Not long after the door shuts behind him with angry noise that matches their infuriated voices, they touch each other in ways entirely different than their hands originally intended.
Breaths, shouts and fierce grasps later, they're both lost and they're found, either way too damaged and on fire to rethink the path their bodies had so thoughtlessly taken, limbs mad and as endless blizzards.
Dean slides into him almost lazily, while stroking Cas's back and working on losening the muscle knots Cas got there from holding himself as if he still had wings.
He's holding his breath only to hear the years-old tension escaping Cas's shoulders with the tiny, uncontrolled moans that fill the air as the steady thrusts of Dean's hips and the healing powers of his hands set them both free of their troubles, faults and burdens.
Dean shudders inside of Cas, collapsing face-first on his back, trying to kiss the line of Cas's spine, but seeing too many stars to stay on the path he wants to mark, his lips ceasing to work properly in the moment of release-painted fire, but still trying to swallow Cas's skin whole as Dean begins to feel the angel's body constrict around him and shattering into shards of groans and cries loud and graceless only a moment after.
Him and Cas, resting on the bed arm to arm, all spent, quiet and in an inexplicable way - shy as if they were children.
Dean's trying to gather at least two or three words - because it matters, but midway they halt and roll down his throat again as he forgets how to speak, not sure why.
But Cas does not need to have his own grace to see and understand those syllables that collapsed unspoken. He hushes Dean down as his mouth aches to speak but fails to, and just gives him instead the all absolving reassurance of "I know".
Cas is too good, Dean wants to say, but he drifts away into blankness. It cost him too much, all of this.
Sleep leaks out of him at last and Dean finds himself in the secure frames of his bedroom. All still lit in amber glow of the lamp's revealing light, just as he left it hours before. He finds his back veiled with warmth and presence giving itself away through the soft touch of underbelly hair melting into the small of his back, through arms wrapped around his chest, hands which he'd recognize everywhere, even with eyes shut, trusting only the memory of their creases and the shape of their knuckles, are folded prayer-like as they rest above his heart. Dean wants to hold them and kiss the crevices between their fingers in silent thanks, let his mouth linger there unnoticed for as long as Cas is still away from here, sleeping.
Dean dares to touch the those palms with his own and he freezes before he can even lift them towards his mouth. Cas's hands are alive, they find Dean's warmth as fast as they feel it come and they wrap around his wrist too consciously to mistake that with unaware yearning, Cas's thumb digging slow circles in the hollows of Dean's smallest bones, soothing him like the terrified animal Dean supposes he might have turned into. Because Cas is here, not sleeping, with Dean clearly sunk into his bare skin, made a part of the self-entangled four-legged monster they've forged themselves into, lack of darkness making it impossible to hide the nature of their embrace, leaving no place for a smallest lie. And Cas knows this as well, just as Dean knows it. The fact that neither of them pulls away nevertheless is what Dean supposes it perhaps it obscures their vulnerability the most. Last night began as a blizzard of stale grief and last straws, somehow it ended up being the avalanche that took everything with, the two of them included. Them – the last men standing, as everything and everyone else is lost – just like he saw it all wither away in the year he fought so hard not to let it come.
Dean frees himself from the warmth, turns around to find at least half of an answer to what now in Cas's face, or just to find Cas's face at all, because either solemn or sour – it will make him feel steady and put him back into place again. Cas's face is neither of those things, it turns out. It intakes Dean with fondness which makes Dean want to run from this bed right now and drive off at least six states away because he doesn't deserve this and he's too ashamed of himself to let it wash all over him. He tenses, more than ready to flee, but Cas reacts with tightening his grip around him, the furrow of his brows and determined eyes tell Dean well enough he isn't gonna win this one. He exhales tiredly into Cas's face, somehow it's more shattering and intimate than sucking him off the night before – the proximity of their lips incomparably more immobilizing than almost choking on the taste of Cas's skin. Dean doesn't quite know how to comprehend the fact that Cas is still here, not leaving him to cope with an abrupt adios just like he used to do, just like people used to go away before their warmth would even wear off his skin. Doesn't know how to deal with being cradled while feeling so, so guilty. He feels something burn his face, for a second he even thinks that maybe Cas is gonna burn his eyes out now in some twisted act of justice, but he realizes he's just crying.
"We are going to save Sam, Dean" Cas assures him firmly, conviction of his voice thickening in the room like a fog.
"Do punch me already, Cas" he groans exasperated. He knows he's had this coming, wants to feel the pain to keep him sane and grounded. This is how things go, don't they: when there's crime, there's punishment.
But Cas just drags his fingers through Dean's hair, a soothing manner Dean last recalls being blessed with before the grand fire.
"Maybe later" Cas just says and pets him until the tension of his body gives up and sags.