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It should have rained by now. Dean’s been driving through the Midwest for days and is nearing the Missouri-Tennessee border. Storm clouds have been following him the whole way, muting out the shadows on the ground and casting everything in a wash of gray mid-tones. Things are quiet. After the chaos and discord of the impending end of the world, peace is staggering. And without Sam there to talk to, the only thing Dean knows to fill in the silence of the eye of the storm is the rumble of the interstate.
After the occurrence at Stull Cemetery, Dean set off into self-imposed isolation, throwing himself at every seemingly insignificant blip on his EMF meter with the same intensity with which he’d attacked the end of times itself. Dean would be lying, mostly to himself, if he said that was how he liked it, but Castiel knew he had no right to judge. Being cut off from the Host was deafeningly quiet, and he filled that space by watching over Dean.
The problem was that Dean wasn’t sleeping. The single motel rooms were too small and too silent without his brother in the other bed. He’d stop, shower, and go through all the motions of preparing to sleep then sit on the edge of the bed and nurse a fifth of whiskey until the bottle slipped from between his fingers. Sometimes, Dean would doze off like that — a thin, restless sleep that seemed to just make him feel worse — and Castiel would stand hidden and watch. His fingers would burn with the need to help, to comfort. To bring the rains so that their sound would lull Dean to sleep.
Instead, he waits. And watches.
Dean is outside Memphis wrapping up an encounter with a poltergeist that nearly got the better of him. In the morning, when it’s still dark, he steps out of his motel room into the mists and wipes the thin layer of condensation from the Impala’s windshield with his jacket sleeve. He turns the engine over and wrings his hands while he waits for it to get warm, then cracks the windows to keep them from fogging up. Later, during the day, the cool morning air turns heavy and bloated. When Dean stops to get gas, he pulls at his collar and holds a cold, sweating water bottle against the back of his neck. His extra layers had been a welcome comfort that morning, but now, as the sun peeks out over trees and mid-century suburban homes, they’re a burden that clings to his skin and suffocates.
Dean replaces the nozzle on the old gas pump, the kind where the numbers still tick over manually. As he does, he stops and hunches his shoulders. Were Dean a prey animal, his ears would twitch in the direction of the apparent threat. Instead, he peers out of the corner of his eyes, looking for the familiar figure standing off to the side, behind another pump or perched on a bench in front of the gas station store, backlit by fluorescent lights streaming through posters advertising cigarettes being sold for the state minimum.
Dean can’t see Castiel — not unless Castiel wants him to — but he knows he’s there. He always does. He wets his lips, unsets his jaw, and gets back in the car.
He drives until it gets dark. In the passenger seat is a plastic bag of Dean’s scavenged gas station foods. They’re a strange assortment of anything that looked substantial enough to pass as a meal. A six-pack of beer rattles in its cardstock carrier. Dean doesn’t blink as often as he should. Instead, he just stares ahead at the section of the road illuminated by his own headlights and no further. Castiel sits in the back, still unseen. When they pass an interstate sign listing accommodations, Castiel reaches over and gently turns Dean’s head so that he notices it. If Dean feels the touch, he doesn’t react to it beyond taking the next exit and pulling into the closest motel.
For a moment, Dean remains in the driver’s seat with his hands lying limply in his lap. He rubs his eyes with the heel of both hands and gets out to pay for a room. Castiel watches, hands in his pockets, as Dean comes back and retrieves his duffel and provisions out of the front seat. The lights on the motel walkways are half blown out, and the parking lot has no lamps. Castiel looks to the sky but sees only gently rolling storm clouds. Neither the stars nor Heaven make themselves known.
Dean slides the key through the slot, and his room unlocks with a click. It’s small inside and practically claustrophobic with the thick vertical blinds drawn and the door locked and latched behind him. He drops his duffel onto the single queen bed and digs out his toiletry bag. He strips off his jacket and flannel, but Castiel looks away when Dean’s hands drop to the hem of his t-shirt. Dean showers quickly in what little hot water comes out of the showerhead, and the steam fogs up the mirror over the sink and the box TV screen.
Instead of something more comfortable, Dean puts his clothes back on before he props himself up in bed. After an hour and a half of laying awake with the TV remote, cycling through the same rotation of infomercials, grainy reruns of Spanish soap operas, and pay-per-view lesbian pornography, Dean gets up and gets in his car. He goes to the first open bar he finds.
It’s a dive — a “hole-in-the-wall” type of place with gravel street parking and an illuminated neon sign reading “Marie’s”. Country and western music plays inside and creeps out into the night with each patron that comes and goes out the door, spilling the colored lights inside onto the dark sidewalk along with it. Dean thrives in places like this. In no time at all, it’s as if a switch had turned on somewhere inside of him, and he’s making eyes at someone alone at the bar as he hustles a group of men out of their cash, leaning over the pool table and arching his back as he does it.
It's all very transactional, Castiel thinks. The men in the bars always seem to say the same things, as if they all know the script that will grant them the altercation they went out drinking to get into. “Outsider” is written all over Dean’s face. “Cuckolding smart ass” as well.
The women are the same. Dean says he doesn't have a type, and maybe that's true for him, but Castiel still notices a particular pattern. Hurt recognizes hurt. Empty finds empty. So many of Dean's women parrot his preoccupations back at him through their own insecurities. "Daddy issues", as Dean calls them, are a big one. They go somewhere, go to bed together, and leave separately. The women typically go home having found what they were looking for, whatever it was; but Dean rarely does. No matter the outcome, Castiel notes, it all starts the same. No matter where Dean goes, everyone is sizing him up as soon as he walks in the door. Just trying to put their hands on him.
As such, Castiel doesn't make a habit of physical contact.
Tonight, Dean sets his eyes on the wrong woman. Her husband arrives back at the bar, and Dean arrives back to the motel room with a black eye. He’d say he’s getting sloppy, but Castiel knows he simply didn’t fight back.
Dean sits on the edge of the motel bed in the dark. His shoulders are hunched and he hangs his head down between them as he leans forward against his knees. He closes his eyes and forces seething breaths through his nose as if he can intimidate his body into falling asleep. After a moment, he shakily exhales and asks in a small, weak voice, “Cas?”
Castiel’s fingers twitch. He waits.
“Are you listening? I just....” Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck and smears the sweat against the edge of his shirt collar. “I’m praying, okay? Cas?”
Castiel shows himself, materializing in the dimly lit motel room. “Hello, Dean.”
Dean jerks his head up and looks at Castiel with wide, tear-stained eyes. There’s a fresh cut along his brow and a bit of dried blood alongside the red, purple, and yellow bruise deepening around his eyelid. Somehow, his eyes still shine so brightly despite the pain. Despite everything. Wet and green like a field of grass in the misty blue hour before sunrise. They’re eyes that have seen so much beyond his earthly years, and the both of them know it. There’s a cruel intimacy in that fact — in the shared visions of Hell that hang suspended between them and held like a breath.
“I can’t sleep.”
It’s so completely obvious that Castiel could almost smile if Dean didn’t look so pitiful. He’s exhausted, and his hands shake from it as they hang from his wrists.
“Can you do that angel mojo thing and just ... just put me out, man. I need you to— I need....” Dean wets his lips. “I need you.”
Dean always needs him.
Castiel is useful. He has a function. When they met, Castiel had told him he wasn’t a hammer, but Dean simply took him by the handle and pointed him at a different nail.
“Of course,” says Castiel, like always
The first pangs of resentment feel foreign in Castiel's chest, like a stray bullet in need of digging out. After millennia of holding his emotions at arm’s length, it’s still so strange to suddenly feel everything all at once — anger and resentment and betrayal and shame and admiration and passion and devotion, devotion, devotion. He first put a word to his feelings for Dean before he put his hands on him in a fit of rage, but even now he can't bring himself to voice it. He just knows that for now, Dean needs him. Castiel would live another hundred millennia of only Dean needing him if he could.
It’s just that sometimes, hidden back in the furthest recesses of his mind, there’s something else. Something he can’t quite reach.
“Lie down,” he says.
Dean nods and sits still for a moment like Castiel’s words take a moment to sink in. Quickly and clumsily, he pries off his boots and top layer. He climbs up to the head of the bed, and as he stretches, the back of his undershirt rides up. Skin pulls taught over sore muscles. There is a warm buzzing under Castiel's skin that he doesn't quite recognize. His fingers twitch, the sensation just out of reach.
Oh, he realizes. This is desire. It feels strange, foreign. Like his skin is pulled too tight over his frame. Soft and exposed. Castiel wants.
He can remember every individual touch. There have been, to date, forty-one; from the first contact in Hell to the last, healing touch at Stull. Too many of those had been in that alleyway; not enough had been gentle. Every so often, in one of those long moments of quiet, Castiel can still feel the phantom weight of Dean's hand from where he threw his arm around Castiel's shoulder and told him it'd been years since he'd laughed so hard.
“I’m, uh, ready when you are,” Dean says.
Castiel touches two fingers to Dean's forehead, and he doesn't dare take more.
The next morning, thick storm clouds hang over the parking lot, dark and heavy yet still making no moves to actually rain. Dean heads to the front desk to book an extra night and comes out having paid the weekly rate. He was out for more than double his usual four hours last night, but it didn’t seem to do much good. He is still an empty shell. A light has been left on, but no one is awake. So to speak.
Dean goes through the motions of trying to keep himself busy. He picks up a local paper from a metal newsrack with chipped paint and goes through it with a ballpoint pen, underlining and connecting dots that don’t come together to anything. He flips through the local news channels in hopes of anything that seems to be his particular brand of out-of-the-ordinary, but at the end of the day, he turns off the TV and heads into the shower empty-handed.
Dean pulls a beer from the mini-fridge and cracks it open against the edge of the nightstand. Halfway through, it seems to have lost its appeal. He abandons the bottle on the table and kicks his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his neck.
“Cas...?” asks Dean.
Castiel takes a breath and steps forward into view.
Dean keeps his head down. “Can you do it again?”
And of course, Castiel agrees, though this time he tells Dean to make himself more comfortable. Dean shimmies out of his jeans and Castiel sees the shape of Dean's thigh muscles and the contrast of the tender, pale skin there against the tanned, freckled skin stretched across his forearms as they sit in his lap. He can see the way his soft stomach just barely curls out over the waistband of his underwear, the fine hairs on his thighs. Castiel knows those hairs would stand on end if he touched him. Knows that Dean would shiver, were he to run a hand up his thigh.
“Cas?” asks Dean, peeking up at him through one eye. “You okay?”
Castiel taps him on the forehead so hard that Dean is pushed back onto the bed, immediately unconscious. He flees.
It’s the longest Castiel has seen Dean stay in the same place in a while. He still wakes up before dawn every morning and takes off in the Impala, though every night he pulls back into the same parking spot under the same flickering street light and lets himself back into his room. The rain still hasn’t come.
Dean goes back to Marie’s, but he doesn’t go for the women or the pool tables. His sleeplessness is catching up with him even worse than before, and although Castiel knows Dean wants nothing more than some rest and a gentle hand, he instead sits at the bar and nurses two fingers of Tennessee whiskey, hunched over with blocked shoulders and a look on his face that both invites hostility and dares anyone to try it. An ex-marine picks a fight with him in the parking lot, and Dean stops just shy of putting the man in the hospital.
Back in his motel room, condensation has begun to build up on the window. It clings to the bathroom mirror, to the doorknobs, to the glass screen of the old box television sitting on the dresser across from the bed. Dean’s taken the front cover off of the PTAC unit and turned the cool setting as far down as it will go, but still he sits on the edge of the bed in an undershirt and pair of boxer briefs and holds a damp washcloth to the back of his neck.
“I know you’re there,” he mumbles under his breath.
Castiel doesn’t need to say anything. He just puts himself in front of Dean and waits.
Dean reaches forward and takes hold of the edge of Castiel’s overcoat. He weakly pulls him towards him until the toes of Castiel’s boots are touching the base of the bed frame, and Dean grabs onto the back of Castiel’s belt with both hands and presses his forehead against his stomach.
“Please, just,” Dean whispers. His voice cracks. “Just put me down. Put me out of my misery.”
Castiel lifts Dean’s chin, and instantly, Dean’s eyes drift closed. Despite Castiel putting him to sleep these past nights, he can see just how miserably exhausted he is and how responsive to a gentle touch. He begins to wonder if what Dean has really been needing is a different kind of comfort altogether. He looks towards Heaven for guidance, but all that’s revealed to him are the water stains on the motel ceiling.
Nevertheless, Castiel is first and foremost a servant. He places one hand firmly on Dean’s shoulder and gently leans him back. Dean first looks to Castiel’s hand then back up at him. Castiel raises the hand from Dean’s shoulder and presses it to Dean’s cheek. Dean’s lips part with a small gasp, and Castiel rests the pad of his thumb against Dean’s lower lip.
Castiel can feel him trembling, but Dean is frozen except for the way he’s trying not to completely collapse against Castiel’s outstretched palm. A bead of sweat runs down Dean’s neck from behind his ear, and he swallows hard.
“There,” says Castiel, keeping his voice low. “Easy.”
Dean nods. His eyes are black and heavy, the pupils blown. He’s shaking.
“Just relax,” says Castiel, and Dean nods again.
Castiel places his other hand against the base of Dean’s neck, partially on his shoulder. Underneath the damp cotton, Dean’s skin burns. He sways a bit when Castiel drops the hand against his face down to his other shoulder, but Castiel holds him steady. He lightly squeezes the muscles in Dean’s shoulders then smooths them backward and down the back of Dean’s arms as he lowers himself to his knees. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard that his chest is heaving, and Castiel can feel it in Dean’s wrists. Castiel pulls Dean’s arms apart and out from between his legs, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s pulse as he holds Dean’s hands against the mattress on either side of his thighs. Castiel sits back on his heels. Dean is shaking enough for the two of them, but when Castiel takes his hands off Dean’s wrists, Dean keeps his hands still where Castiel put them.
The PTAC unit dies, and suddenly the only sound in the room is Dean’s trembling breath. Castiel puts his hands between Dean’s legs and runs the back of his hands up Dean’s calves and against the grain of the light hair on his legs. Dean struggles to fight his shivers and bite back his gasps. The sounds are as beautiful as Castiel had imagined, but nothing could have prepared him for the noise Dean makes when Castiel takes hold of Dean’s knees and spreads them.
Dean clamps both lips between his teeth, and his half-hard cock sits up against his thigh, held in place by the cotton jersey that has begun to show a small wet spot. Castiel’s fingers twitch around Dean’s knees, and he leans forward to plant a soft kiss against the inside of Dean’s thigh.
Dean grips the quilt on the bed so hard his knuckles turn white around the bruises and fresh cuts. His want is so loud, and it pulls like the tide — pushing out just before breaking and dragging you all the way back in. Castiel kisses Dean’s thigh again, this time higher up. He does it again and again, inching closer and closer to the hem of Dean’s underwear and making a pitiful noise escape from down in Dean’s chest each time. Castiel leans forward a bit more and places the next kiss right over the wet spot on Dean’s boxer briefs.
Dean’s entire body tightens up, and he whines. Castiel hums as he mouths at Dean’s groin. He alternates between open-mouthed kisses, slowly moving lips, and shy flicks of his tongue over the warm cotton. Beneath his mouth, Dean’s cock grows fatter. His grip twists the fitted sheet and begins to pull its elastic from underneath the mattress. Castiel feels his own want deep in his hands, boring straight through his palms in a burning ache. He digs his nails into the short motel carpet and places his mouth around the tip of Dean’s cock, gently sucking it through the fabric. Dean’s mouth falls open on a breath. One of his hands releases the sheet and instinctively reaches for Castiel’s head, but Dean hesitates, and his hand twitches suspended in midair.
“You’re so beautiful,” whispers Castiel, and Dean drops his hand hard onto his shoulder.
“Kn-knock it off.”
Castiel looks up, perplexed. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s—?” Dean’s face is crimson and his eyes are bloodshot, and he tries to shove Castiel off of him. “The hell’s wrong with you?”
Castiel lets Dean push him, and he sits back on his knees. Dean leaps from the bed and clumsily gets to his feet, flexing and unflexing his fist and scratching his skin as he wraps his arms around himself.
"Dean,” says Castiel. “I—"
Dean turns his back to Castiel. "Shut up. We're never talking about this again."
"What have I done wrong?"
"The fact that you even have to ask....” Dean scrubs both hands over his face and paces the floor. “God, you're practically— And I just let you— Jesus, what the hell am I doing?"
"You wanted me to,” says Castiel. He cocks his head to the side. “Dean, I could feel it."
"Damn it, Cas!” yells Dean. “You’re family! You can't— We don't— "
Castiel’s hands begin to tremble as the feelings of resentment creep up again. He clenches his fists and digs his nails into his palms as hard as he can.
"But I'm not your family, Dean," says Castiel, because it’s true. "Not really."
“Yeah, no shit.”
Dean storms off to the bathroom, not looking back at Castiel as he slams the door in his face. Castiel can hear the click of the door locking and the sound of running water from the sink, and he watches the shadows of Dean’s feet as he paces back and forth. He presses his hand against the door until he can’t stand it any longer and he lets it fall away. Without another word, he takes off.
Not too long ago, Bobby Singer had told Castiel that Dean used to be different. Before Hell, before the rack and the razor, there was an entirely different side to him that Castiel had never seen. One he likely never will. Sam had always been the angry one, the one prone to lashing out while his brother turned his frustrations inwards. Despite the darkness, there seemed to have been a light that shone in the darkness inside Dean. One that Hell had snuffed out. Now, with Sam gone, Dean appears to have absorbed his brother’s residual anger like a ghost pulling its power from electrical devices. But that light is still there, and it smolders just below the surface. Castiel just doesn’t understand how no one else can see it.
Another day goes by, and there’s still no rain.
That night, a woman approaches Dean instead of the other way around. He seems hesitant at first, but when she reaches out to curl a tuft of hair behind his ear, he lets her drag him into the bathroom. Castiel knows he shouldn’t watch, but he just can’t help himself. He watches as Dean locks the door behind them — watches as Dean frantically strips off his jacket and undoes the woman’s jeans against the sink. He buries his face into the crook of her neck as he slides his hand down the front of her underwear. Within minutes, she’s digging her nails into his shoulders as her legs shake, but when she reaches down to reciprocate, Dean runs out so fast that he leaves his father’s jacket behind. He doesn’t go back for it.
Later, Castiel looks down over the motel. There is one light in one room, peaking out through the cracks in the vertical blinds and spilling over the black paint and chrome of the Impala parked just outside. Dean prays, and Castiel goes to him without a second thought.
The room is dark save for a wall lamp between the two motel beds. Dean sits up in bed, one leg stretched out and the other crossed with his ankle pinned under his knee. On the table is a bottle of brown liquor with a label Castiel doesn’t recognize, and Dean holds an Old Fashioned glass of it in one hand, his eyes downcast and jaw set.
“Hello, Dean.”
In response, Dean twirls his glass and its contents and takes a heavy drink.
“What is that?”
“Neat bourbon,” says Dean. “You want one?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Take off the coat.” Dean takes a drink. He looks up over the rim of the glass, and the aching through the center of Castiel’s palms returns. He reaches for his lapels.
“Slowly,” says Dean.
Castiel stares him straight in the eyes as he opens up the front of his coat and pulls it back, rolling his shoulders and shimmying the heavy twill back and forth before letting it fall down his back. The coat hits the floor with a heavy, muffled thud, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. Castiel can feel his heart rate pick up from across the room.
Dean takes another drink. “Now the, uh, jacket.”
The jacket follows the coat. Dean tilts back the last of his drink, never breaking eye contact. He stands, shuffles across the carpet, and stops in front of Castiel just shy of close enough for their toes to touch. He takes Castiel’s tie between two fingers and lets them slide over the fabric as he gently lets his hand fall.
“Keep going,” he whispers.
Castiel goes for his belt next, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thump. Dean still has the tip of Castiel’s tie between his knuckles. He holds onto it as Castiel loosens the knot at his collar and pulls. The tie catches on Dean’s hand before he lets go and lets it fall away.
“More?” asks Castiel in a low voice.
Dean nods. He reaches up to undo Castiel’s topmost button, then another, then slips his hand beneath Castiel’s collar and presses his palm against the base of Castiel’s throat, right over his collarbone. Dean drags the tips of his fingers down Castiel’s sternum, letting the fabric of Castiel’s shirt push apart and the skin beneath be revealed. He lets out a held breath as his fingers catch where the next button is still clasped.
“Get on the bed,” says Dean.
Castiel complies. He drops onto the edge of the mattress with a bounce but isn’t sure what he’s meant to do next. Dean’s face is stony but fragile. He puts one knee on the mattress beside Castiel’s legs like he’s going to straddle him, but instead, he reaches up and grips Castiel by the throat.
Castiel doesn’t so much as blink; he just nods.
"Really?" Dean asks, his voice low. He twitches his hand, his fingers squeezing Castiel's windpipe experimentally. "Would you let me?"
"Yes," Castiel says without hesitation.
Dean smirks without any humor in his eyes. His grip tightens, but he doesn't squeeze. He clenches his hand and makes it as firm and immovable as possible. It wouldn’t do anything, even if Dean squeezed so hard that the muscles in his hands were ripped from the bone, and he knows it.
Dean gets Castiel beneath him and puts two fingers past his lips. Castiel holds them in his mouth, memorizing the feeling of them against his tongue. The heat and weight of Dean's palm against his chin, the touch of his fingertips against the soft palate. Dean spreads Castiel’s legs with his knees as he works his two fingers in and out of Castiel’s mouth. He presses those fingers down against Castiel’s tongue and licks along Castiel's neck, starting between his collarbones and maneuvering up to his ear.
Castiel’s hands twitch. He wants to throw Dean off of him. He wants to grab him, shake him, and make him come apart in his hands. He wants his nails down Dean’s back and his teeth and tongue marking him up as Castiel slips into that place deep inside Dean that is warm and soft and comes there. He wants to kiss him.
Dean's voice is mostly breath when he asks, "You're just letting me move you, aren't you?"
"Yes.”
Dean lays down beside Castiel and with his hand on the back of his neck, guides him until he’s kneeling over top of Dean. Castiel kicks his leg over and sits his weight in Dean’s lap.
Dean gasps softly and lets his hand slide down Castiel’s chest. "You should let me fuck you."
"Alright,” says Castiel. “If that's what you need."
Dean tries to shove him off, but Castiel doesn't budge. "Get off."
"Have I done something wrong?"
Dean props himself up on his elbows. "You don't have to say it like you're doing me some kind of damn favor."
"You're angry.” Castiel looks down at the section of his chest where Dean’s hand sat moments ago, then looks back to Dean. “Why are you angry?
"Cas, get the hell off of me."
Castiel climbs off the bed, his head still spinning and his hands still aching. “I don't understand,” he says.
"Yeah,” scoffs Dean. He gets to his feet and turns away, shaking his head. “You never do, huh?"
"So help me, Dean.... Please.” Castiel takes a step forward but freezes once Dean whips his head back around. His face is unreadable.
"I'm tired of helping people."
And then it’s quiet, and Castiel doesn’t know what to do.
"Get out of here, Cas,” Dean says, but Castiel is already gone before he can finish the sentence.
For two more nights, Dean lies awake. Despite everything, Castiel doesn’t stray far from his side, keeping himself just out of sight.
The air is thick with unfallen rain. The cuts on Dean’s hands have started to close and the swelling around his eye has begun to subside, but that light inside Dean is the hardest it’s ever been to see. It fights and flickers against the dark, mirroring the twitch of Dean’s fingers as he lies awake and unmoving in bed at night.
Although Dean doesn’t say his name, Castiel can feel him call out to him. It’s quiet, more so than a thought, but it buzzes and shakes and whines like the worn-out air conditioner unit. Something so constant that normally you can’t hear it at all until all other noises stop and you’re suddenly left with just it and the sound of your own thoughts.
Despite the fog covering the windows, there’s a certain clarity that comes along with these quiet nights. Dean’s strongest emotional bonds have always been familial, and now Sam is gone. His father is gone. Ellen and Jo Harvelle are gone, and he’s cut himself off from Bobby Singer. Dean must think of Castiel as being all he has left — a surrogate brother — and it must be incredibly confusing for him to have that level of closeness be associated with sexual intimacy, something Dean typically saves for nameless strangers.
So maybe Castiel does understand after all.
He’s just not sure how much longer Dean can go on like this.
Dean prays one last time, and because Castiel is incapable of doing anything else, he goes to him.
“Hey, Cas,” says Dean in a small voice.
Castiel puts his hands in his pockets and waits.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” says Dean.
Castiel takes a heavy breath and holds up two fingers. “Do you want me to put you to sleep?”
Dean reaches forward and takes him by the wrist. He lowers Castiel's hand, turns it over, and kisses the center of his palm. Right where Castiel has been feeling the ache.
"No," Dean says, and he turns his face to lay his head in Castiel's hand. He clenches his eyes shut, and his next words come out in the faintest whisper. “I ... I want you to stay. Just ‘cause.”
Being needed is familiar to Castiel. Wanted is completely foreign, but he can feel it radiating off of Dean. Instead of pushing him out and pulling him back in like the tide, it comes all at once like a flood. Castiel can feel himself sinking with every kiss Dean places to his palm. He reaches for Castiel’s other hand and cradles them both on his, pressing his lips over his fingers, his wrists. When Dean gently takes one of his fingertips in his mouth, Castiel is already gone.
Dean whimpers when Castiel pulls his hand away. He steps forward and cradles Dean’s head in both of his hands, tilting his face up towards him.
“Cas,” murmurs Dean. “Please.”
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
Dean’s heart is beating wildly inside his chest as Castiel smooths his hand over Dean’s hair. When Castiel bends forward to touch their foreheads together, Dean gasps. His hands tremble as he reaches for Castiel, but they still once they grab hold of Castiel’s forearms. Castiel brushes one thumb over Dean’s jaw.
"If you're gonna do it, do it." Dean swallows, and he blinks away a stray tear. "Before I—"
Castiel kisses him hard, and that’s the last pillar holding Dean in place. He collapses completely, and Castiel shoulders the weight. He moves one hand to Dean’s back, the other keeping a firm hold on Dean’s head. With a light squeeze, Castiel picks Dean up off the bed and scoots him back. He crawls onto the mattress after him, and all Dean can do is desperately kiss back and try to hold on.
Castiel takes his hands off Dean just long enough to shed his layers and toss them into the floor. There’s something so real, so tactile about the feeling of undressing and the brush of fabric and air over newly exposed skin, and only once Castiel is completely bare does he realize the burning on his skin is coming from inside. He grabs Dean’s face in both hands and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, needing him closer, needing relief.
“C-Cas, wait,” says Dean. “Wait, wait.”
Castiel gasps as he pulls off of him in frustration. “What is it?”
Dean crawls out from under him, over to the nightstand, and rummages through the door. He grips a small bottle of personal lubricant in his hand and looks nervously between it and Castiel. Slowly, he reaches over and turns out the light. Now, the half-blown lights far off in the parking lot are the only light breaking through the black.
"Is it better in the dark?" asks Castiel.
"It's easier." Dean leans against the headboard and swallows hard. “C’mere.”
Castiel goes to him. He curls his hand under Dean’s chin, and Dean melts. He wraps his arms around Castiel’s neck as they kiss, and it’s softer, slower. Each rise and fall of Castiel’s jaw pulls a different noise from deep in Dean’s throat.
Castiel raises Dean's arms and pulls his t-shirt off over his head. He grabs hold of both of Dean's wrists midair and drags his hands down his arms, over his shoulders and chest, and down his sides. Castiel digs in his nails over Dean's ribs, and Dean's head falls all the way back, shivering and moving his lips in an unvoiced string of oh oh oh.
Castiel’s hands fall to just above Dean’s lap. He spreads his fingers and presses his palms flush against the soft part of Dean’s stomach, over his hips. He lets his fingertips sneak beneath the waistband of Dean’s underwear, just barely tickling the crease where Dean’s pelvis meets his thigh. He sneaks one hand around to Dean’s lower back and scoots him forward, just enough to raise him up and slide his underwear down off his hips.
Dean’s as hard as he can be, and he twitches and whimpers as Castiel inches his underwear all the way down his legs. He glides his hands all the way back up, smoothing both of them over Dean’s thighs, over his hips. He places both of them on Dean’s waist and leans forward to softly kiss him.
“I told you,” says Castiel. “You’re so beautiful.”
Dean doesn’t protest. He bites his fist, the bottle of lubricant still clutched in his other hand. Cas wraps his hand around it.
“May I?”
Dean nods and relaxes his hand so Castiel can take it. “Please.”
Castiel rolls them over and pins Dean's shoulders with his forearms while both his hands cradle the back of Dean's head. Dean lets his mouth hang open, lets Castiel gently runs his tongue all along the inner perimeter, lets him dip in and out lightly and occasionally leave gentle kisses. All the while, both of Dean’s hands make a mess of Castiel’s hair.
Castiel uncaps the bottle and wets his fingers. Dean wraps one leg over Castiel’s and takes a deep breath, holds it, and shakily lets it go. Castiel has no idea what he’s doing as he reaches between Dean’s legs, but the look in Dean’s eyes tells him he trusts him.
Castiel looks right into Dean's eyes as he presses the first finger to the ring of muscle. Dean arches up off the bed with a soft gasp. He's completely lax, knowing Castiel has him and holding on with only his eyes.
Dean pushes against Castiel's hand, and Castiel adds another finger. He works him excruciatingly slowly, breathing into the stretch. Dean’s face burns with a red flush, and he’s so warm inside. He runs his leg up and down Castiel’s, whimpering and arching his back as he squirms beneath him, wordlessly begging for more.
Castiel pulls out his fingers and slicks his cock with the leftover lube. He buries his face in Dean's neck and as he lines himself up and pushes in. There's a brief moment of resistance, and then Dean gasps and suddenly it's all at once, wet and warm and tight and so soft and inviting.
Castiel inches his hips forward, sliding in deeper until he is pressed right up against him and Dean's as full as he can possibly be. For a moment, Castiel is frozen. He’s never felt so small before. It was as if he was trapped in his skin alongside the sensation with nowhere in the universe to run from it. Adrift at sea with only Dean’s body to cling to.
He twitches his hips experimentally, and even the tiniest movements set Dean alight. His skin is slick all over with a layer of sweat. His face contorts, and he digs his nails hard into Castiel’s shoulders.
“Am I hurting you?” asks Castiel, smoothing Dean’s hair back off of his forehead.
Dean licks his lips and there’s a hint of a smile there. “N-not remotely.”
“I—” Castiel searches for words. “I want.”
Dean reaches up and touches his face. "Tell me."
"I don't know."
"Yeah, you do."
Castiel takes Dean's mouth with his, slamming both of Dean's hands into the mattress beside his head. He thrusts forward once, hard, and Dean cries out through the kiss.
"Oh god."
Castiel does it again and laces their fingers together.
"Cas—"
He does it again, and Dean ejaculates all over himself. Castiel keeps himself pushed in, and he'd give up eternity for the way Dean frantically clenches around him.
"Oh, Dean...."
"Keep going."
Castiel rolls his hips once, then again, slowly building back up. Dean ruts back against him, helping him get a rhythm as he hisses and groans and writhes. He’s overstimulated, and Castiel is shaking and overwhelmed, but Dean just talks him through it.
“Chase it, Cas.” His voice is a harsh whisper as he murmurs against Castiel’s lips. He grips Castiel’s hands harder. “Come on. That’s it, that’s it. Fuck—”
Castiel pants and grunts and bucks his hips, dying to diffuse the pressure. The sensation builds and builds and he has no idea how it can build more until suddenly it’s spilling over, and a wave of release comes over him. He thrusts forward one last time, digging in and coming deep inside Dean.
Dean’s head flies back and his eyes reflect back the faintest pale blue glow. Castiel can feel his essence briefly flow through the two of them, followed by the pounding of Dean’s heartbeat. Lightning flashes outside, followed by gentle rolling thunder.
Castiel is still inside him when Dean comes down. His hands go lax, his fingers gently lifting up from where moments ago they dug into Castiel’s hand. Dean’s head lolls to the side and his eyes drift shut. Another peal of thunder rolls overhead, and Castiel gently unhooks Dean’s legs from around his and slips out of him. He slowly rolls the two of them over and lays Dean’s head on his chest. He cleans the two of them up with a touch, sweeping back the damp hair from Dean’s forehead.
“Mm, Cas?”
“Yes?”
“M’sorry.”
“For what?”
Dean doesn’t answer. One by one, droplets splat against the motel room window.
“Dean?” asks Cas, but Dean only snores in response.
Lightning flashes again, followed by a sharper crack and a heavier downpour against the glass. Fast-running droplets stream down the window, and the condensation begins to dissipate.
Castiel kisses the top of Dean’s head and rests his face in his hair. It’s a temporary fix, no doubt. It can’t bring his brother back from the cage, can’t take away those years in the Pit. Such things don’t just disappear in a flash of physical intimacy, and Castiel is sure that there will now be more complications coming further down the road.
But it’s a start. And at the very least, at this present moment, Dean is asleep and it's finally begun to rain.