Chapter 2

The Start of Something Good

Each one elicited a sob and tears enough to completely blur his vision, unadulterated sadness twisting his expression at the crest of each wave while he only scarcely managed to straighten it in the troughs between. Sam had been out with Eileen. For that, he was grateful. He managed to find his feet, get to his room and his bed where he lay, one hand clasped over his mouth. Each sob was a puppeteer pulling every string of muscle down the front of him tight, involuntarily lifting his knees up off the covers.

He had no idea how long it took, but the storm’s onslaught eventually subsided. When he could finally spare some awareness, he found himself drained and adrift on the sea of an emotion so vast he knew there was no end to it. He was off the edge of the map he used to define himself. Like every explorer throughout history, he discovered the world doesn’t end where the maps say it does. That consolation, however, did nothing to take the edge off the ominous olde-tyme mapmaker’s warning:

A metallic crash in the deafening silence pulled Dean out of sleep in an instant. Eyes wide open and tense, he carefully set his beer down beside the couch, making his way into the Library, where Sam sat at a massive mahogany table surrounded by stacks of old books and manuscripts. God had been forced to give over his mantle. However, while an otherworldly ecosystem of wild, restless spirits and supernatural creatures still existed alongside the mundane, a hunter’s work would never be done.

“Hey. Did you hear—?” Dean began.

“Relax, Dean. This place ‘goes bump in the night’ every now and then,” Sam replied patiently, looking up from what he was doing with a partial smile on. It lessened when he took in the sight of his brother’s face—eyes tell-tale red and swollen. A pang in his heart wouldn’t let him send Dean back to sleep right then. “I could use a drink. You?”

Dean half-smiled as he let out a chuckle and nodded. “Yeah.” The one he’d been holding had gone warm anyhow. He turned toward the galley, freezing in place when another chorus of metallic clatters sounded from the direction of the infirmary. Glaring back over his shoulder at his brother, Dean’s expression went cold, the muscle wrapped over his jaw visibly winding itself down tight under the skin. Sam took a steadying breath as he slowly stood, wordlessly falling in behind Dean as he headed to the galley for the concealed weapons they kept there. Sam’s handgun was loaded with silver bullets, Dean’s with ammunition able to kill anything divine.

Keeping one shoulder to the near wall, Dean stepped out into the hall bringing his weapon up as Sam hugged the far wall. A thunderclap sounded from inside the infirmary that left the brothers disoriented and cringing, deafened. The lights in the hallway went out, slowly flickering back on as the emergency generator kicked in. Sam had witnessed the instant the heavy metal door heaved outward, and it set his heart racing. The two were strung high and tight as they closed in. Sam stepped to the far side of the door with quick, practiced ease, resting one hand on the door’s handle. He looked to his brother and waited for his nod before wrenching the door open wide. Sam cleared the space he could see, signaling Dean forward.

Stepping into the room, visually sweeping the space, Dean shouted, “Show yourse—!” The last of the word was strangled out as his throat seized. Gurneys lay overturned, drawers and cabinet doors all ajar and smashed. Everything on the counters and standalone cabinets had been thrown about, now strewn haphazardly on the floor. Acrid ozone fumes stung his nostrils. Shattered glass and shards of burst light bulbs littered the floor, crunching under his boots.

In the center of the carnage lay a limp, naked human being, fetally curled up on his side, back toward the brothers. Dean lowered the gun in hand, he made it safe, tucking it into the back of his jean’s waistband, recognizing who lay on the frigid tile floor the moment light from a light fixture sparking overhead revealed an angry red handprint seared onto the man’s back below the shoulder blade. Taking in stilted breaths, he swept aside as much glass as he could with his foot before kneeling and clearing away more with his hands. Rolling Castiel back by the shoulder, Dean lifted his torso up off the floor, wrapping both his shaking arms around him.

Dean swallowed to loosen up his closed throat. “Cas…?” Gently shaking the angel laying limp in his arms to wake him, he queried him again. “Cas?" He could feel Castiel’s laughter move his chest before he could hear it. Moving his palm to rest under the crux of Cas’ collarbones, Dean let himself breathe out in relief. “That’s my name,” Castiel growled, sarcastic affection evident in his tone. Weakly, he turned his face upward, a groggy smile on his lips. Dean took in and let out a breath through a shaky smile. His lips…

“Cas…” Dean whispered, undeniably taken. A swell in his newfound ocean expanse washed over him from behind, folding him over forward. Before Dean could think a single thing other, his lips were pressed to Cas’, and he was breathing in the scent of him and the faint, intoxicating cologne of ozone on his skin like a man starved of air.

Sam stood in the doorway, overjoyed yet stunned speechless, discretely turning his gaze away when the kiss started. He took in a slow, deep, relieved breath as a smile formed on his face, water welling up in his eyes. After everything his brother had suffered and survived, he knew no one more deserving of the happiness inherent to true, profound love. When the kiss didn’t stop, Sam silently released the hammer of his gun, and engaged the safety. He retreated to the galley, returning the firearm to its hiding place. There would be an opportunity to welcome his angelic brother back all in good time.

“Dea… mmn—!?” Castiel tried to speak when he began to taste briny tears, but yet another kiss stifled him. Dean’s joyous laugh forced him to break away. Resting his forehead against Cas’, eyes closed and breathing hard, he tried to recall the last time his body had gone into overdrive just holding and kissing someone… never.

“Is something wrong?” Cas asked innocently, still somewhat breathless. “Your heart…” Dean laughed again, taking in an uneasy breath. It was jackhammering away in his chest, pounding in his ears, and on its way to drowning out the sound of everything else. Leaving his hand hanging from the nape of Dean’s neck, Cas brought around his other hand, covering the hand Dean kept pressed against his chest. Something in him instinctively recognized that Dean wasn’t shaking out of fear or sadness. A drive much more carnal was in play.

“Gave the ol’ ticker a jumpstart, there,” Dean said, still light on breath.

“Your definition of ‘personal space’ has changed considerably,” Cas observed, teasing. Dean’s smile grew for a moment alongside a slight nod; his only response. “How long was I gone?”

“Way too damned long,” Dean managed to say between a laugh and a sniffle, his tone taking a decidedly stern turn. “Don’t do that to me again, you hear?”

Cas’ expression turned remorseful. “I’m sorry, Dean. There was no other choice. I thought—”

“I know damned well what you thought, and you were right. That didn’t make the pill easier to swallow.”

Pained, Cas sighed and let his eyelids fall closed as he placed a kiss on Dean’s cheek, fitting the curvatures of their faces together and resting that way. “I am sorry.” The two remained entwined until Dean’s shaking subsided enough for him to realize Castiel was trembling as well.

“Cas…”

“I find myself wanting for a pair of pants,” Cas said, wearing an affectionate smirk.

Smiling and laughing, Dean collected himself. Nothing too sexy was going to go down on a floor littered with glass shrapnel. “For now, a sheet’ll have to do.” Dean carefully let Cas out of his grasp, making certain the seraph could hold himself up out of the glass before he stepped away to an overturned cabinet lying face-up in the aftermath of Cas’ deliverance. He wrenched open the stainless-steel door with some difficulty, finding clean linens inside.

Unfolding the sheet to half-width, he looked up, the sight of Castiel standing there naked as the day Jimmy Novak was born sending a surprising pang straight through his heart. Heat permeated him, flushing his cheeks. Dean averted his eyes momentarily before getting a grip. Forcing himself to meet Cas’ gaze as he stepped closer, Dean handed him the bedsheet. An electric sensation arced between them when Cas’ hand touched his during the exchange, giving Dean a start that went straight to his belly, sending a flock of butterflies into flight.

Cas wove involuntarily as he tried to secure the bedsheet around his waist, letting out a pained hiss as his step strayed onto broken glass. Dean closed in instantly to hold him steady.
Leaning heavily into him, Castiel lifted his foot off the floor gingerly, fumbling at holding the sheet in place when it wouldn’t stay put on its own. Dean closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Opening them, he stared heavenward, uncertain, and at an agonizing loss.

Already, he could feel himself going cold, putting distance between himself and the angel in his arms. In an eerily tangible way, he saw himself standing at a crossroads. The Road to the Rubicon to the right and A Thousand Miles of Nowhere to the left. God himself had literally placed the gift of something transcendent in his hands. All that was needed of him was the courage to let it be. Warmth flooded through him on the heels of the thought. The moment it did, Cas wrapped his free arm around him. Dean smiled, realizing he hadn’t been standing at that crossroads in his mind alone.

“You don’t mind?” Cas asked, his tone regretful. He straightened up, looking Dean in the eye from what would have been much too close once upon a time.

Dean shook his head almost imperceptibly, his gaze darting to Cas’ lips and back. “No.” Cas, smiling subtly, and having been the audience to more than the momentary indecision, knew what was coming next. He limped, turning his bad leg away from Dean, putting an arm over his shoulder and around the back of his neck. A short hop with his good leg, and he was up in Dean’s arms, resting his forehead against the side of his neck. Taking his first steps carefully, Dean backed toward the infirmary door, glass chips under his bootheels snapping deeper and sharper under the weight of two men.

Out in the hall, safely outside the debris field, Dean let Cas set foot down on the floor, conscious of keeping the splinter-ridden one from making contact. Keeping Cas’ one arm slung around his neck, Dean wrapped his other arm tightly around the angel’s ribcage to leverage him up every time they took another hop-step toward Dean’s room. They made the trip without uttering a word. How weakened Cas seemed set Dean’s every nerve on edge.

Letting Cas down onto the near side of the bed with care, Dean found himself disliking the physical distance between them. Cas took in a sharp breath, shifting to hold his entire right side off the bed. He let the sheet fall away from his hip and leg, keeping the remainder of his modesty. Blood had soaked into the sheet from wounds at the hip all the way down the side of his leg. When Dean looked back, drops of blood marked a trail behind them. There were shards of glass lodged in the angel’s side from his shoulder to his feet. Angry-looking welts all over Cas’ body were much more apparent under the white light of a battery-powered lantern.

“Cas… what is all this?” Dean asked, reaching out, unthinking, to assess the wounds.

Cas took in an uncomfortable breath at the contact. “It’s… complicated. The Emptiness gnawed off its pound of flesh. Leave it at that.”

Dean withdrew his hand, blinking and retaking the focus touching Cas had hijacked. “You’re not healing…” he observed as he helped Castiel maneuver himself into a position where he didn’t have to lie on his injured side.

“No. I can’t.”

Nodding, Dean accepted the fact without question. There was an unmistakable tenderness to it when he spoke. “We gotta get this shit outta you. I’ll be right back.”

Letting his head softly rest on the pillow once Dean was out of sight, Castiel felt the tension he carried in his upper back, shoulders, and neck dissipate, though he still found himself shivering occasionally. Turning to lie on his side, Cas’ eyelids fell closed.

He took steady, deep breaths in, until his lungs strained, the air inhaled telling him more than Dean could possibly bring himself to speak to. Fear isn’t the only emotion with a scent. Tears soaked into pillows, anguish, sweat, release, joy and relief, shame and confusion, longing, guilt, and regret. Of course, there was also the olfactory cocktail of cologne, soaps, pheromones, and everything else that differentiated one human body from another. Something he never thought to note before. He did so now. The sound of Dean’s hurried footfalls in the hallway brought Cas’ attention back to the present, away from the otherworldly collage of moments in time in his mind’s eye, made up of the reasons behind what his sense of smell showed him.

Dean walked back into the room, first aid kit, fifth of vodka, and liquor glass in hand. He closed the door behind him, the scuffing sound of the door latching into the frame giving off
the prescient impression of a pressure-release hiss preceding a freight train’s departure from station.

Cas had to speak through his chuckling. “It’s going to take a lot more than that to anesthetize me.”

“Yeah… not much I can do about that. Just lookin’ to steady up my hands, and I’m guessing you’re thirsty,” Dean replied. Cas’ smile and appreciative laughter told him he’d
guessed right.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Cas replied, his voice suddenly rolling out over gravel much courser than usual.

Pouring the shot for Cas, he handed it over with a subdued smile. Dean took a long swallow from the bottle himself as he pulled his desk chair over to the bedside. The bleeding from Cas’ foot was the worst by far. Dean capped the vodka and set himself up to begin work there.

Gauze pads, a scalpel, needle-nose tweezers, penlight, peroxide, alcohol, saline flush syringe, ointment… Dean’s hovering hand settled on the tweezers.

The biggest pieces were the nastiest. More than once, Dean had to go looking through a considerable amount of blood for a small shard that stayed behind after a larger chunk was removed from the pad of Cas’ foot. Except for the longer, deeper ones, he let the wounds bleed when he was done and carried on. At one particularly jagged piece of glass and a sharp, pained inhale from Cas, Dean’s hand moved with a mind of its own to rest over Cas’ shin bone—a comforting, calming touch.

The longer he left it there, the warmer his palm became. He left it in place long past the point it was possible to deny the nature of his want for the contact.

“Dean…”

“This is going to take a while,” was Dean’s curt but unmistakably caring reply. Castiel nodded and settled back, letting himself melt into the mattress, giving himself permission to enjoy the sensation of Dean’s examining touch. The endorphins flooding his vessel took the edge off all but the sharpest spikes of pain. Having run his fingertips across something he thought was glass but unable to see it very well, Dean picked up the penlight from the cheap, faux wood finished TV tray. Clicking it on, looking for a glint off the tiny splinter of glass, he grazed the blade of the scalpel across Cas’ skin, steadily, surgically probing for the slightest catch to locate it.

Having found what he was trawling for, Dean opened the skin up around the puncture wound ever so slightly. Enough to get fine-point tweezers around the foreign debris without forcing it further in. Depositing the glass on gauze along with a speck of blood, he dipped the tweezers into a dixie cup of alcohol before moving on to the next apparent extraction site—a piece that wound up lodged in Cas’ skin at the hip joint.

Based on how deeply it was lodged, Dean figured it a reasonable assumption that Castiel had outright landed on it. With so many large, visible blood vessels nearby, it was going to bleed quite a bit. Reaching for extra absorbent pads, gauze, and the syringe to flush it, he prepared to pull the piece and cover the wound with something immediately. The glass chip, one of the largest so far, hit the stainless-steel collection tray. His outspread fingers anchored his hand on Cas’ hip, his thumb lightly pulling back on the skin to keep it open while the saline worked its way in. Dean let the water and blood run, his thumb lightly weighing down an absorbent pad. Soon, the muscle under Dean’s hand contracted in a few jittery spurts.

“Feeling something in there still?” Dean asked, looking up to meet Cas’ unwavering gaze.

“No.”

Blood rushed to his ears and cheeks when he realized the shape of the sheet over Cas’ hip was changing; a distinctly outlined, warm ridge slowly growing his way. Returning his focus to his own hand, he was pretty sure of where the nerve he was tagging was. “Oh.” Dean was about to pull his hand away when Cas quickly reached out, resting his hand over Dean’s. Lightly at first, then with certainty when it became clear Dean no longer looked like he was itching to take flight. Cas curled his fingers around to the underside of Dean’s hand. The two stayed that way until the bleeding eased enough to take pressure off the wound.

Dean blinked hard a few times and took in a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, bringing the soiled gauze with him, and tossing it into the surgical tray. He was shivering and he wasn’t cold. Running his hands over his closed eyes, he reached for the vodka bottle, pouring a shot for Cas and taking another swig himself. Cas set the glass down on the bedside table when Dean stood, taking a few paces around the room to stretch the tension out of his upper back, shoulders, and neck.

“I’ll leave most of the cuts undressed. Clean the blood up after it dries. They’re better off being open to the air to heal.”

“Are stitches needed?”

“No. Stitching’ll only do more damage. Good, sticky bandages and staying off your foot will do the trick. I guarantee you there are crutches here somewhere,” Dean said, walking back to the bedside, picking up the bottle of vodka en route. He cocked it to one side in Cas’ direction to wordlessly ask the question.

Castiel glanced at the bottle and laughed. “You think I’d say no?” Cas asked rhetorically, one eyebrow going up. Dean smiled, shaking his head. No. No, he didn’t. He poured the shot, waiting to take the glass back…

Dean put the last bandage in place on Cas’ shoulder, taking in a deep breath and smiling, as appreciative of his own handiwork as the angel he’d patched up.

“I’ve done all I can, for now, I think,” Dean said, relaxing back into his chair. He was up and rifling through his footlocker the moment the thought occurred to him. He came away with a cotton thermal blanket in hand. “Better get you off that bloody sheet and tucked in.” He blinked, feeling a tad fuzzy. The liquor was finally going to his head. “Lift your legs.”

Cas did as asked, and Dean rolled up the bloody hospital sheet, careful to keep any glass debris off his bed. He handed Cas the blanket to safeguard the angel’s modesty and his fraying nerves. Cas lifted his backside to free the rest of the sheet. Brushing a few flecks of glass off Castiel’s skin, Dean pulled the sheet and made for the door to drop it in the laundry.

Resting his hand on the doorknob, Dean had the distinct impression that if he walked out the door, he wouldn’t walk back in.

The bedsheet hit the floor beside his feet, as he braced his palm against the edge of the door, keeping it closed. Each breath that ticked by, Dean became more and more keenly aware he was with someone now, without whom every breath taken since the Empty snatched him away had been hollow—an imitation of life.

Boots, socks, shirts… and jeans. Each, in turn, joined the bloody bedsheet on the floor by the door. Dean turned to face Castiel, unable to bring himself to look up at first.

“Dean, don’t do this if—”

“‘If I don’t want it’? That’s just it, Cas. I do want… this. But it feels like someone’s trying to smash through the back of my head with a sledgehammer… and no, it’s not the vodka,” Dean said, wincing and bringing his gaze up to meet Castiel’s. A momentary frown contracted the angel’s facial features before returning to the serene expression and keen look that gave the distinct impression he was sensing—seeing—more. Cas sat up with a touch of difficulty, resting his elbow on his bent knee, offering an upturned hand. Dean couldn’t help the hint of a smile that turned up one corner of his lips.

A twist of sad relief moved Dean’s features, his eyelids beginning to fall closed as a pull took hold of him. Summoning the will to open them, Dean asked the pointed question: “This feeling… is this you?”

Castiel let out a sigh, slightly shaking his head. “No. You’re exhausted, Dean.”

Immediately regretting the suspicion, Dean nodded. He was. Walking up to the foot of the bed, Dean rested his hand in Cas’. Meeting Castiel’s gaze with his, at once seductive and stoic, Dean moved to the open side of the bed remaining hand in hand. The two centered themselves on the mattress as Dean laid on his side, retaking Cas’ hand and coming to rest with his other hand over the angel’s shoulder. Sleep did not
come quickly. Eventually, though, Dean was laying slack against the seraph’s side, one of his legs unconsciously venturing to rest over Cas’, pulling him a little closer.

Smiling and letting his eyes fall closed, Castiel focused his attention on the rhythm of the heartbeat next to him, gladly abandoning himself to a place where the only thing that anchored him was the sound.

Taking in a heaving breath, Dean shot up in bed, wide awake, skin slick and shining with sweat. He was still shuddering and twitching, the spark of each spasm eliciting a guttural, pleasured noise that started out in the center of his chest and sounded aloud through clenched teeth. There was a hard, heavy weight over his right leg and warm fluid running across his skin between it and the fabric of his briefs. His heart was beating as if it was trying to break through the ribs caging it. Taking in breath whenever he could get it, Dean swung his legs off the bedside and sat, head bowed and wide-eyed, one hand to where his heart was pounding against his ribs.

A snicker from Cas ended the silence. “It was a good dream, then?”

Smiling and laughing at the reference but still uneasy, Dean asked, “Could you… see?”

Cas answered his fears with patient, hopeful affection. “No. I’d… uh, rather not spoil anything for myself.”

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. Dreaming about it was one thing; doing was a hurdle of another order of magnitude entirely. “Cas… I’m way off the reservation, here.” Sadness dangerously colored his tone. He just… didn't know. The inner tug-of-war threatening to tear him apart stood perilously close to deciding against going any further. Silence stretched on between them until Cas’ tentative fingertips made contact with the skin of his back by his tailbone then turned over. Castiel ran his fingernails over his skin until his hand came to rest comfortably on Dean’s hip.

That simple touch started his heart racing again, had Dean sitting up straight, arching back, working one shoulder, and staying that way until the shaking moving the whole of him faded. Before long, the tension in his back released enough that he could sit forward. The two sat in silence, connected by touch, but his breathing stayed uneven and deep.

Cas, firm but gentle, pressed his fingers into Dean’s hip, wanting more. “May I?”

Tense moments of consideration passed, then Dean replied, “Yeah.”

"Everything I’ve seen you feel so far is little more than the flame of a candle next to the forest fire I’m keeping in check. I don’t want to hurt you, but you don’t say enough to ensure that won’t happen.”

“I thought angels don’t feel…” Dean teased uneasily. Cas’ grip on his hair tightened out of amused irritation, though not nearly enough to inflict pain.

The statement caused Castiel to look back on his infinite lifetime through a lens that suddenly seemed clearer. He explained himself, his tone falling into seductive menace by the end. “It seems more accurate to think of angels as being taught—programmed—to distance ourselves from a dangerously deep reservoir of emotion. We exist, harnessed by yokes of rigorous mental discipline that have never been truly broken before. Be warned, Dean: mine has now. Ask what you will of me accordingly.”

Dean managed a slight, shivering nod. Not that he wasn’t, apparently, up for this, but things were getting freaky.

Castiel smiled, chuckling, appreciative of how torqued tight the body in his hands was, though also aware that Dean wasn’t perfectly comfortable. “Relax, Dean.” Again, having heard the words, he just did. His arms dropped, legs slacked, torso fell back, and his head fell to rest comfortably on the plane of Cas’ shoulder. His falling arm had moved the hand Cas had laid on his groin, and even this slight movement was enough to cause him to twitch. Thankfully, the suggestion hadn’t affected everything.

Having less breath to work with than usual, Dean asked, “Where the hell did you pick this stuff up?”

“Seems I’m a quick study.” In the back of his mind, Castiel still harbored a touch of doubt this was real. Cas used his grip on Dean’s hair to suggest turning to face him. Once Dean was, Cas released him only to put his hand over Dean’s eyes. Being sightless ratcheted Dean’s nerves up another notch.

Suddenly, Cas’ lips were close enough to feel them brush against his, to feel his breath, when he murmured, “If only once…” The entirety of it played out in his mind; if you were given the chance to kiss the person you love more than your own existence only once, how would you do it? Castiel’s kiss answered the question in spades as his hand slid back into Dean’s hair, his fingerpads pressed into his scalp, hips bucking hard into Dean’s back. The seraph’s other hand ventured underneath the waistband of his briefs, fingertips finding and kneading around his cum-slick penis…

An undefinable length of time passed before Dean found his way back to his senses enough to take in the air required to form the whisper of a three-letter name in the space between kisses. “Cas…?” The confusion in it was the only thing that slowed, then stopped Castiel. He realized Dean was shaking his head, not just shaking. “Can’t think,” was the next thing Dean blurted out. The only thing he coherently knew was that his heart was jumping like it was being electrocuted and needed to slow down. Cas chuckled and smiled, resting his cheek against Dean’s, satisfied the depth of his affection was clear. The angel realized Dean had been in a state where he couldn’t form a coherent thought or emotion to protest, even if he wanted to.

Castiel decided reining things in was for the best. He helped Dean right himself, having to take a firm hold of his shoulder again when it became apparent Dean wasn’t going to stop falling over forward. It seemed the suggestion that he relax hadn’t worn off quite yet. Cas, amused, placing a reverent butterfly kiss on Dean’s shoulder, waited patiently until he stayed upright of his own volition.

“Don’t know what you’re selling, bub, but whatever it is, it’s primo shit,” Dean quipped, having re-collected enough of his wits to pull it off. Cas laughed and smiled, smoothly backing away. Bringing the cotton thermal blanket back up, he laid down, folding the bed’s single pillow underneath his head and neck to prop himself up somewhat. Dean slid himself backward to sit cross-legged, back-to-side with the angel in his bed. When he finally turned to look at Castiel, there was a quizzical look on the angel’s face.

“What’s up?” Dean asked.

“Is there something wrong with me? I don’t recall being… uncomfortable after the last time I was intimate with someone,” Cas wondered, confused.

“What d’you mean?”

“I feel… bruised, down south…”

Dean couldn’t help laughing and smiling. “No. There’s nothing wrong with you. Congratulations. Your first case of blue balls. Happens when you don’t get off.”

“I see. A rather… inconvenient design choice,” Cas groused.

Finding himself chuckling again, Dean sighed. “Oh yeah, the feeling sucks. Not the finest example of intelligent design.” Having already popped his cork dreaming, it was safe to bet he was in nowhere near as dire straits as Cas. Dean looked to where his forearm rested on his knee. Turning his palm up, his gaze locked on it. It occurred to him Cas had possibly never had reason to give himself a hand. Dean wasn’t overly keen on the idea of… taking care of the problem, but he was even less keen on lying beside the seraph who’d just made him feel the way he did and telling him to take care of it himself. Problem was, the idea of doing so had his body winding itself up into uncomfortable rigidity again.

Then, Cas’ hand crept in from the periphery of his vision, fingers trailing up the sensitive skin on the upturned underside of his arm. The tingling feeling the angel’s fingernails created running over Dean’s palm sparked and stoked heat between them as his fingers settled in place interwoven with Dean’s. Time passed where Dean couldn’t bring himself to move, his reservations getting the best of him. Then, he did, closing his relaxed fingers around Cas’ hand hard enough to turn his fingers a patchwork white and red. There was water coming into his eyes and painful warmth in the center of his chest.

“Dean, what are you thinking?”

Looking up to Cas, surprised he wasn’t tuning in, Dean let out a laugh, replying mischievously, “I think a little southern courtesy is in order. Lay back. Close your eyes. Don’t look.” Having been somewhat on his side, Castiel laid himself out on his back, flat and comfortable, never breaking his eyes away from Dean’s gaze. Though the man’s expression was stone-still, the look in his eyes burned hot as the sun. Dean’s slight nod reminded him to close his eyes. A closed smile formed on Cas’ lips as he did, letting his head fall to the side, facing Dean.

Feeling safely unobserved, Dean quickly leaned over to a drawer in his bedside table. A small bottle came back to Cas’ side with him. He folded one leg in as close as he could manage, the other straight out to his side. He warmed up a squeeze of lubrication, rubbing his palms together. Working a knot out of his shoulder, he rested his right elbow on his knee, resting the palm of his free hand on the space between Cas’ navel and boner. Cas’ stomach and hard-on jumped at the touch. Dean cocked an eyebrow up, looking north, appreciating the look on the angel’s face. All right.

Resting his hand at the top of Cas’ thigh, on the inside, he pulled it back, making contact with the skin of his sack, causing it to contract, evoking pleasured twitches as he ran his
slick fingers firmly up the spine and down again to find its base. Taking hold of Cas’ balls, giving them a gentle but firm squeeze and pull upward, extracted a guttural keen and torso twist from the angel at his mercy. Cas struggled to keep his eyes closed, his breath turning short and shallow for a few moments. The scorching heat of Dean’s palm had his nerves dancing. Of its own accord, Castiel’s hand wandered across the sheets finding a welcome home on Dean’s folded leg.

Dean took hold of Cas in both hands, using the lubrication on them to ensure he was covered from tip to base. Leaving his hand resting around Cas’ root, his thumb and forefinger keeping his mast from moving too freely, he gave it a few slow, firm, rotating strokes, gauging where the strongest twitches in the rest of his body happened. A few quick short strokes around the seeping head… he explored the space underneath Cas’ corona with thumb and fingertips. Cas twisted from head to foot, legs moving, chest contracting, pushing his hip closer to Dean. He brought his far hand to his forehead, running it back into his hair.

Satisfied he knew enough to sprint for the finish line, Dean picked up his pace. He managed a hit to the money spots he’d mapped out every stroke, turning Cas into an alternately
bucking, writhing, moaning, grasping mess, the drops of precum on the flat of his stomach growing in number every few passes. Spasms of release began, and Dean slowed but kept his hand at work until what had to be the majority of the cum Cas had to give was on his stomach. He shifted back and leaned down, sealing his mouth over the string of skin in the upturned cleft of the head in an open kiss to the hypersensitive organ twitching against his lips. Dean ran his tongue up into the vee, twanging that guitar string with the tip of his
tongue until a surprising, ecstatic cry escaped from Castiel’s lips. Right on its heels came, “Dean!” The angel’s grip on his leg tightened, fingers digging into the skin and muscle.

Keeping the pads of his fingers pressed to and moving around Cas’ head, Dean rose, looking for a kiss, his lips bringing with them a salty, metallic but far from unpleasant taste. “Cas…” he said softly, sliding his forearm under the seraph’s neck. Cas’ eyes shot open at another spasm of pleasure, knowing intuitively Dean had lifted the restriction, watching as Dean kissed him. He wrapped the crook of his arm over Dean’s neck, his own open kisses lascivious replies in return.

Dean slowed himself, pulling away, Cas’ lower lip coming with him for a split second. Smiling, his gaze met Cas’ for a few wordless moments, taking in the euphoric expression he wore.

Dean stretched an arm over Cas, pulling a pair of boxers out of the bedside table, using them to wipe his hands. He picked up as much semen from the angel’s still-heaving stomach as the fabric would catch. Folding the clothing in on itself, he tossed it back onto the bedside table. Giving Cas one last kiss in passing, propping himself up on his elbow, Dean let his forehead hang to rest between Castiel’s shoulder and chest.

He was so strung out, he almost wanted Cas to pull his hypnotic suggestion thing again and just tell him to go to sleep.

“Make yourself comfortable, Dean. If you can sleep, sleep. If you can’t, don’t,” Castiel said patiently. Dean chuckled, smiling. He sat up to retrieve the cotton blanket and pulled it over both of them, settling into the cradle of Cas’ arm. Free of any external influence, Dean was swiftly dead asleep.

Cas walked into the grand Library leaning on one crutch, holding his bandaged foot up off the floor. He took in a deep breath. The smells of old paper, old leather, old wood, old knowledge, and the echoes of hearts dedicated to ensuring mankind would never devolve into ignorance of the arcane and divine imparted to him what the Men of Letters had once been. Smartly dressed once again, minus the trench coat and suit jacket, he wore his collar unbuttoned and tie relaxed. The angel half-smiled when Sam looked up to see him. It struck Sam how much gaunter—greyer, even—the seraph looked compared to what he remembered. Castiel didn’t fill out his clothing the way he used to. Whatever the angel had been through over the past months, it must’ve been something horrific enough to affect his vessel like this.

“Hello, Sam.”

Getting up and coming over to him straight away, without so much as a moment’s hesitation, Sam wrapped his arms around his much older brother.

Eyes watering, Sam spoke the hopes bottled up in his chest. “It’s good to see you, Cas. You, uh… stickin’ around this time?” he asked, having difficulty getting his words to come out steady.

“Yes, I think so,” Castiel replied, a contented smile on, putting his free arm around Sam.

“Good,” Sam said, taking in a sniffle, clearing his throat, and giving Castiel a firm pat on the back.

Laughing, Castiel quipped, “I missed you, too.”

Sam started full-on laughing, letting go of Castiel and lifting one hand to give him a solid clap on the shoulder. When the angel twitched away, he stopped his hand just inches shy of contact. “Oh! Ah… sorry,” Sam said, frowning. It was unlike the angel to carry injuries at all.

“I’m, uh, going to be convalescing for a little while. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I’m not exactly in top form,” Cas said, the memory casting a shadow over him. A quick, burdened smile darted across Sam’s lips, and he nodded.

“Yeah, there’s a fair share of that goin’ around. Still, you’re here. That’s what matters,” Sam said, tears coming to his eyes, resting his outstretched hand on top of the seraph’s shoulder as though he needed the contact to believe he was actually there.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t want to leave. There was no other way…”

Sam shook his head. “You’ve got nothin’ to apologize for. Don’t take this the wrong way, Cas; that day, I lost both of you. I’m really glad you’re here.” Dean had spent the last few months with his toes peeking over the edge above six feet under now and then. In the preceding couple of weeks, though, things had taken a turn for the worse; he seemed to be doing little more with his time than peering over the edge. Clearing his throat and chasing the tears out of his eyes, Sam collected himself, managing a quick smile and steadily meeting Cas’ gaze. “Make yourself at home. This is your home now, Cas. No matter what.” Sam let his words sink in, nodded, then looked back to the literature spread out on the table. Sam’s feet followed the lead, walking him back to his work.

“Thank you, Sam. For everything.”

Turning back and with a subdued smile, Sam gave him a quick nod and returned to his research, unrolling a scroll that required some careful handling. Castiel made a beeline for the kitchen. He was thirsty—a symptom of his ethereal form’s wellbeing that did not bode well; he was vulnerable to basic human needs. A good ten minutes later, Dean wandered in.

“Hey.” Sam looked up, his expression unreadable. “Hey. Morning.”

Looking like he wanted to say something, Dean suddenly became keenly interested in the toes of his boots.

A smile crept onto Sam’s lips. “You know this place is made of metal, concrete, and stone, right?”

Dean looked up, puzzled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sound carries,” Sam said, his tone as loaded as the pointed look he sent Dean’s way, unable to keep his laughter in.

A scoff layered on top of a laugh escaped Dean. He nodded, smiling, running the tip of his tongue across a canine tooth. “Yeah, I, uh…” Dean cleared his throat, shuffling his feet.

Sam sighed. “Dean, I’m only going to say this once, ’cause I shouldn’t have to say it at all: don’t apologize. You deserve to have something good happen for you. You’re my brother. That’s never going to change.”

Dean was staring at Sam wide-eyed. He nodded. As if a switch flipped, his shoulders straightened up from being hunched in, the nervous warble was gone from his voice, and the crushing sadness he’d been carrying through the months since losing Castiel didn’t have the sway over him it did a moment ago. Pointing a thumb in the direction of the galley, Dean asked, “Want some coffee?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Sam watched, smirking, as his brother stepped out, tracking down Cas in the galley. He wondered if the offer was made for his sake or if it served more as an excuse to be in the same room as Cas sooner rather than later. Shaking his head, Sam couldn’t help quietly chuckling.

If there was only ever one place on Earth where these two didn’t have to walk on eggshells—where they could just be—Sam was determined that it would be here.

Sam Winchester © Petite-Madame | DA |

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