In Bed, a supernatural fanfic

Dean doesn't think he'll ever stop blaming himself for Cas being human, and it's moments like this, watching Cas sleep peacefully in the soft lamplight, that Dean feels especially selfish. Regardless of anything Cas might say to the contrary, Dean knows that there's nothing he's done or could ever do that will make him even remotely deserving of this. This beautiful, fragile thing he has with Cas will surely be crushed in his clumsy, blood-drenched hands, just like everything else he ever touched. He's put Cas through too much over the years to be allowed the privilege of handling something so good.

Dean is still surprised he's ended up here. He was lost to Cas the first time he laid eyes on him, but it took him years to realize it, to acknowledge what it meant. He's still trying figure out what he'd done to keep Cas by his side. Any way you slice it, Dean is the reason a millennia-old celestial being has been relegated to the most inexorably agonizing death imaginable. All those eons whittled down to a handful of years, filled with corporeal pain and human emotions that are far more devastating.

Cas likes to say he made his bed, and is happy to lie in it. Dean does not appreciate the joke.

He doesn't understand how Cas can be okay with this, or why he'd even chosen Dean in the first place. He didn't deserve it, probably never would. It was the subject of one of the very first conversations he and Cas ever had, and now, almost ten years later, the argument is still the cornerstone of nearly their entire relationship. Cas has never, ever stopped trying to prove Dean wrong. Never stopped trying to get Dean to see the same light in himself that Cas sees, even as a human, with such ease.

He gave up eternity just to prove it.

Cas loves him, Dean realizes, and the thought hits him like a freight train.

Dean's chest is both full to bursting and squeezed as in a vise, an overwhelming mash-up of feelings that have no outlet and make his heart pound and his breath come in short, uneven bursts. This isn't a new sensation. It often accompanies thoughts spent on Cas in the dead of the night, though Dean seems especially powerless to stop it tonight. If he doesn't put a lid on it, the feeling will eventually turn into something uncomfortably similar to panic, which ends with him in the shower trying to scrub it off like a layer of dead skin.

But tonight the thought of being away from the warm body beside him is equally distressing, because Cas loves him, and when was the last time that happened?

That's right: Never.

Everything seems even more tenuous now, more fragile and fleeting than ever, like if Dean leaves, even for a moment, it would be broken in a million pieces when he comes back. If he comes back. Sometimes the shower is followed by drinks in the library, where he stays until morning thinking about anything besides the man in his bed and how even the smallest smile from him is enough to set his heart hammering like a love-sick teenager.

Dean wonders how many times Cas has awoken to find him gone, if it made him feel confused or adrift to find things altered from when he fallen asleep. Does it hurt a little? Does it fill him with doubt? He wonders how Cas puts up with it, puts up with him, how he can just accept that Dean is crap at this. He's always sucked at showing affection, is even worse at verbalizing it. He doesn't even typically examine his emotions long enough to identify them, let alone express them as anything other than bouts of alcoholism and violence.

Cas deserves better. More. So, so much more than Dean can give him.

The thought of Cas leaving to go find that something better makes Dean nauseous; the thought of him finding it is worse. Because at the end of the day, it is not death Dean fears – it's loss. Unthinking, blind, Dean spreads his hand possessively across the broad expanse of Cas's bare shoulders. Dean wants to claim him, drag him close, closer than close. He wants to crawl inside Cas and so never be without him.

It is not a familiar urge, and Dean only just resists. Cas would wake, and ask questions with his eyes, with the furrowing of his brow, and Dean is one hundred and ten percent certain that he would be unable to prevaricate or deflect his way out of this one. He would open his mouth and the lie, the joke, the self-deprecation would fail him, and he would either spill his guts out right then and there or burst into tears. He's not sure which would be worse.

Dean settles instead for caressing calloused fingertips down the length of Cas' back, tracing the ridges of his spine, resting his palm in the swoop of Cas' lumbar, where the sheets are pooled, hiding the swell of Cas' bottom. He watches raptly, frozen, holding his breath while his heart hammers away, when Cas' muscles flex and flow beneath his skin as he shifts in his sleep. Dean fears he may have woken him anyway, but Cas buries his face deeper into the pillows, settles.

Dean wants to be the one to give Cas more. Give him a reason to not go. Make his sacrifices worthwhile. He wants it so badly.

The words well up in his chest, words that haven't passed his lips since childhood, words no one besides his dead mother has ever said to him and meant. They stick, like his vocal chords have suddenly turned to tar in his throat, clogging his airways.

No one will hear him, not even Cas, but Dean knows he will never be able to come back from this. It will break something in him that will never go back quite the same. Dean wonders if that's a bad thing, or if it's even possible that he could be worse. He's not exactly the poster boy for put together. Cas is worth the risk, he thinks.

No. Cas is definitely worth it. Cas deserves it.

He inhales deeply and…

…exhales.

The silence becomes heavier, almost unbearable, and Dean can feel it settle over him like a disapproving glare. Why is this so difficult? Why is it so impossible for him to say something that most people say every day of their lives? Is he really so broken? So damaged? Was he born like this? Maybe it's genetic, some defect passed down the Winchester line. Dean tries to recall if his father had been so free with his affection for his mother, but draws a blank.

Cas shifts again, gooseflesh rippling up his back, and Dean realizes he's been swirling his finger in the curve of Cas' back, tracing an unseen design. How long has he been at it? He doesn't recall starting, but he closes his eyes, lets muscle memory take over, lets his hand finish what it's started. It's familiar, he realizes, not random. Letters. Words.

…ve…

…you.

Repeat.

I…

…love…

…you.

Every muscle in Dean's body goes rigid, adrenaline coursing through his veins like heroin, because Jesus fucking Christ. Does it count? Dean thinks it must because something in his chest has shifted, changed. Not broken, but not the same either.

This he can do. Dean lets his hands pick up where his tongue fails, lets his finger begin its path again. Only this time he pushes. Not a physical pressure; it's inside. From inside. He forces every emotion, every dream, every desire he has out of his chest, down his arm. He imagines it flowing from his fingertip like indelible ink, wills his love (God, he can even think the word now; what is happening? It feels like a dam has burst somewhere in the vicinity of his lungs.) to tattoo itself onto Cas' skin, etch itself onto his bones.

Again.

A gift. Now Cas will never be without his love.

Cas moves again, deliberately this time, and Dean freezes, his face flushing instinctually with panic and shame. Caught. But Cas isn't moving away. He's turned into Dean, pressing their bodies together inch for inch, like a second skin. Like Cas is trying to crawl inside of him.

Dean wraps his arms around Cas reflexively, feels a rush of something bright when Cas' blunt nails clutch at Dean's shoulder blades. Needy. Maybe even a little desperate. Legs tangle; Cas is holding on to Dean with every part of himself.

Lips brush against Dean's chest, right over his heart, and he wonders if Cas can feel it jackhammering against his lips. More kisses – dancing along his collarbone, a trail, butterfly-light up his neck, his jaw. Dean ducks his head, giving Cas access to his lips, but Cas stops, lips hovering millimeters above his own.

He's waiting. Dean opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) and is assaulted by blue. They're dark now, like new denim, pupils blown wide, yet unafraid. Brave. Cas is so much braver than Dean ever gives him credit for.

"I love you, too."

Cas' words wash over him like a summer rain, soothing, cleansing, and Dean kisses him, a slow, charged glide of tongues and chapped lips. He's dizzy with it, euphoric almost, because this is not at all what he imagined. He'd thought saying it, hearing it, would break him, crush him, drown him, but it's the exact opposite. This is breaching the surface, that first burst of clean air in his lungs, sunlight on his face.

He'd been drowning before, languishing. For the first time in his life, Dean feels alive. New. Light.

Dean kisses Cas with everything he has, hoping Cas gets how not empty he feels right now. He wants to share that feeling, pour it into Cas, sunny and sweet. It's too awesome to be contained, and he's sure he's got enough of it for both of them several times over.

Cas rocks his hips forward, dragging his erection along Dean's with an electric burst, punching a sigh out of him that sounds suspiciously like Cas' name. Cas swallows the sound with greedy lips as he gradually shifts himself onto his back, dragging Dean down with him until he's nestled safely between Cas' thighs. Cas is pliant beneath him, languid, hands roaming everywhere. Cas' hands are reverent as their bodies move against each other, mapping every scar, every contour, every hard line.

Dean has never felt so… worshipped. Loved.

A gasp. (Whose? Doesn't matter.)

"Dean, I—" kisses, fingers in Dean's hair, tugging, scraping. His voice is wrecked. "I need you."

"Cas—"

"Dean, just – please."

Cas accentuates the plea with a roll of his hips, legs spreading further, drawing Dean closer. Begging.

Dean rises to his knees, slips a hand between them, teasing at Cas' entrance before slipping a finger inside. He's still loose, slick from earlier. Dean adds a second finger, pumping, twisting, and Cas whimpers, pushes back. It's good but not enough. Dean just watches his face, stores in his mind how seamlessly Cas' expression shifts from want to adoration to impatience and back to want.

It's hypnotic. Captivating. Everything about Cas is captivating.

Impatient, Cas hooks one leg around Dean's hip, forces their bodies even closer with a well-placed heel. "Dean," he growls.

"Bossy," Dean whispers, a smile tugging at his lips.

Cas smiles back, moans when he feels Dean line himself up. Dean pushes in slowly, time standing still as he takes in the blush staining Cas' cheeks, the way his fingers clutch at the sheets, how Cas holds his breath until Dean's fully seated, then lets it out in one long, contented sigh. It's like their first time all over again. Everything feels brand new.

Maybe it is.

"Say it again," Dean whispers.

It takes only a moment for Cas to parse his meaning, and he doesn't hesitate.

"I love you."

Dean moves then, steady, deliberate, unyielding in the face of Cas' undisguised hunger. He wants this to last, wants to be able to remember every moment of this for the rest of his life. Because Cas loves him, and he's never felt more… connected. Bound. A profound bond.

Dean sits back onto his heels, dragging Cas with him by his hips, gathers him in his lap. He's impossibly deep now; the new angle makes Cas groan as he wraps his legs around Dean's waist. They're closer now, more skin to press together, Cas' erection, hot, leaking, impossibly hard, trapped between them.

Dean snakes his arms behind Cas' back, up, over shoulder blades, uses the leverage to drive Cas down onto his cock while he thrusts up. God, the sounds Cas makes.

Cas' fingers find their way back into Dean's hair, tugging, guiding his head back so Cas can look straight into Dean's eyes. It's almost too much, too blue, too intimate; Dean wants to look away, close his eyes, but Cas is persistent. Always so persistent.

"Look at me, Dean."

A command, not a request. Dean obeys, caresses Cas' stubble-rough cheek in a gesture more tender than he thought himself capable. Tries to say Cas' name, but it comes out a broken, unrecognizable sound. He doesn't close his eyes. Even when they kiss, they maintain eye contact.

They find a rhythm easily, rocking, grinding, groping. Dean can tell when he hits Cas' prostate, breath hitching in his chest, eyelids fluttering. So beautiful.

Dean tells him so, whispers a hundred, a thousand more praises into the space between them. Declarations, promises. He'd be embarrassed if he didn't mean every single one of them.

Within minutes Cas is trembling, hands clutching, Dean's name a whispered benediction on his tongue.

Dean.

Like a prayer.

Cas' body coils like a spring as he rushes toward orgasm, so much kinetic energy in one place he must surely fly apart. Dean takes Cas in hand, smearing pre-come, pumping in counterpoint to the movement of his hips.

Cas curls into Dean when he comes, burrowing his face into the crook of Dean's neck and holding on for dear life. Like he'll be swept away if he lets go. Dean knows how he feels. He comes right behind him with a shattered cry, orgasm tearing through him, surrounded by the warmth of Cas, his body, his love. All of it.

Breath caught, Dean's lips find Cas' clavicle, his neck, that one spot where his jaw meets his ear. Cas pulls back, captures his lips with his own, plunders his mouth. Dean lets him.

Air. Apparently a necessity.

"I love you so much," Dean says. The words are easy now. Like he's said them every day of his life.

Cas smiles, radiant as the sun, joyful, and Dean wonders what the hell he was so afraid of.