This story will be a multi-chapter Destiel fic. Takes place after episode 9 x 11. Dean and Cas bond in a motel room, and enjoy a little wing fluff (pun intended, sorrynotsorry).

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Story title comes from a Deathcab for Cutie song.

Note: It's been years since I've posted any fiction to this site, so here it goes...

This story has been a work in progress for literally two years. Recently, after a fit of frustration, I wound up taking it apart and practically starting over. I was having a hell of a time keeping Cas in character (he's not easy to write, I've found). Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated. Though I'm still not 100% satisfied, especially after reading so many amazing Destiel fics (I feel mine pales in comparison), I've been dying to get this uploaded and I think it's finally just about right. I'm super nervous, but I really hope you enjoy it.

Dean hated motels, really fucking hated them; at least the ones he and Sam always chose. The rooms were small and dingy, decorated with out-dated furnishings and Dean wouldn't dare bring in a black light for fear of what he might find. The one he was staying in right now was particularly awful: it was small, smelled of mildew and the entire room, bathroom included, had wallpaper that was patterned with vegetables. The hardest part was that he was just starting to get used to having a place to call home, a room and a comfy bed that were his, where the sheets weren't covered with the bodily fluids of strangers. And now here he was, back to shitty motels; it was fucking depressing.

Dean was alone in this shithole with nothing but a couple of cheap beers and Jack Daniels to keep him company. Crowley was off somewhere being a dick-bag and Sam was back at the bunker, with Cas, still not speaking to Dean. Not that Dean could blame him; he knows he fucked up royally. He once again defied the "natural order" and took matters into his own hands. He made choices that weren't his to make. As much as it pained him, Dean knew he didn't deserve his brother's forgiveness.

It was really hard not seeing Cas, though. Granted, Cas had been gone before, like when he was stuck in Heaven trying to mediate a civil war, and when Dean thought he was dead (on more than one occasion). But it was different knowing that the angel was out there, with his brother, and Dean couldn't see him. The weird thing was, that on top of everything else, he was actually feeling a little jealous of Sam.

Dean was laying on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, and trying to watch the crappy little TV that looked like it was new back in 1986. There were only two working channels, the Home Shopping Network and one that played old black and white movies Dean had never heard of. He was shirtless - wearing only a pair of tattered basketball shorts – and sweating; it was hot as hell in the motel room despite being the middle of January. The heat was stuck on "deep-fry," and try as he might he couldn't turn the damn thing down. He had opened the one working window, but the winter air seemed to be no match for the sweltering motel room. Downing the rest of his beer, he crumpled up the can and rolled off the bed. He shuffled over to the ancient refrigerator and yanked open the door, staring at a couple Chinese take-out containers from the day before, and some milk that had been there when he had checked into the room. He lingered in front of the open fridge, basking in the barely cooled air (shocker, the fucking fridge was on the fritz, too). Finding nothing of interest inside, Dean headed back over to the bed, shoving his hand down his shorts for a quick scratch and adjustment.

"Whiskey it is, then..." he grumbled, grabbing the half-empty bottle from the nightstand.

He took a swig, feeling the warmth wash down into his stomach. It was too fucking hot in the room and he really wanted a cold beer, but he had just finished the last one and the stupid town he was in didn't have a liquor store or bar open this late during the week, so he had to settle for the cheap whiskey he'd found in the back seat of the Impala. On the plus side, he had a pretty good buzz going; thoughts of Sam and Abaddon and Gadreel were finally starting to fade.

It was about 1:30 in the morning. He knew he should have been getting some rest but Dean didn't sleep much these days. He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in ages. Each night he'd wake up in a panic, sweat covering his body, with images of Kevin's burnt eye sockets in his head. He had taken up the Dean Winchester method of self-medicating with large amounts of alcohol, usually drinking until he passed out, followed by popping a few uppers to get him going in the mornings. His self-worth had hit an all-time low. Cas would disagree, he knew. Dean thought back to his conversation with Cas, after he had told him all about letting Ezekiel/Gadreel possess his brother. He tried to focus on Cas' kind words and understanding smile, but all it did was make him feel even worse.

At the thought of Cas, Dean touched the now-vacant spot on his left shoulder. The print had faded some time ago, but the memory of it remained. Though he'd never admit it, Dean actually missed the handprint. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly down (and was alone, of course), he'd roll up his shirtsleeve and just stare at it. It had been a reminder that someone actually gave a damn about him, that someone cared enough to haul his ass out of Hell. He knew Sam still cared about him, but since things weren't so great between the brothers right now it was nice knowing there was someone else who had his back.

Of course, now he had a new mark to deal with and this one didn't have such a pleasant association behind it. The Mark of Cain, still a raw and angry red, was on his right forearm. The fucker was irritating as all hell, too. Dean scratched it, absent-mindedly.

The picture on the TV started to get fuzzy. Dean sighed and scooted off the bed, bottle still in hand, and wandered over to the set. "Cheap-ass motel room…" he muttered as he adjusted the bunny ears and banged on the side of the TV. Dean nodded at his handy work as the picture righted itself.

"Hello Dean," came the familiar, gravelly voice accompanied by beating wings, causing Dean to jump. Castiel was standing right behind him, very much in his personal bubble. He turned to face the angel, almost bumping noses with him. His jaw dropped at the site of his best friend; it took him several seconds to get his shock under control and actually speak.

"Cas..."

"Oh, yes. My apologies," said the newly-minted angel awkwardly, taking a few steps back.

"No that's not..." Dean tapered off, coughing nervously. He turned away from the angel, rubbing the back of his neck. He couldn't understand his sudden onset of discomfort with being around Cas. For a fleeting second he felt the need to be anywhere but here, right now.

The hunter wandered over to his bed and settled back down, trying to look at anything but his sudden visitor. Cas, on the other hand, kept right on staring with that fucking haunting look of his that always made Dean's breath catch. The angel's heart ached at what he saw: his friend exhausted and beaten down, unshaven, unhealthy. Even his eyes, usually such a bright green and full of spark, seemed dulled and bloodshot by drink and depression, with dark circles underneath. Cas momentarily shifted his dark blue gaze from Dean, to study the state of the small room. It smelled heavily of alcohol and sweat, with beer cans littering the sink and dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. When he turned back to Dean, he had a pained look on his face. Dean saw the look, and took another swig from the whiskey bottle; the last thing he wanted was Cas' fucking pity.

"So what brings you around tonight, Cas? The exciting nightlife? Buzzing metropolis? Exotic women?"

Castiel tipped his head sideways, his trademark quizzical look. "Why would any of that interest me?" Despite all his time with the Winchesters, Cas still missed sarcasm.

"Why are you here, Cas?"

The angel rolled his eyes (a very human action that Dean had noticed he'd picked up), as though the answer was obvious. "To bring you home, of course."

Dean cleared his throat, awkwardly. He hadn't expected Cas to say that and he wasn't sure how it made it him feel. Actually he was aware of how it was making him feel but he wasn't sure how he felt about the way it was making him feel; the combination of booze and heat was making his head fuzzy. He suddenly felt the need to look at anything but Castiel.

"Well, Cas..." Dean suddenly felt like he was trying to explain to a child why their mom and dad couldn't live together anymore. "I don't think that's a good idea right now."

"Why not?"

Without thinking, Dean flipped open his cell phone and closed it again, a habit he'd gotten into recently in the hopes of finding a text from Sam. The gesture did not go unnoticed.

"It will get better Dean. He'll forgive you. He always does, just as you have always forgiven him."

Dean shook his head, still not meeting Cas' stare. "Not this time, Cas. I screwed up, big time. You don't even know the half of it." He held out his right arm to show Cas his new mark, turning away in shame. "I told you already, I'm fucking poison. Now I got the mark to prove it."

Castiel knew right away what the mark was. He came and settled on the bed, near Dean's feet, and listened as Dean explained the last few days to him. How he had teamed up with Crowley (talk about tables turning) to destroy Abaddon, how he needed this special blade to do it and how he needed to take the power from Cain in order to wield this weapon, hence the burn. The angel's face softened, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Dean...I took in the souls of every monster in purgatory because I thought it would help me defeat Raphael, and look how that turned out. As I told you before, I understand why you did what you did. Your intentions, as always, were good."

"Yeah, but now Kevin's dead. And poor Sammy- " Dean stopped suddenly, and turned away, blinking furiously. Fucking keep it together, Dean.

"And how many died because of my good intentions? Yes, our actions have consequences, but Dean you can't predict the future. People got hurt and that's a terrible thing, but you've got to stop this. Nobody punishes you more than you punish yourself," Cas finished. Dean, remembering Crowley's similar statement, chuckled though his face was still grim.

"Haven't you learned by now that I'm a lost cause? You should go back to Sam."

"I have never, and will never think that of you. And Sam is fine; he's healing nicely. I'd like to stay and keep you company, if you don't mind."

"Psh, I got all the company I need right here," Dean responded, patting the bottle next to him. He took another long pull. He was definitely getting a great buzz.

"I don't think alcohol could be considered good company, and getting drunk by yourself could hardly be considered a good idea."

"Well hell, Cas, there's an easy solution to that: have a drink with me!" Dean thrust the bottle towards Cas, who eyed it suspiciously. He had never had pleasant experiences with alcohol.

"No, thank you."

"Well then what do you propose we do?" Dean was starting to have a hard time focusing, and fuck was it hot in this room. Maybe he should've foregone the whiskey...

"Why not just sit here quietly? I always find that enjoyable. Or we could talk some more," Cas added quickly, after Dean pulled a face.

Dean pondered this for a minute; his thoughts were a little jumbled right now considering the amount of booze in his system. A movement from Cas deflected his attention, as he noticed the angel flexing his shoulders, like his muscles were sore or something. Dean had never known angels to experience muscle aches.

"What're you doing? You hurt your back?"

"Hmm? No, it's my wings...or rather my new wings. I lost my wings when Metatron took my grace and I became human. But since I took my brother's grace they have grown back, so I'm just getting used to the weight again.

"So you can actually feel them?" Cas nodded, still shifting his shoulders. This surprised Dean. Since all he ever saw of angel wings were their shadows, he'd just assumed they were simply that, shadows. After four years, he couldn't believe he'd never asked before.

"What do your wings really look like?"

Cas stared at him, like he didn't understand the question. "I mean…I know I've kind of seen 'em like when we first met and there was that flash of lightning and you did that whole 'I'm a badass angel of the Lord' thing, but what do they really look like?" Cas was giving Dean a strange look – he looked self-conscious.

Cas looked away and didn't respond for so long, Dean thought he wasn't going to answer. "Angels' wings are a very personal part of them; we rarely reveal them."

"Oh," Dean looked away, feeling scolded. So much for conversation; he had already managed to put his fucking foot in his mouth. Cas stood and started to walk away. Dean jumped off the bed, walking towards him, his bottle of whiskey forgotten. "Hey man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- "

Cas abruptly turned to face him, brushing his hand across Dean's face. Dean blinked stupidly for a moment then saw a dark shape unfolding itself behind Cas' back. His jaw dropped as the angel's two great wings unfurled. It was truly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. In the room's poor lighting he could make out that Cas' wings were a rich dark brown, matching his hair color. They were also fucking huge. The wingspan had to be almost twenty feet, though they didn't seem to be completely spread out. The tiny motel room could barely contain them; almost touching the ceiling, they reached the walls and spilled down the sides like glossy curtains. Dean was speechless. The fact that Cas was revealing such a pure and private part of himself to Dean was more than his alcohol-addled brain could take in at the moment. Dean was far from pure, but the fact that time and time again Cas so easily brushed aside all of his faults made his stomach flip in a very pleasant way.

"Holy shit," was all Dean could say.

"You could say that," Cas said, the corners of his mouth turning up at Dean's always-eloquent choice of words.

A curious look came across Dean's face. "Wait, I thought angels' wings were white?" Cas took a few steps towards Dean, his wings brushing against the walls. Dean expected them to knock over pictures and lamps, but amazingly the wings brushed by these items without so much as leaving a mark in the dust - must be all that fancy new angel mojo.

"Yes, humans always seem to picture us that way," he smiled. "Actually in my true form they are made of light and energy; however, when an angel takes a vessel, the wings take up the pigmentation of the vessel's features. Because Jimmy had dark brown hair, my wings appear as the same color."

"Ha, well I wonder what color Anna's wings would've been, as the carpet definitely didn't match the drapes," Dean laughed. Cas looked confused as he gazed around the motel room.

"Actually the curtains are the exact same color as the carpet, Dean."

Again, sarcasm. Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, never mind. Lesson for another day." He took a few steps towards Cas, his hand outstretched. "Can I…can I touch them?" Cas looked uncertain.

"Well I - " but Dean didn't wait for permission, the alcohol making him bold. He ran his hand along the spine of one wing, feeling the strength of the muscles as they flexed and shifted beneath the sleek feathers. The feathers were glossy and refreshingly cool to the touch, like the unused side of a pillow. One thing Dean found fascinating about the wings was that they moved and twitched constantly, independent of each other, reminding him of a cat's tail. He walked the length of one wing, running his calloused hands over its entirety with childlike wonder. Dean sometimes forgot that Cas was an angel, but the sight of the wings brought back the realization that the man standing before him was definitely not a man at all.

"Dude, these things are…awesome." When Cas didn't say anything, Dean glanced at the angel and was surprised to see him staring at Dean and smiling, almost with something like pride on his face.

"Dean, do you know what's interesting about an angel's wings?" Again with that electric blue stare.

Dean coughed and quickly turned back to admiring the wings. "Um, what isn't interesting about angel wings?"

"Angels embody all that is goodness and purity and love; therefore, my wings, my true form, can only be touched by those who are just and truly good." Dean turned to Castiel, squinting his eyes in confusion, the alcohol making him slow.

"Wait...what?"

The angel sighed and stepped towards Dean, his magnificent wings shifting. "It's what I have been trying to tell you all along: Dean, you are a good person."

Dean stared his friend, his mouth forming an "o." That was the thing about Cas: no matter how deeply Dean buried his feelings, Cas always succeeded in unearthing them, turning them over like stones and knowing all that was hiding underneath. Dean's thoughts were racing, a cold sweat breaking out across his body, despite the room's sweltering heat. There it was again, this feeling that Cas always managed to stir up within Dean. A while ago, Dean had noticed this feeling, this tugging at the back of his mind, when it came to Cas. He had actually first noticed it on the night he took Cas to the brothel; then, he simply brushed it aside, chalking it up to a warped sense of brotherly love for the guy. After all, he loved women, had a fucking track record (literally) to prove it. But then, right after Cas disappeared into that lake, the feeling came back tenfold. It was during this dark period that Dean started to acknowledge the feeling, but even still, Dean avoided having that conversation with himself. It wasn't until Dean was trapped in Purgatory and desperately looking for the angel day and night, did he reassess the feeling and come to terms with it's meaning. Now here it was again not just tugging, but damn near shoving aside all other thoughts, barging its way to the forefront of Dean's conscience so that it was the only fucking thing he could focus on at the moment. And the way Castiel was looking at him, with his head cocked to the side like that...

Get your shit together, man, don't do anything stupid...

Unfortunately, Dean was a "shoot first, ask later" kind of guy. And unfortunately, at this moment, Dean was pretty fucking drunk. He stumbled towards Cas, his balance thrown off by his increased blood-alcohol content. He was so close to the angel now that they were inches apart. His palms felt damp and he could feel beads of sweat gathering on the small of his back. God it was so fucking hot in this room (how was Cas still wearing that damn coat?). He hesitated, nervously licking his lips; he wasn't sure if this was ok, but Cas wasn't moving away.

"Cas?" His voice was low and husky. It was meant as a question, though Dean wasn't sure what the question was. The hunter was just getting ready to dive head first into the great unknown, but Cas suddenly disappeared with a rustling of wings and a (pleasantly) cool breeze.

Oh fuck.

I did a mean thing. To be continued, I promise...

Sidenote: Castiel's wing lore is totally made up for the purpose of the plot.