Dean's mouth and warmth and radiance pressed against him, was so achingly vivid that it took every century of discipline he could muster not to linger on it until he drove himself mad with want. "I have visited a great many Heavens," he told Dean, who was finally looking at him again. "And compared to your company, I find them lacking. So I avoid Paradise—because I don't trust myself to have the strength to leave again."

Dean was silent. The hard, angry expression on his face slacked away, but what took its place was unreadable. Castiel wanted desperately to touch him, to be held again and hear his voice rumble across his skin, but didn't trust himself to reach out for it.

He understood, too, that it was tempting fate to linger here, so he stood up from the bed. The movement was painful, graceless, but he rose to his full height, and Dean continued to stare at him, silent and inscrutable.

"I'll leave," Castiel said quietly, glancing at the door. "I don't know when I'll—"

In a few quick strides, Dean closed the distance between them. Castiel's reflexes were quick enough to anticipate the approach, to easily push him back without effort, but Dean's hands were cupping his face and Dean's mouth was pressing into his own, and all he could do was lean into him, to grip him tight and arch into every ounce of warmth and skin that was being offered. The kiss now was different—it was rough and frantic, advancing far too quickly for Castiel to keep up with every shift of Dean's lips or scrape of his teeth or darting of his tongue. It was exactly the way Cas had been aching to kiss Dean, to be kissed by him, and it was enough to make him lightheaded with relief.

Dean broke away too soon, gasping, brow furrowed, eyes squeezing shut. Castiel's fingers were wrapped around Dean's wrists, keeping him steady. This could not be over already, he thought; he could not possibly leave with only this fleeting contact to hold onto.

Dean was laughing, breathless, and it blew across his skin. "This is distracting?"

"Yes," Castiel pleaded, grip tightening on Dean's wrists, hoping that was not the incorrect thing to say. "You're—"

"Such a good lay that I'm ruining your life," Dean finished for him, mouth twitching in amusement. "Got it."

He kissed him again, just as frantic as before, and Dean walked them forward until Cas felt the back of his knees brush the edge of the mattress. Dean continued to advance, pressing a hand to his chest to push him down onto the bed, and Cas sat back until—

Until a sharp lance of pain flared up his side.

Close to blasphemy, he hissed and pressed a hand to his ribs, and Dean pulled away again—exactly what he didn't want to happen.

"Shit, I forgot. Sorry, Cas—"

"It's fine," he said hurriedly, his other hand on Dean's arm. "Please, just—"

"You said there was a way I could help," he continued. He was leaning awkwardly over the bed, half-standing, a palm braced by Castiel's hip. "How?"

It took Cas a moment to respond, his mind struggling to focus on the conversation at hand and not how incredibly warm Dean was. "It… will drain you," he said roughly, looking up at him. "And it's dangerous."

"Just tell me."

"Your soul," he said, and prevented Dean from pulling back further by tightening his grip on his bicep. "If I touch it—it is an incredible source of power. It would grant me enough power to heal if I were exposed to it."

Dean frowned. The flush was fading from his cheeks as he thought. "You mean the—the thing where you shove your hand through my chest?"

Cas swallowed, nodding. "Doing it that way is painful, but generally effective," he replied. "There are more delicate ways to do it, but they require you to open yourself to me completely."

Dean pushed up from the bed, despite Castiel's best efforts to keep him there, and then sat down beside him. "Open myself?"

"Yes." He smiled tightly. "There is something baser than instinct that keeps your soul concealed from others. It is difficult to recognise, and even more difficult to consciously manipulate. But it's possible."

"Tell me how."

Castiel looked at him, still struggling to shake off the thrill of being touched again. "Dean—"

"It's hard to fuck you if you've got a huge gouge in your stomach," Dean interrupted him, mouth twitching. "So let's fix you up, and then we can get back to it."

He shivered at his words. "The process will likely render you unconscious."

"Wake me up after, then."

Despite his frustration, Castiel found himself smiling. "The easiest way is through intercourse, as it happens."

Dean raised a brow. "You're joking."

"Baring your soul to your partner isn't simply metaphor," Cas continued. "Though I have limited experience with the process."

"Wait." Dean frowned. "Did you… touch it in the scrapyard?"

"I felt the edges of it," Castiel replied, and goosebumps flared across his skin at the mere memory. "But not completely. We were… interrupted, as you recall."

"Sex-powered angel mojo," Dean muttered to himself, and then grinned. "That rules."

"Angels have taken human concubines in the past," Cas told him. "Though the practice has long been prohibited. As I said—we are instructed to abstain from human attachment. It clouds our judgement."

"God, you really are a Jedi." Dean shifted on the bed, looking at Cas up and down, as if for the first time. There was something akin to anticipation in his eyes. "Will it feel good?"

"For me, or for you?"

"Both, either."

"I've heard it's exquisite," Castiel replied. "But as I said, I haven't attempted it myself."

"I'm game if you are," Dean whispered. "Just tell me what I gotta do."

The blood thundered in Castiel's ears as he met Dean's eyes. "I need you to kiss me again."

"You're almost there, Dean—"

"I know," he gasped into Cas' shoulder, fingers digging into his hip. The hand Cas had on his cock went still, and Dean groaned. "Come on," he muttered, rocking his hips forward. "I'm dying, here, Cas—"

"It worked before," Cas said, frowning. They were facing each other on the bed, tangled together, sweaty and breathless. The hand not wrapped around Dean's cock was pressed against his chest, palm flat. "In the scrapyard. I could feel it then."

"Maybe it's—" Dean blew out a breath, trying to focus. "One of those things, you know. Only happens if you don't think about it."

"No," Cas hummed. "There's something else."

Dean rocked his hips again. The head of his cock brushed Cas' thigh, and he gasped. "How about… you let me come, we figure it out after—"

"You can't climax," Cas interrupted. "Not yet."

"Well I won't if you keep treating this like a science experiment." He rolled onto his back, an arm slinging over his face, and tried to calm down. He felt his dick throb angrily at him—which was apparently becoming a familiar sensation around Cas.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

There was a tug at his elbow, and he let his arm drop. Cas was staring at him with that too-serious stare of his. It was tempered now with arousal, a tight heat that made his eyes unfocus a little, and Dean would have found it really hot if not for the current topic of conversation.

"I thought this would be easier," Cas said apologetically.

"You know, maybe you should just reach into my chest and pull out what you need," Dean offered. "I don't mind."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm hurting now," he whined, and reached down to touch himself. He hissed through clenched teeth, resisting the overwhelming need to move his hand. "Fuck."

Sex with Cas was a novel experience. He'd fucked men before, and had inexperienced partners, and even had sex with an angel, but this was something else. And he liked it, a lot, despite the frustration. He wanted this to work. But his brain was operating at twenty percent capacity—max—at the moment, and he was struggling to be patient.

"What were you thinking about before?" Cas asked, wincing as he shifted on the bed to look at him. "In the scrapyard?"

"I was thinking about you," Dean said impatiently. "I don't know. I wanted to—make you feel good, help you relax."

"Well, you did," Cas said with a small smile.

"Glad you enjoyed yourself," he muttered, and closed his eyes. God, his balls ached. He'd probably start suffering nerve damage soon. "I'm about fifteen seconds away from blowing it here, so if you—"

Cas interrupted him with a kiss. It was clumsy, but less so than before. He had a baseline to operate from now, and he was a fast learner. The angle was awkward, though, so Dean rolled back onto his side and pulled Cas tight against him, groaning when it jostled his erection. Cas was hard too, hot against his stomach, so at least the both of them were suffering.

Vaguely, belatedly registering what Cas had been getting at with their conversation, Dean pressed a hand to his shoulder so that he rolled onto his back, and Dean moved above him. Mustering whatever scraps of resolve he had left, he focused on Cas again—on the way he panted into Dean's mouth, how he arched up into every brush of contact, how he seemed so easily overwhelmed by the simplest touch. Dean was hard enough that he could probably get off to Cas' reactions alone, but he didn't think about that, either. What rang in his head, over and over, made his throat tighten and his heart pound.

I have visited a great many Heavens. And compared to your company, I find them lacking.

His hand curled in Cas' hair, nails scratching at his scalp. He knew Cas liked that, and felt him shiver and whine into his mouth. He ducked his head and pressed messy kisses into his throat, feeling his pulse beat raggedly against his lips. He swept a hand, gentle and featherlight, over the rough stitches in Cas' side. He filled his thoughts and breath and nose and mouth with Cas, thought about the noise he'd made when he came in Dean's hand, thought about how all the tension had slumped out of him, how much that had felt like a triumph, to make Cas fucking relax, even if it had only lasted a moment—

"Dean," Cas gasped, and he pulled back to look at him, to see the wonder on his face.

He struggled for breath. "Is it working?"

Instead of answering him, Cas pressed a hand to his chest again.

Dean's vision threatened to white out. He thought he gasped, but he wasn't sure, because there was nothing else except for the incandescent thrum beneath his ribs, the searing heat of Cas' palm against his skin, beneath muscle and bone. The walls shook with the force of it, or maybe it was just his body that was shaking. He quickly realised those were the same thing.

Cas shifted beneath him. Not physically; his body began to refract, shimmering until Dean thought he could see the outline of him—not as an angel stuffed into the meagre vessel of a human body, but as Cas himself. It was only for the fraction of the second, but he could see him suddenly, plainly, hanging in the sky above. Giant, celestial curtains suspended from a single, tight locus, a stitch in the fabric of reality. There was the impression of vast interlocking walls, stretching in all directions, a crossroads of pearlescent marble that met in impossible intersections, emanating from the same, unknowable origin—Cas himself. A pillar, Dean thought, and understood then that angels were not just instruments but foundations, too. Load-bearing brackets upon which the universe suspended itself.

His atoms shook apart as Castiel cradled his soul in the palms of his hands, folding him into the centre of himself until they were a single, shared coordinate, and if Dean still had lungs he would weep from the joy of it. Alleluia.

And then, just as suddenly, he was back in his body again, in the shitty guest room in Bobby's house, and his orgasm ripped through him so hard he did exactly what Cas had warned him would happen; he blacked out.

Dean was a heavy and constant weight atop him, his body moving just enough to draw breath and pump blood.

Cas stared up at the ceiling, his cheek brushing Dean's sweaty hair. There had been a single, frantic moment of panic when Dean had collapsed, where Cas had feared he'd drawn too deeply, taken too much of him, but then Dean had gasped in breath against the pillow.

He allowed himself the luxury of letting his fingers trail along Dean's back. Soft, uneven touches, patterns that meant nothing and went nowhere. He'd seen human beings do this after lovemaking many times, and had incorrectly surmised that it must be a simple shedding of excess energy from overstimulated nerves. The mindless loops he traced over Dean's scarred shoulderblade were more profound than that.

The injury he had sustained was fully healed now, and Jimmy Novak's body was whole once again. He felt himself thrum with the energy Dean had so selflessly offered to him, and with a deep pang he knew this meant he would be leaving very soon. He was strong again, stronger than he had felt in a very long time. Already he could feel the fractured and disordered strategy he had been cobbling together form into a cohesive whole in his mind. The task before him was no less grim, and he would be no less merciful in his hunt for any traitors in his ranks. The siblings that had betrayed him would die by his hands, and he would restore order to the army he had assembled against Raphael. When he returned to Heaven this time, every angel in existence would take notice.

But he would wait, he thought, for a few moments more. He owed Dean the courtesy of a proper farewell, even if it would be easier and more efficient to simply slip away now, when he was still sleeping.

Castiel's fingers continued to trace across his back, his skin tingling from the brushing, gentle contact.

Dean woke after several minutes, groaning, breathing deeply. He shifted sluggishly on top of Cas, and the mattress by Castiel's right shoulder sunk down as Dean braced a hand against it.

"Cas?" He dragged his head up from the pillow, blinking heavily, and used his free hand to wipe at his eyes. "What… happened…."

"You bared your soul to me," Castiel explained calmly as Dean looked around, like he needed a reminder of where they were.

Dean let out a huff at that. "Jesus. Yeah, I did." He glanced down at Cas, meeting his eyes. The only light in the room came from the lamp Sam had turned on by the door, and it cast Dean's features in shadow. "Wow."

"Was it enjoyable?"

"Was it—" Dean blinked, his eyes unfocusing for a moment. "Enjoyable?" he repeated, as if he'd never heard the word before. "Cas, that was…."

Instead of finishing his thought, he slumped over, falling heavily on his back beside Castiel. He rubbed at his eyes again, looking like he was struggling. "Yeah," he croaked then, his throat working. "Yeah, it was enjoyable."

Castiel sat up on the bed, frowning down at Dean. "You sound uncertain."

"No, I'm just…." His cheeks puffed out as he blew out a breath, his hand falling to his chest. There was still come streaked across his stomach, as it was still on Cas. He had seen, too, how lovers washed one another, wiping clean whatever mess they had made. Castiel felt the intense urge to do the same for Dean—not with a snap of his fingers but with a warm washcloth, and was despondent when he realised they did not have the time for it.

Dean was speaking, he registered too late, and forced himself from his thoughts. "… know how to describe it," Dean said, and smiled up at him. The expression was shaky—not because it was insincere, but because he still seemed to be processing what had happened.

"Exquisite," Castiel offered softly, and the material of the pillow scratched faintly as Dean nodded.

"Yeah, that's a word for it." His eyes drifted down to Castiel's side. "You're all patched up."

"Yes." He touched the unbroken expanse of pale skin along his ribs, now unblemished by stitches or injury. "I've fully healed. Thank you."

"Hey," he said with a breathless laugh, waving a weak hand before letting it fall back to the bed. "No sweat. You can finger my soul as often as you want if it's gonna be like that."

"You need time to recover," Cas told him. "I took more from you than I intended to. It'll be awhile before I can safely attempt something like that again."

The smile on Dean's face faltered, and he dragged his other arm up from his chest to squint at his watch. "I've been in here with you for like two hours," he muttered, and then stared up at the ceiling again. "God, I hope they didn't hear anything."

"Bobby and Sam, you mean?" Castiel asked. "They likely did. You were quite vocal."

Dean's face flushed. "Great." His hand slid across the blankets for Castiel's hand. "You have to go now, I guess."

Crestfallen, he watched their fingers twine up on the mattress. "Yes," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"You gotta do what you gotta do," Dean said goodnaturedly, but there was real sorrow in his voice. "I'm sorry, too, Cas. I was being an asshole."

Cas smiled. "It's forgiven."

Dean sat up beside him—or tried to. Cas took hold of his shoulders as he wobbled, keeping him steady while he pulled himself upright, concerned at the dizzy look on his face.

"You have to be careful—"

"Cas." Dean grabbed one of his wrists, hanging off of him. He met his eyes. "I'm okay."

Castiel searched his face, and determined after a moment that he wasn't lying. He relaxed slightly. "Good."

"Are you?"

"I am…." He thought for a moment. "I feel quieted."

Dean raised a brow. "Is that good?"

"Yes. I hope it lasts. I have a lot to do."

Bracketed by the support of Castiel's hands on his shoulders, Dean leaned forward to kiss him. This one was altogether different—it was soft and slow, devoid of intent. Like the finger tracing, Cas thought. A touch for touch's sake.

When Dean pulled back, his expression was set, determined. It did not quite hide his grief, but it was close.

"Go," Dean whispered, like he didn't want to be overheard. "It's alright."

He didn't need Dean's permission to leave—he could have left hours ago—but Cas wanted it anyway. "Are you sure?"

"You mean will I be pissed at you if you ghost me for another month?" Dean asked with a grin. "Maybe. But I know you have a war to fight. So just—be careful. And come find me if you get hurt again. I got a nice juicy soul you can tickle."

"I may have to," Castiel admitted bitterly.

"What's wrong with that?"

"You have your own duties to attend to," Cas said. "This process will be just intense, and it will take just as much out of you."

"Dude, I just had the best orgasm of my life. I'm not gonna say no to that again."

A surge of pride swelled within him, and he promptly squashed it before it could germinate. Castiel allowed himself a smile, though. "I don't want to give the impression that you're simply a resource in my war in Heaven. It's not why I come to Earth to seek out your company, and it's not why I will return here—whenever that may be." He nodded to Dean's clothes and things on the floor, to the weapons lying next to them. "I am not the common vampires you hunt."

"No, you are way cooler than that." Dean exhaled again, still not looking entirely awake. "And we're good. I get it, I mean. I've called you down here for some stupid shit in the past anyway, so if you need a little soul bong hit now and then, you know my number."

Castiel committed to memory this conversation, this room and this moment. He was careful to preserve the bizarre and confounding way Dean spoke, the way his skin looked in the low lamp light, the way his hair was tousled from the pillow, the way the blanket settled on his calves and thighs as it puddled around his waist. An unfathomable grief welled within him, like blood pearling at the edge of a wound. He didn't know when he would be able to see Dean Winchester again, and so the memory of this moment would have to be enough.

"Very well," he whispered. Cas leaned forward to kiss him one final time, and then he left.