A/N: Hello, lovelies! Be aware that this one's rated "M" for "May Contain Sex and Violence". It's very unlike my other stories. Enjoy!
In his dream, he was on a surgical table, arms and legs restrained at his sides. His coat and shirt were spread open wide, leaving his chest bare. They hovered above him with angel blades in hand. They would take back his stolen grace. His body felt colder and colder as they cut into him, taking turns carving a crude "Y" into his torso. The only warmth left in him was emanating from his wounds. His assailants were highlighted in haze. They did not care that this would kill him— this was Heaven's justice, and he'd been dying inside for a long time anyway. The glowing grace was collected into a flask and placed on a shelf. White walls melted around him and a sudden fever held him immobile. His blood began to boil, he was kneeling at the throne of the new King of Hell. Demons attended the king, rubbing his shoulders and fanning his face. Horns curled out of his skull. Each faithful follower faded into shadow and spotlight shone on his Majesty's face, which peeled and puckered like an ancient painting. "Poor fallen angel," the king said, drawing out the First Blade as they chained him up, "You have much more to lose than your wings!"
Castiel woke, a scream barely escaping his parched throat. His eyes dart back and forth in the darkness, searching for the scenery of his dreams. Sweat drenches all his clothes—he realizes he drifted off before undressing. A few moments pass as Castiel regains his senses, and then he slips off the motel bed, rubs his temples, and cools his face with water from the tap. Looking in the mirror he sees dark circles under his eyes and the sick pallor of his skin. He wearily yearns for some other option than just settling with death. Bemoaning his fate, he rationalizes, will not help. Castiel resolves to try to sleep again, figure it all out in the morning. He leaves the bathroom light on as his guide through the room, stumbles through the doorway and halts mid-step at the sight of a black silhouette. Castiel knows who it is but is afraid all the same. He clears his throat, and asks, "What are you doing here?"
The figure steps closer and replies, "Your nightmares..." he inhales deeply, "entice me, in the same way my prayers used to call to you." His presence creates a heaviness, like suffocating humidity before a summer storm.
Still, Castiel is unsure of him. He reaches for his angel blade in his sleeve but realizes it's under his pillow. The demon is quick to react anyway, securing Castiel to the wall with a wave of his hand and the First Blade at his ex-lover's neck. Restless sweat drips off Castiel's face. He whispers slowly, "What do you want?"
The demon moves smoothly, mouth meeting ear, and answers, "I want you."
"Dean," he says, exhaling the breath he'd been holding. It was meant to protest, but Dean's name on his tongue sounds like submission.
Dean Winchester expected more of a fight. In his mind he'd envisioned a paso doble, his blood was already racing for it. He imagines angels bowing violins and pounding on drums, culminating in his domination of his mighty opponent. He only needs to ignite his enemy's passions.
Castiel strains his eyes in the dark to get a better look at Dean. Not before long their song haunts him, like it does most nights. No wonder it's called "classic" rock. Dean presses the blade into Castiel's neck a little deeper before casting it aside and making their lips clash. Something about it doesn't quite work. A little too mechanical, and a little too missed at the same time. Castiel relaxes, melts into Dean, who takes that moment of weakness to steer him towards the bed. As his back meets the blankets, the angel feels burdened, as if the drum in his head were beating him down. He scrutinizes Dean as the demon works off their clothes. Dean pauses, his fingers tugging at smooth fabric.
"You still wear this?" he asks incredulously.
It's a blue silk tie, an anniversary gift. Castiel still remembers Dean insisting that he wear it, even though his old one was in perfectly good condition. Of course, any present from Dean carries heavy sentiment.
"I always wear it," Castiel answers honestly, seeking a reaction in Dean's expression. It's too dim to be sure of anything. Dean continues to undress him but leaves the tie in place. In seconds they're both bare.
"Ah, Cas," he scolds after looking him over. "Show me you miss me." They kiss, deeply and tediously. Dean pulls at the nape of Castiel's neck, arching him like a bow, watches the muscles draw taut, and sucks at his throat. It feels like damnation when Castiel's body reacts, he has to bite back a plea for more. Discomforted and distrusting, he turns to look at Dean again, breaking off the connection of skin and mouth. The light from the bathroom catches in Dean's eyes—suddenly Castiel can't look at him. Dehumanizing, all-consuming blackness. Like the ink of a demon contract.
"What's the matter?" he taunts, flaunting those frightful eyes on purpose. "You know what I am... And you're still here."
Castiel reflects for a moment. He wonders if there is a part left of Dean that needs assurance. "What you are now doesn't negate who you were," tests Castiel, peeking at him from the corner of his eye, "You were, and still are, my Dean Winchester."
Dean tilts his head to the side and makes a pleased sort of hum, a teasing smile on his lips. "I'm afraid the only possession here is you," Dean says, taking a lick at the exposed skin of Castiel's neck, right over the cut from the First Blade. It stings and his face reddens from pain and a rush of ungodly ideas.
He knows Dean is playing him, pulling at his strings like a guitar. Each graze makes him respond, moans are metallic, reverberating with the iron in his blood. The demon positions himself in Castiel's lap, his back braced by the angel's bent legs.
In this intimacy, Castiel is a little braver. He props himself up with one arm and trails soft touches through Dean's hair and down his chest with the other hand. He's disillusioned because Dean's body is familiar and warm and so human. Eyes a little dazed, Castiel's fingertips drift back up, brush over his face, then dwell on the curves of Dean's shoulder, where a handprint once existed.
It's so sweet and kind that Dean finds it revolting. Dean seizes his wrists and shoves them into the blankets, knocking Castiel down with them. He hisses, "You shouldn't touch dirty things."
But Castiel doesn't see him that way. No, being with Dean is the unexpected final stanza to finish off his poem. And although Castiel could spend eternity loving Dean, he relents. How was one less bit of control in his life going to change anything?
Having the upper hand is enough to make Dean giddy. It feeds his vanity as Dean creates a rhythm that matches the orchestra's in his mind. Up—down—up—down–up–down-up-with each downbeat the two seem to sing, thrills bounce off each other like echoing sound waves. Dean's grip constricts around Castiel's wrists. The tempo increases, before a crescendo burns through their bodies and they still, light shining on sheens of sweat. Castiel closes his eyes and they sigh in harmony.
Dean observes all the places where Castiel's skin has changed color. Pastel pink almost everywhere, purple and scarlet bleeding around his neck. Such a pretty hummingbird, he thinks. Shades of black and blue bruise his wrists where Dean victimized them. He likes that he can have this effect, wonders how far he can push Castiel. He takes the silk tie in both hands and pushes the knot up to Castiel's throat.
Castiel's eyes fly open, the demon's bloodlust suddenly real. "Dean," he warns. Dean pulls tighter. "Dean!"
He's choking him, Castiel can't tell him that his dwindling grace will not breathe for him. His hands reach for Dean's, nails dig into the grooves on the back of the attacking hands before he weakens and simply holds onto Dean. The angel turns pale, then an eerie blue. He feels a chill seep into his bones, the demon is unrelenting until Castiel's hands fall away at his sides, palms up. Castiel can't feel anything, can't see anything, can't hear anything—not even their favorite song. Blackout.
"Cas?" the demon doubts. He's a little bewildered when Castiel goes limp. Thinking highly of himself, he'd believed that the angel was merely entertaining him. There's no response and now Dean is worried. He wildly unties the silken gift turned noose. He checks the marks on Castiel's body—no, those haven't healed yet. He checks Castiel's breathing—that's not happening either.
He shakes him, demanding, "Cas! Cas, come back to me." Then, using a precious second to collect himself, Dean remembers what he is.
"Let's make a deal, Cas," he says before joining their mouths and breathing for Castiel. "You get your grace if," another breath, "you give me your soul," another breath, "I need you awake, Cas," another breath, "or I'll just make the damn deal with myself!"
Castiel takes a tortured breath, coughs harshly, and inhales again. He sits up and clutches onto Dean. "You would," his voice is hardly perceptible, so Dean strokes his cheek. "You would save me for nothing in return?"
Dean nods and stares at him hard, just to make sure he's alive. He wishes his green eyes would stop betraying him. His body is shaking and he can't hide it. "I need a drink..." he mutters as he turns to leave the bed.
"No, stay with me," Castiel pleads hoarsely. He wraps his arms around Dean and pulls him close to his chest. Dean embraces him, guilt winding around whatever humanity is untainted. Castiel shifts so they can get under the covers. A few moments pass while Dean listens to Castiel's heartbeat—unsteady and exhausted. "Why did you...?" Castiel asks, not even sure of what Dean meant to accomplish.
"I wasn't trying to," Dean starts, "to kill you, if that's what you're thinking. Not that I would blame you, I mean, it's never personal," Dean halts, wondering how he could possibly make things worse by being honest. Castiel is quiet, listening. He starts again, "I like having the ability to change you. It feels like winning… Because most of the time, I feel great, just being me, without caring about consequences. But you're always with me, it's like I can sense when you're unhappy with me," he laughs half-heartedly before adding, "You're the angel on my shoulder. You ground me on Earth instead of where I really belong."
Castiel smiles although he's still in pain. Near-death and revival creates a strangely simple reconciliation. Warm and entangled, Dean grasps just how much he needs this sort of thing. The room is silent, it feels like only the two of them exist.
"Do you remember when we took a boat out on one of the Great Lakes?" whispers Dean.
Castiel recalls the sunny weather and a serenely clear and vast body of water. "Lake Erie," he replies. They felt as isolated then as they do now.
"I had asked if you remembered being young."
"And I had a few, rather embarrassing and humorous stories to tell you. Yet, you asked me that for a different reason."
Dean was less anxious knowing he remembered. "I asked because the only time I ever felt safe was when I was a little kid. But I felt safe at that moment, with you."
If someone asked Castiel what his most cherished memory was, it would be that one.
"Still there, Cas?"
"Yes," he says, tightening his hold on Dean.
"How do you feel now? Can you ever feel safe with me?" Dean prays for the answer he doesn't deserve.
Castiel is absolute in his vow. "I'm safe by your side, as always. The deal we were going to make earlier—you wanted my soul. Dean..."
"What is it?" Dean moves to face him as the dawn slips through the window.
"You already have it."
Dean kisses Castiel, eternally sealing their bond. Each ache and ailment in the angel's body ceases. He's healed. The life in him feels as if Dean took the world's burgeoning daylight and gave it all to him.
They settle in again, Dean nestles into Castiel's shoulder, an arm crossing his chest to monitor its rise and fall. "One more thing, and then I'll let you rest," Dean promises.
"Mm, alright," mumbles Castiel, peaceful sleep threatening to overcome him.
"What do you think of my eyes?"
Castiel assumes he means the evil ones from the pits of Hell. He's already made his opinion clear on the unbelievable greenness of the others.
Dean continues, "They're sorta like the Impala, don't ya think? Black and polished. Definitely rock n roll."
Castiel laughs. He could learn to appreciate them. "Shall I call you 'Baby' from now on?"
Dean grins profoundly.
"Baby…" Castiel tries it out. It's odd but charming coming from his voice.
"Shh," says Dean, nearly blushing even after all their time together. "I'll watch over you while you sleep."
Castiel murmurs, "Baby, I love you."
Dean presses his lips to Castiel's cheek. "I love you too, Cas."