Chapter Text
Dean wasn’t ready for Cas to go. Of course he wasn’t. He never had been, not when he’d instigated it, not when he’d provoked him. But especially not this time.
And he was gone for good. Dean had resigned himself to that.
He hadn’t at first, of course. But after months of trying and trying and failing, he couldn’t stand to try once more. It broke him, every time. Every time Sam approached him with that sense of optimism, of hope. Some new myth, some theory.
They’d managed to save themselves, managed to save the world, and that wasn’t enough, it couldn’t be. But that’s the way it turned out, and Dean would have to live with it. He had to.
Cas came back unceremoniously.
That morning Dean had made eggs and bacon, cold by the time Sam woke up. Sam had chided him lightly for not sleeping, but Dean spotted his matching eye bags.
That afternoon they’d kept themselves busy. Sam had been sifting through the seemingly infinite amount of research they’d done over the years, and sorting it in some sort of easily accessible manner. Dean wasn’t sure how useful it would prove to be, but it kept Sam busy eight hours a day, and that’s most of what mattered.
Dean, on the other hand, spent his mornings walking through the bunker, searching for anything out of place, anything not working, and fixed it. He was beginning to get anal about it; power washing perfectly good floors, dusting every day, taking apart cabinets and bookcases to check the integrity of the wood, just in case he’d missed a rotting shelf at first glance.
That evening, Jack came for dinner.
Dean was cooking. Texas brisket with potatoes and beans. Jack had been to Texas recently, and couldn’t stop talking about that damn brisket. It pissed Dean off, though he wasn’t sure why. But he knew he wanted Jack to like the one he made.
The brisket was in the oven, the potatoes were boiling. The beans had finished cooking half an hour ago and were probably cold by now. Dean had screwed up the timing on that one, but he elected not to think of it.
“Jack’s here,” Sam told him, heading to the door.
Dean nodded, eyes glued to the brisket in the oven.
He heard Sam open the door. He expected to hear greetings, two minutes of exuberant conversation before the two of them made their way to Dean in the kitchen. It was routine at this point, one of the only parts of Dean’s routine he liked these days. But the chatter never came.
Silence washed through the bunker, Dean’s pattering in the kitchen making him feel awkward. Dean began to panic. Was Jack hurt? No, because Sam would have called him over. Was Sam hurt? Maybe it wasn’t Jack at the door after all. Maybe it was a demon, here to take Sam away.
The thought froze him, his eyes still glued to the oven, but his vision blurring. He heard two footsteps, and a thud.
“Dean,” Sam’s voice came from the doorway, measured.
Dean shook himself out of his state, and paced over to the doorway, grabbing a knife, the one he’d used for the beef, still covered in meat juices. If the knife wound couldn’t kill whatever monster was there, E. Coli might.
Dean kept close to the wall as he made his way to the door. He rounded the corner cautiously. He peered around the bend.
Sam was collapsed in a mess on the floor. Dean raised his knife.
His hand went slack around the blade. It clinked on the floor, and bounced away to a place Dean would be careful to remember. Later.
Sam turned his head quickly. As did Cas.
Cas.
“Dean,” Cas said. He looked up at him, his eyes glassy. Just like-
Dean collapsed to his knees and wrapped his arms around him in one fell swoop. He felt Sam’s long limbs wriggle out between them. Dean pulled him closer.
“Cas,” Dean said. He felt his eyes water as he scooped Cas closer to him. Until he felt his body heat envelop his entire chest.
Cas was here. Between his arms. Fuck.
Dean patted his back, softly, and pulled away slightly.
“I didn’t know you were coming for dinner,” Dean choked out, “I didn’t make enough beans.”
Cas exhaled with a smile. Maybe a laugh.
“That’s okay, Dean,” Cas said.
“They’re cold, too,” Dean said.
“I don’t need beans,” Cas said.
“You’re having beans,” Dean said, pulling his arms fully from Cas’s back.
Slowly, Dean stood up, helping pull Cas up with him.
Finally, Dean looked at Jack. He opened his arms, and Jack ran towards him, hugging him tight.
“Did this on your own, kid?” Dean said.
“I wasn’t sure it would work,” Jack admitted, “I didn’t want-“
Dean stroked a hand through his hair. He looked up at Cas and Sam, who looked happy. He let go of Jack, an arm still on his back.
“Watch your step. I dropped a knife,” Dean said, and ushered everyone to the kitchen.
Dean had known, of course. Well, he’d sort of known. He’d had an idea.
Because otherwise it didn’t make sense. Because Dean wanted Cas, had wanted Cas for years. And their friendship had always been marked by some sort of exclusivity, like they were privy to something, some bright, golden thing that couldn’t quite be named.
The key was in the not naming it. Somehow this silent, powerful thing was too big, too important, too personal, to be described with familiar words. Dean thought that was understood, he thought that’s why they couldn’t talk about it.
And then Cas did. He named it, and he fucking died.
Dean had elected not to think of it for the past several months. Cas would come home, and then he’d deal with it. Cas being gone was enough. Thinking about romance would be petty. He’d never done much of it up to now, it had never been in the cards, not seriously.
But now Cas was back, and their hunts were all salt and burns, and Cas lounged around the bunker in Dean’s t-shirts, and Dean felt it hanging heavy in the air. He’d have to figure his shit out at some point.
But Cas wasn’t mentioning it, content enough to just be home. And it had never been Dean’s inclination to bring it up.
“Will you take me into town?” Cas asked him one afternoon.
Cas’s voice shook him to attention. He stood in front of him, Dean’s shirt hanging loose around his waist, his hair frizzy. He looked like a dream, every dream Dean’s had for the past nine months.
“What’s in town?” Dean asked.
Cas looked at him, pensive. “Town.”
“Bunker not doing it for you anymore?” Dean teased.
“I’ve spent the past nine months void of any light, and I’m acutely aware of the lack of sun,” Cas said, candidly.
Dean felt a pang of guilt, maybe? Hurt, perhaps, though that struck him as a little self-involved. Cas said it without a hint of upset. Just said it like it was. It occurred to him that he hadn’t spent much time thinking about what the Empty was like. But it was dark, apparently.
He suddenly noticed Cas’s cocked head. He was waiting for an answer.
“Of course I’ll take you to town.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were in the Impala, quiet. Dean wasn’t one to be uncomfortable with silence, but it did make him squirm. He filled his time with music, and TV, and his instincts were sharp. He could tell Sam and Cas’s footsteps from anyone else’s, and when he was sat alone in his room he liked hearing the others padding around. Proof of life.
And he and Cas had so much to talk about that he didn’t know where to start.
“I don’t want to leave the bunker,” Cas said, snapping Dean to attention.
“Uh,” Dean started, “Good, I guess. Didn’t know that was an option.”
“The lack of light is unsettling, but I don’t want to leave,” Cas explained.
“Oh,” Dean said, unsteady. He looked at Cas, staring out the window. Mid-morning sunlight streaked the tips of his hair, its brown colour looking like caramel. And he was wearing Dean’s shirt.
Cas looked straight ahead, looking almost bored. But there was something about his expression, something pensive or focused, that carried weight. He didn’t look confused or upset, though. That was good.
“Cas,” Dean said.
“If you want to ask me something, Dean, then ask it,” Cas answered, firm, as if he’d been waiting to say it for a while.
Dean inhaled. “Was it bad?”
Cas’s gaze ahead softened. “No,” Cas said quickly. He inhaled, slowly, “It was… dark…”
“Dark? That’s it?” Dean pushed.
“I was alone, but not lonely, really. I… I was freed of wanting for anything. It…”
Sounds nice, Dean thought.
“It was peaceful, almost,” Cas said, “But it wasn’t… I fell because I wanted, for the first time in my existence.”
The one thing I want, Dean remembered.
“And I was suspended without any hunger, when wanting is the best thing that’s happened to me,” Cas finished.
Wanting. Dean turned his eyes back to the road. “But you’re back to wanting now?” Dean asked, an edge to his voice. His periphery caught the speed with which Cas’s head whipped to him.
“I am,” Cas said.
Dean felt an ache in his shoulder. Cas’s attention bore into him. They were talking about the same thing, probably.
“Good,” Dean said, feeling himself flush.
They arrived in town quickly. It wasn’t much of a town, but it had a bar and a general store and a small park. It was a stop-in town. Somewhere you visit to get gas on the way to somewhere more interesting.
Cas was ecstatic. He climbed out of the Impala with haste, making his way to the park with a determined stride. Dean followed him.
He took his time catching up to Cas. The moments were few and far in between when he was able to watch Cas.
The one thing I want is something I know I can’t have, Dean remembered. He’d been confused, when he said it, because it wasn’t the right moment. As if the setting had been the issue.
He looked back up to Cas, who had sacrificed himself, leaving Dean alone, waiting for him.
Dean caught up with him. Cas looked up in awe at the park, at the families walking through.
“I’ve missed this,” Cas stated.
“The park?” Dean asked.
“People. Normal people,” Cas said.
“Shiny happy people holding hands?” Dean teased.
“You don’t understand what you’ve done for the world, for all of them,” Cas said, gesturing to the park.
Dean scoffs. It was what he did, what he’d always done.
Dean felt a firm pressure on his back, ushering him to walk. He followed Cas’s lead, joining the normal people, the people who didn’t have a sliver of understanding of how many times they’ve almost died, almost been destroyed.
Cas assimilated to the crowd easily. His shoulders unburdened, his movements loose. Dean envied it. But Cas had always been good at assimilating. Dean was an old man stuck in his ways.
Was this was Cas wanted? What he’d been left without in the Empty? A walk in the park? It seemed simple, to turn your back on your nature in order to embrace something so quotidian. But Cas was an angel of the Lord who gave it up for Dean. Crazier things have happened.
Cas looked content, walking. His hand was still pressed to Dean’s back, pushing him forward. He was strong, but he was conserving his strength, not forcing Dean to do anything he didn’t want to. He was firm, solid, there, and Dean still didn’t quite believe that last part.
“This the wanting you were missing down there?” Dean asked, his tone teasing but genuine.
“You know what I want, Dean,” Cas said, quicker than Dean was prepared for.
And that was what Dean was fishing for, wasn’t it? Some sort of acknowledgement that it was real. That he hadn’t imagined it. He stood there like a blubbering fool, unsure of his position in this conversation.
“I should be asking what it is that you want,” Cas said, tone steady, confident. And wasn’t that the question. The question Dean didn’t know his answer to.
He shifted his body, looking Cas straight on. They were standing closer together than Dean had thought. He looked Cas up and down, checked him out. His body was firm and tight, but he could make out the outlines of Cas’s curves, the slim of his waist, the curves of his arms. Men’s forms were skinnier, straighter, than women’s. And he liked that, liked the firmness of men’s bodies. Of Cas’s body.
And it was silly, to still be wanting Cas, when he was right there, and he’d want it back. But if he took it, that would be it for him, forever. And Dean had never given much thought to forever.
“I’m not one for wanting,” Dean answered.
Cas smiled, softly. “Hm.”
Dean eyed him, questioningly.
“I know that’s not true,” Cas told him.
It was too late for them. They weren’t kind to each other. Dean wasn’t kind to him. But it wasn’t just Cas, it was anyone. Dean couldn’t… he’d tried, with Lisa, and it had been nice. But he’d never been settled, he couldn’t be. And nowadays, he was more screwed up than he’d ever been.
It was over, everything was over, which left the world with the monsters his father, his mother, his grandparents, had dedicated their lives to killing.
Dean was good at that, he was really good, and it would be unfair to take himself out of the game, not when everything out there was something he could handle. He’d handled apocalypses and God himself, dealing with the shit he dealt with at sixteen shouldn’t be all that difficult.
He imagined it, sometimes. A quiet life with Cas at his side. Dean would wake up early to make coffee and eggs. They’d live in a nice big house, secluded from neighbours, and Cas would sit on the couch doing crosswords while Dean cooked him three square meals a day, and they’d be in bed before 11 each night. They’d fuck dirty and constantly, except for when Sam and Jack would come over for dinner, when he’d look at his family and be so so happy.
But when he pictured a life like that, it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the same Dean who’d tortured and killed and hurt so deeply. It wasn’t a Dean who’d gotten his friends killed, who’d gotten Sammy killed, or good as, time and time again. He was a family man, who’d worked an honest job his whole life, who took care of them.
That Dean couldn’t exist. Because that Dean wouldn’t have known Cas, or Jack, or most of the people he cared for.
It wouldn’t be right, to give it up. And Cas deserved right.
Sam was spending time at Eileen’s. That was a good thing, of course. All Dean had ever wanted was for Sam to be happy. His whole life, he’d wanted Sam to find a nice girl and watch them make a nice life together. But it still felt wrong.
That after all this time, when they could finally choose, that Sam would choose to leave him. It was silly, because he knew Sam had spent more time with him than he’d ever deserved. But the time they’d spent together was marked with so much anger and upset and war and death. And he’d hoped, however fruitlessly, that they’d been working to be happy together, for once.
He knew that wasn’t what it was about. Sam and Eileen had a lot of time to catch up on. And the kid deserved it. But Dean still wasn’t ready to let go.
Dean was left alone with Cas, the two of them falling into a pattern, neither one quite knowing what to do with themselves. Cas still didn’t sleep, but he waited for Dean to finish making coffee before he emerged to the kitchen. Then, they’d drive into town, and Dean would watch Cas explore the shops; they were becoming regulars at a couple. When they came back home, they’d spend the afternoon reading, or watching movies. Then Dean would make dinner and they’d go for an evening walk, before sharing a drink before Dean went to bed.
“I think I’m going stir crazy,” Dean said one morning.
“My company’s getting stale?” Cas asked.
“No, Cas,” Dean said, because it wasn’t, “You’re not getting bored?”
“I’m accustomed to it,” Cas said.
Dean chuckled.
“You want a hobby,” Cas said, with a disarming assuredness.
Dean scoffed. “I don’t need a hobby, Cas. I just…”
“You’re unsettled by a monotony you’ve never experienced before and you want your time occupied with an activity which has a clear goal.”
“Activity with a clear goal,” Dean repeated.
“That’s what a hobby is,” Cas argued.
“No. Hobbies are ways corporate America jackasses convince themselves they’re interesting.”
“There’s no shame in finding things which interest you, Dean.”
Something twisted in Dean’s gut. He knew Cas was right, but the word hobby filled him with discomfort. It felt small. Made him feel small.
“I don’t know, Cas,” Dean said, “I don’t think I’m a hobby type of guy.”
“What about your car?” Cas asked.
“She’s not a hobby.”
“But you like working on Baby?”
Dean looked at him as if he’d just asked if Dean liked Sam.
“We have a whole garage filled with cars that haven’t been touched in half a century,” Cas said, as if the suggestion was obvious. In the same tone of voice he used when asking Dean to buy more milk.
Dean didn’t answer, choosing instead to take a long sip of coffee.
He wouldn’t come back to it, or even remember Cas had brought it up. They’d drive into town in an hour and a half, and the thought wouldn’t cross Dean’s head when he brought Baby back to the garage that afternoon.
Three days later, Dean would find himself bored in the afternoon, and would find himself in the garage, and his eyes would settle on a blue car, which would remind him of My Cousin Vinny and he’d make Cas watch it with him.
Two days after that, he’d open the hood, just to see what it looked like, and a week later, he’d be going into town, trying to figure out where he could buy replacement parts.
The first time it happened was in the kitchen.
Cas wore a Star Wars shirt Dean had long ago decided was too dorky to be seen wearing in public. It clung to his sides tightly. It didn’t fall off of him, the way it would on Dean. He looked good.
Sam was asleep, had been for an hour.
Cas had been responsible for Dean’s perpetual sexual frustration for the better part of a decade, so there was no reason for the sight in front of him to encourage him in a way it hadn’t before.
But he was wearing Dean’s stupid old shirt, and Dean could see the way the curves of his muscles shaped the thin, lifeless fabric. He looked comfortable, as if he knew he deserved to be standing there, wearing Dean’s clothes. As though living with the man you’re in love with in his underground bunker and filling in his clothes so well that they nearly rip was something he could do.
Dean’s reservations about the relationship remained. They stayed at the forefront of Dean’s mind, the way they always had. Dean couldn’t make him happy. Not now, not ever.
Cas looked up at him, his blue eyes intense and reverent.
And it occurred to Dean, for the first time since that night in the basement, that Cas was attracted to him.
That it wasn’t all Dean’s caring, loving nature. That it wasn’t all the things Cas saw in him that Dean couldn’t imagine, that love wasn’t built solely on the content of one’s character.
Cas thought he was hot.
He saw it in his eyes, in his hard stare. Cas tried to hide it, the way he’d likely done a thousand times. But Dean saw it.
And suddenly Dean knew what to do.
Keeping his eyes focused firmly on Cas’s, he took a step forward.
Cas’s eyes widened, just a little, and Dean stepped forward again. Cas, a few inches shorter, had to move his head back a little as Dean got closer in order to maintain eye contact. His eyes grew clearer with every step, until Dean was close enough that he had to address it.
Dean placed a hand on the counter next to Cas, cornering him.
“Dean…”
He felt the corner of his mouth turn up.
From this angle, he could see a small sliver of skin peeking out above Cas’s waistband. Cas’s stomach muscles contracted, just slightly, enough to shift the wrinkles in his shirt.
Looking back at his face, a small smile played on Cas’s mouth.
“Cas,” Dean said, his eyes roaming his face, “I can’t… I can’t give you everything you want from me. But you gotta know… you gotta know I want you.”
He scanned Cas’s face for permission. A small nod, slow and tentative, and Dean’s hand grazed Cas’s side.
He felt the warmth of Cas’s hand hovering at the side of his neck.
Dean stroked Cas’s side with the back of his finger, and felt callouses and force of Cas’s hand meet his neck, and Cas pulled him in firmly.
His lips weren’t nearly as soft as they looked, and Dean had always thought he’d wanted to touch Cas slowly when he finally got the chance, and in all the years he’d imagined kissing Cas, he’d imagined something slow and beautiful and meaningful, like it would explain every movement he’s made around Cas for the past twelve years. But as soon he felt how eager Cas was to set a pace, a desperation unlocked from the deepest part of his chest.
The hand on Cas’s side gripped hard, trying to hold on firmly to anything, but the fabric from Dean’s stupid Star Wars T-shirt slipped easily. Instead, Dean pushed Cas back against the counter, as Cas pulled Dean’s head closer, and his other hand landed firmly on Dean’s hip.
Dean pushed himself into Cas’s space until he could feel every hard plane of his body against his. Cas’s mouth was strong, firm, and moved with the same intensity he usually reserved for a stare - something present, determined, and never too quick.
Dean gripped Cas’s side firmer, feeling the twitch of his taught muscles as they move around his hand. The twitch of his dick followed immediately after. Dean held on, grabbed, pulled, until his thoughts were blank, his senses overwhelmed with Cas.
Cas was strong, a proper angel again, the same way he’d been when they’d first met. Dean could feel his restraint, feel that with every strong tug Dean couldn’t pull away from if he’d wanted to, he concealed more power.
It drove him crazy, wanting more, more, more. Cas had never hurt him, never touched him with everything he had, and Dean suddenly wanted to feel all that Cas had to give.
Cas put a hand to Dean’s jaw, moving his head up so that he’d be looking at the ceiling if he opened his eyes. Cas kissed the corner of his mouth, then down to his jaw, before sucking a kiss where his ear met his jawbone. He sucked, moving his mouth down to the centre of Dean’s throat. Dean heard himself moan.
“Cas,” Dean breathed.
Cas turned his head up, slowly, meeting Dean’s eyes. He slowly removed his hands from touching Dean at all, and jerked his hips so hard that Dean could feel Cas’s dick against his.
In one swift movement, Cas flipped them around, pinning Dean to the counter, holding his hips.
Experimentally, he swiped his thumb against the top of Dean’s waistband. At the shuddering breath Dean released, he dug his thumb in against the fabric, following it until it lay just above the button of his jeans. He teased at the button, tugging at it softly.
Slowly, Dean lay his hand over Cas’s, giving him permission. Cas squeezed his fingers lightly, before gently undoing the button.
Cas looked at him, as if asking if this was really okay. As if Dean would ever say no.
Dean pulled Cas close by the back of his head, kissing him softly. Yes.
Cas smiled, not flirty, not suggestive. A fond, happy smile.
Cas kissed him this time, not wanting, not pushing, just there, before dropping to his knees and undoing Dean’s zipper.
He kissed just below Dean’s bellybutton, then down a little further, a little further, until he found himself at the elastic of his boxers. A swipe of the tongue intruded just below the cotton fabric, and Dean’s patience was wearing thin, wanting nothing more than Cas’s mouth around him.
Cas wasted no time pulling Dean’s jeans to his feet, his boxers with them.
His hair, ruffled and dark, his hand, gripping the base of Deans dick, angling it so that his tongue could lick a line along the underside - Cas looked so comfortable, so at home, it filled Dean with an unfamiliar warmth.
Dean hadn’t received a blowjob in years, and even when he had, they were preludes. In a bar bathroom, in the backseat of his car, because the girl didn’t have enough time to take him home. Before sex, occasionally, to get him hard enough that she could feel him as deep as possible.
He’d treated sex as a business exchange for most of his life. He would get off, she would get off, and that was it. It was only about pleasure insofar that that was the currency they were there to exchange. It wasn’t like this, Cas looking up at Dean, following his every movement, exhaling to match Dean’s moans. Devoted entirely to Dean’s pleasure.
Cas’s head moved steadily, Dean’s breath wavering, shaking. He did it dutifully, excitedly, without any sense that he wanted Dean to come soon.
It was pleasure, pure and seemingly eternal. Dean couldn’t think, he just felt, felt the way Cas took time to suck extra hard when he neared the tip, his tongue set firmly and hard around the underside.
Looking down, he met Cas’s eyes, expecting them to make him feel guilty, to tell him he was taking advantage, to tell him it wasn’t fair of him to take this from Cas when he refused to take anything more.
Instead, Cas’s eyes told him it was okay. Cas moaned around his dick, and Dean let himself enjoy it. He buried one hand in dark hair, gripping it by the roots, his other hand steadying himself against the counter as he began to lose control of his legs.
Cas took the hand that wasn’t busy and placed it on Dean’s ass, pulling him closer.
They held each other as tight as they could until Dean’s legs threatened to give out. It was only then, when Dean was nearly ruined, his eyes pleading, that Cas sucked a little harder, picked up the pace.
His orgasm started in his dick, then moved out, through his gut and into his thighs, sending shivers through to his fingers and toes. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back, and let it wash through him. And for a moment, a brief, gorgeous moment, the vice grip that held a permanent residence on his head released. His senses, his guilt, his fears, his entire body, replaced by a blooming clarity.
He looked down at Cas, who swallowed, and thought that the sight in front of him was the most beautiful thing in the world.
There were a couple months, when he was 25, that Dean had more sex with men than women.
Those were bad years. Years he barely remembered, without dad and without Sam. A blur of booze and bodies and a brief smoking phase. The people he met, the monsters he fought, could only be post dated in tandem with the too-strong memories of just exactly how much his dad did not want him around.
He remembered Gregory Killian with absolute clarity.
Gregory’s mother had told him when he was twenty seven that she hadn’t raised a faggot, so he’d left Nevada and spent the years until her death fucking men in San Francisco.
Despite his three sisters, all married to good men, the right kinds of men, she left Gregory her house and all her earthly possessions. He returned to Nevada with Eric, and her ghost killed his first love.
Dean helped him burn her house down, and they threw stones at the burning building until it fell to ash.
Gregory wasn’t someone you would think was gay. He’d played basketball in college, and dominated the recreational league in San Francisco. He would go camping and get loaded and try to shoot rocks flung from a slingshot. He’d made a small fortune selling domain names after he’d bought a couple hundred on a bender he had no memory of.
He was the coolest man Dean had ever met. It was easy, with Gregory. He was just gentle enough for Dean to accept his touch, but he wasn’t tender. They could shoot the shit the way guys were meant to, the way Dean never had. And later, when Dean writhed underneath him, Gregory would hold him firmly. He’d never treated Dean like he was precious, and there was nothing reverent about the way he’d push him around, either.
Dean would leave for a week on a case, and when it was over and done with he’d known exactly where he’d go.
That was, until Gregory took him to a gay bar in San Francisco.
The men there wore tight clothing and drank tequila, and the thought was clear in Dean’s head that he wasn’t meant for a place like this. Men touched each other openly, hands running over biceps and hips and asses.
He imagined his father finding him there, watching him flirt and tease and get fucked by Gregory.
His dad would see Dean here, and he wouldn’t see that it was different. That Gregory wasn’t like the rest of them; that he didn’t cry, that he could shoot a gun, that his clothes weren’t tight. His dad would take one look at him and he’d see Dean’s weakness. He’d see the sorts of decisions Dean made when left to his own devices, and he’d leave him there.
Dean returned the favour a few days later. He pulled Baby over on the side of the road, climbed onto Cas’s lap and marked his collarbone with a bruise that he’d have to remind Cas not to let Sam see.
Cas called him beautiful as he guided him onto his back across the passenger seat, told him he was doing well when he found a consistent rhythm, gripped his hand hard when he came.
Dean wondered how much of it was real. What was the worth of a hitched breath to a being who didn’t need to breathe? Jimmy Novak had been dead for years, but Cas’s body, his dick, wasn’t all of him either. He was bigger, brighter, so consequential that Dean could never see him, not truly. He would never hear his real voice, never understand him in his mother tongue.
Still, Cas kissed Dean intently afterwards, as if he’d been given the greatest gift in the world.
“India has the best-connected hunter’s network in the world,” Jack informed the table one evening, shovelling Dean’s shittily prepared butter chicken into his mouth.
Sam’s head turned to him with haste. “Really?”
“It’s a large country, filled with monsters,” Jack said, “a lot of hunter families have lineages going back thousands of years. In some towns, hunters are revered as protectors.”
“Huh,” Sam said.
“What?” Jack asked.
“I’ve never really thought about it. Hunters around the world.”
“It’s different there, too. Here, hunters travel around, hunting all types of monsters. In India, there’s a lot more specialists.”
“What, you call in your vamp guy if you guess wrong beforehand?” Dean quipped.
“Sort of. I didn’t spend much time looking at it, but hunter’s heaven’s are difficult to design,” Jack said.
Beside him, Cas disappeared from his seat.
“I’m that bad a cook?” Dean joked.
“I don’t think that’s why Cas left. This food is good, even though it’s different from what you usually make,” Jack said.
Cas reappeared, his hair windswept.
“It’s fascinating,” Cas said, “Their hunter’s network, their system. It’s streamlined, integrated seamlessly into society. It’s almost an institution, like franchise businesses. Each connected, but with independent management.”
Dean thought about that. How different his childhood would have been like that, knowing there were other hunters out there, ready to help.
It seemed complicated, as everything with hunting was, but it also seemed nice. No hungry nights in motel rooms, no fake school attendances. He thought about the specializations, what it would be like to spend his life doing the thing he’s good at. To be able to walk into a hunt, sure and confident about what he was dealing with. If, when the time came, he could have pawned off Lilith to some demon specialist.
It was also an uncomfortable thought, the idea that there could have been an ease to his life, to his job. That was a part of it, right? The isolation and solitude.
“Huh,” Sam said. He took a bite of his food.
Dean watched him. Sam was doing that thing where he started to get an idea. He wouldn’t tell Dean, he knew, not until he’d sorted it out. But Dean always liked seeing him like this, at least when the consequences weren’t world-ending. It was where Sam shined. The problem solving, the attention to detail, the research. The parts of the job Dean could never manage.
“Dean, I got you something,” Cas said, pulling assorted bags out of his pockets and dumping them on the table.
Dean picked up one of the bags. It looked like a hex bag, a little drawstring at the top. Pulling it open, he was met with a strong, spicy aroma. The bag was filled with seeds.
“Cumin seeds,” Cas informed him, “In case you wanted to try cooking Indian food again. I also got you Kashmiri chili, coriander seeds, cardamom pods-“
Cas listed each ingredient with a confidence, as if he’d practiced the list. His confidence was never cocky, it was sure. As if he wanted to make sure the other person understood exactly what he meant by any statement, though it tended to confuse people further.
Dean laughed.
Cas turned his head to him, cocking it slightly as he watched Dean.
“You were gone all of ten seconds, man,” Dean said.
“Yes.”
“You figured out how the entire hunter’s network works in ten seconds, and still found time to get me a present.”
“I’m sure I didn’t figure out how the entire hunter’s network operates. It’s quite complex-“
“Man, you’re something else.”
Dean looked down, not wanting to catch Cas’s eye. He could feel the whole table looking at him, their gazes piercing at the sides of his head.
He took a bite of his meal, wanting to move, but still, no one spoke. He could feel Cas’s stare the strongest, the way he always did. He was curious, prodding, in a way Dean had never quite managed to be annoyed by.
Jack moved in the corner of his vision, Sam following suit a second later.
With their attention gone, Dean managed a look at Cas. The soft light caught on the tips of Cas’s hair, golden specks taking hold of the ends. He smiled at Cas, a thank you. Cas smiled back, looking equal parts relieved and fond.
It was a nice sight, a return to form, looking in Cas’s eyes and knowing they were on the same page.
The first time Cas gave him a blowjob, it was damn near the best head he’d received in his life. The second time, it was the best head he’d received in his life. The third time, it was bad.
It started out good, Cas shoving Dean back on the bed with ease. Cas kissing across Dean’s torso. Cas undoing Dean’s jeans with slow care, as if unearthing an ancient tome.
Cas’s movements were always slow, carefully planned, well thought out. It had felt good, amazing, the first few times, for his body to be known that well. Cas knew just how hard he could push him before it would hurt, knew exactly when Dean was ready for a piece of clothing to come off, could sense, somehow, when he was turned on enough to be touched elsewhere, kissed elsewhere.
It became overwhelming when Cas flicked his tongue around the head of his dick. It felt really good, and for a moment Dean thought he could get used to this, thought that someone who knew him this well could take every piece of him. Until that thought began to terrify him.
He looked down at Cas, watching for his every movement, for the way his breath hitched. A sharp pang winded itself in Dean’s chest, embedding itself through his ribs, until his whole body felt uncertain and shaky.
It sat on the edge of something good, on the edge of that weightless feeling he’d spent most of his life seeking through hedonistic routines. But he was suddenly aware of just how close Cas was.
And he remembered this was Cas. Cas who had raised him from hell, Cas who turned his back on Heaven for him. Cas who had spent twelve years loving him, worshipping Dean’s dick as if there was nothing better in the world than to give Dean pleasure.
Dean, who couldn’t give it back.
It dawned on him how selfish this was. To take from him, to give him half of what he wanted. He felt predatory, as if Cas were a blushing, barely legal virgin.
The weight of Cas’s love was too heavy for Dean’s weary body.
Noticing his discomfort, Cas removed his mouth from Dean’s dick, a hand still resting on his hipbone.
Dean jerked away from him, gathering his body close to him.
“Dean?” Cas asked, concern coating his name.
“Yeah,” Dean said.
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy.”
“Dean,” Cas said, scolding.
Cas perched himself on his knees, still settled between Dean’s legs. Dean’s dick framed his portrait. Suddenly self-conscious, he scooted up the bed, until he was leaning against the headrest.
He pulled up the covers, cloaking himself as much as he could.
“Cas, I don’t…” Dean tried to find the words. Cas’s eyes were vulnerable and warm, telling Dean it was okay.
A wave of anger, guilt, irritation washed through him. It wasn’t okay. For all that Cas had told him about how he did everything for his love, because he was caring, he repaid him by using his body like a goddamn sex toy. And the angel didn’t seem to mind. He was sat there worried about Dean.
“Why are you letting me do this?” Dean asked, finally.
Cas squinted, as if trying to see something more to Dean’s question. “I told you, Dean. I’ve always wanted you.”
“Yeah, man, that’s the problem. I can’t… I can’t be what you want me to be.”
“I don’t want you to be anything,” Cas said, furrowing his brows, “Anything other than you.”
“No, Cas. This,” Dean started, gesturing between the two of them, “it’s not right.”
“Because I’m a man?” Cas questioned.
“No. Because… Cas, I’m not in love with you.”
Cas didn’t flinch, seemingly didn’t react at all. “I know. I’ve never expected that from you.”
“You don’t sleep with someone who’s… got feelings for you, if you don’t got them back. It’s bad form.”
“Bad form,” Cas tested out on his lips, working his way around it.
Dean tried thinking of ways to explain it, but he struggled to settle on the right words. As with many things, he had a sharp sense of it, a myriad of small things, details, that made up the whole of his discomfort. That Cas had died for him, that Cas had fallen for him, that Dean had never given anything in return. That he cared about Cas nearly as much as he did his brother.
That the gentle tension that had run like a current throughout their friendship had been destroyed, because he was selfish. He’d thought with his dick, an urge he’d thought had left him, and he wanted it back.
His longing, their mutual understanding that their relationship wasn’t normal. He wished he’d kept it at that, with everything in his being.
“But you do want me?” Cafs asked.
“Loaded question.”
“You want me sexually? You’re attracted to me?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re an extremely attractive man who is attracted to me. I’m failing to see why I should have a problem with this.”
Dean flushed at his frank wording. “I can’t lose you again. Not over sex, of all things.”
“You won’t lose me.”
Dean shrugged, unconvinced.
“I’m under no illusions that you might return my affections. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t change. If you don’t want to continue, I’d be upset, but I’d recover. We’ve come back from worse things. But I thought you’d been enjoying this… arrangement, and I’d hate for you to stop on my account.”
Dean looked over to Cas’s face, surprised to find him looking determined, dedicated. The whole of his attention on Dean, his gaze piercing.
Dean smiled at him. Cas returned the gesture, the corners of his mouth shifting upwards, almost imperceptibly.
Noticing Cas’s hand at his feet, above the covers, Dean grabbed it tight, pulling Cas next to him.
“C’mere, angel.”
“Dean,” Cas said softly, looking down to their joined hands. Dean stroked his knuckles in response.
Slowly, Dean brought his other hand to the back of Cas’s neck, feeling his warmth, his rough skin, permeate through the back of his fingers. He flicked the lowest locks of Cas’s hair with his thumb, and watched as Cas closed his eyes, pleased.
Cas rested one hand on Dean’s knee, stroking it through the cotton of the top sheet.
Unease dissipated with each tender stroke of Cas’s fingers.