A/N: This was written earlier before the episode aired. I am likely going to update it to match the episode. Please review! More to come.
The hunter sinks to his knees without hesitation, eager to have his 'Cas' back, needing to taste Cas, to touch Cas, needing to be inside of Cas, or to have Cas inside of him. Even if this is the last time. Especially if this is the last time.
Right now, everything that has happened since, god, since everything, doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is this. Them. Together again.
Dean knows 'Cas' only remembers bits and pieces right now. Hell, Dean knows that the life 'Cas' has been living since that day at the reservoir involves him getting married (and going by a name other than Cas). But in this moment all of that is irrelevant. Even without his memories Cas knows this is where he belongs, that above all else is this. Them. At the end they will always need each other.
"Dean" his voice is hoarse, choked with need, and laced with a desperation he doesn't quite understand. Fingers lace tightly through the back of Dean's hair, holding him close as the sound of a zipper fills the silence of the night.
They shouldn't be doing this, least of all here on a deserted back road in the middle of the night outside, exposed, and leaning against a car that doesn't feel quite right. This isn't the car they've done this against before. But oh, have they done this. If Dean's practiced hands and –oh fuck-his very practiced tongue weren't enough evidence already the sense of familiarity and safety coursing through the healer was.
"Dean," he whispers again more desperately this time, his voice breaking and shaking slightly.
His Dean.
According to what his brain actually possess for concrete detail this man should be a stranger, should be unknown, but that doesn't change the fact that this feels right. There isn't anything he wouldn't do for this man. In fact, he would do everything for him.
He'd even run into hell for him.
He has run into hell for him.
Fleeting images dance behind half-lidded eyes as Dean's mouth wreaks havoc on his senses.
I'm not a hammer, I have doubts and I have fears. Calloused hands are sliding up his torso searching out his skin.
I did it all for you. Strong hands grip his hips and keep him firmly in place.
It sounds so simple when you say it like that. Where were you when I needed to hear it? Silent tears are streaming down reddened cheeks as his right arm seeks out Dean's left shoulder. Even through the fabric he can feel it. Even without the physical scar he can feel it.
I was here. Where were you?
His body is shaking, trembling, and weak from Dean's touch, his warm mouth working rapidly, pulling out any reservations left about the roadside, the cold air, or this moment between them. This was Dean Winchester, the righteous man, the Michael sword, hunter, arrogant, coarse, vulgar, loyal, and Castiel's.
His fingers clench around Dean's shoulder, both steadying himself and relishing in the feel of his grace on Dean's shoulder. The feeling of his grace I am an Angel of the Lord. On Dean's shoulder.
I haven't laughed like that in…years.
A quiet whimper, fingertips digging deep, bruising a shoulder and a quiet broken "Dean" signal his orgasm and the once and now again angel collapses into the arms of his hunter.
Dean's arms.
Home.