The little cabin is almost completely dark, save for the small flicker of a candle set up on the table, white wax dripping onto the faded wood. Dean Winchester sits alone, half his face a mix of orange and red from the flame, but the other half is shadowed and black.
Come alone. I will be there.
Those words echo over and over in his head, the faint promise that very well could've been the remnants of a dream or a wishful fantasy. But no, those weren't fake. Dean didn't – couldn't – believe that to be so, so for the past four hours he's been sitting at the table, moving from the spot only long enough to light the lone candle when the sun went down.
He leans forward, elbows on the edge of the table, the old, splintered thing sticking up through his shirt to graze his skin – he doesn't care, the pain barely registers, his mind is back in the impala where he'd received that promise. With no real current job, no new information from Kevin, and no sign of Crowley anywhere, the Winchester brothers holed up in a small motel just outside a quaint little town in Virginia. Sam is back there now, probably sleeping, completely oblivious to his older brother's disappearance.
Dean hasn't been spending a lot of time with his brother, preferring to be alone with his baby, driving on the open country roads as opposed to being stuck in some shitty cheap motel. And as he drives, all he does is pray. It usually starts off as calm, cool 'where are you man?' kind of prayer, but the longer he drives, his words grow violent and angry, before tears start pouring down his cheeks and he begs Castiel just to give him some sign that he's okay. Normally he's greeted by no response, so he's left to dry his eyes, grow a pair, and return to the room to sleep; but today had been different. Today there'd been a response.
Or so he thought.
Dean rises painfully, as if an incredible weight atop his back has been holding him down.
Where the hell are you? He questions, beginning to doubt the validity; chalking the promise up to hopeful thinking that had driven him to be rash. But for some reason, Dean can't bring himself to leave.
The fridge surprisingly still works and it bathes Dean in an eerie white light when he pulls it open to grab another beer. The thing is so old that the handle is rusted and it's chipped and peeling all over – its original white colour, now a dusty grey. He doesn't care, it does its job and that's all that matters. He doesn't even stop to wonder who keeps the electricity up here, or who keeps the fridge stocked with his favourite beers, all he knows is that, whenever they're up this way, he makes sure to stop by, some unseen force pulling him towards the old, dilapidated building.
Sam doesn't know about it, Dean refuses to tell him. To him, it's the one place that is all his own, the one place he can escape all the shit they've been through, and kick back with a beer and the ancient television set, no questions asked.
But how did Cas know where it was? Why did he say to meet him here specifically?
"Dean"
The oldest Winchester's shoulder's tense, the hand around the fridge handle tightening to the point that his knuckles turn white. Dean sighs and turns his head to the side, his eyes widening a little as a single black feather floats down onto the counter to his left.
"Where the hell have you been?" Dean sets the beer down on top of the feather, still refusing to look at the other. Absentmindedly, his hand travels up to his shoulder, feeling the risen bumps of the handprint seared into his skin.
"Busy." Castiel has never been a man of many words, Dean knows this, but the short attitude infuriates Dean, and he whirls to glare at the other.
Castiel is standing about ten feet away, his trench coat filthy, tie burned away about halfway down. He has a cut across his left cheek and his once majestic wings droop and drag the ground, bare clumps showing through where feathers have fallen – or been pulled – out.
"Cas." Dean breathes the word out, tasting it – enjoying it – on his tongue. It's been months since he's seen the angel – his angel – and no matter how bad he looks, Dean can't help but smile a little.
It takes three steps. Three steps and Castiel is in Dean's arms, the latter's fingers running through Cas' matted hair that hasn't seen a shower or a pair of scissors in ages. Three steps, and eight months of unanswered prayers and ignored pleas for help are completely forgotten, the present becoming all that truly matters.
"Where the hell have you been?" Dean says again, not really asking this time. His words are a mere breath against Castiel's neck, his lips grazing the prickly, unshaven skin.
"Does it matter?" the angel finally speaks up, forming a proper sentence, his arms still hanging by his sides despite Deans crushing hug. "I'm here now."
"I know Cas. Just like you promised."
In the light of dying candle, Dean strips Cas of his wasted trench coat and scorched tie, leading him into the small bathroom where he runs the water for the other, leaving the angel alone to clean himself up. Dean then gathers up what's left of Castiel's precious coat, and puts it in the sink, washing it and cleaning it as best that he can. When Castiel finally emerges from the bathroom – clean shaven and washed – the coat is hung over the back of a chair, drying, free of all the dirt and grim, save for a few irremovable burn holes.
Dean is sitting back in the chair by the table, his feet propped up on its sister chair which he's scooted closer. When Cas comes out, Dean drops his legs to the ground and leans forward a bit, hands resting on his knees. As the other walks towards him, Dean stands up, staring eye to eye with the man he's come to care for so much. This stupid, naïve, pain in the ass angel who has made Dean – a man whose heart had been broken too many times, a man with love only for his brother – fall in love when love was all but lost to him.
Not many words are exchanged over the course of the night, affections, feelings, and thoughts conveyed through gentle caressing fingers and passionate kisses. Sometime during the night, the candle finally burned down and went out, but that didn't matter to Dean who knows his way far too well around Cas' body. No one gets any sleep that night, the morning sun rising to greet them well before they're through.
"Cas." Dean's eyes spark as they turn to take in Castiel's face, the sun already high in the sky, bathing them in its harsh golden glow.
The angel stays silent, a response Dean is all too familiar with.
"Cas, you can't keep ignoring me, then randomly showing up out of nowhere. Don't you hear me? I need you. Me and Sam both do."
"I am an angel, Dean. I can't come running every time Sam falls down and gets a boo boo" Dean taught Castiel sass, but he hates it when the other throws it back in his face.
"What about the times we need you? Something's wrong with Sam. He's coughing up blood."
Castiel stares blankly at the ceiling, his face an unreadable mask. Dean sighs and closes his eyes, rolling over onto his back.
"Fine."
More silence, this one heavy with discomfort and pain.
"This place is yours isn't it, Cas." It isn't a question; Dean realized it a few months back. A few careless feathers, perfectly drawn warding, and things like that were perfect clues. The angel had been keeping up a house where he and Dean could escape, even if only once or twice a year. A place where they can be alone.
Castiel's silence is answer enough, and Dean moves closer, hovering over his lover for a second before leaning in and pressing his lips to the others chapped ones, filling the wordless gap in the air with a kiss.
"I love you Dean."
"Yeah yeah, I know. I love you too, you stupid angel."