The first time that Castiel saw Dean, the new Dean, it was with a blade held at the angel's throat.
They were wedged together between some dark New York alleyway, pollution and wisps of clouds hiding away the stars. The buzz of the city was background noise for Castiel's quick intake of breath, for the pounding of Dean's heart.
No words were spoken, but Castiel knew who it was. Knew the chest pressed against his back, knew the hand holding the blade to his neck, knew the longing to see those green eyes. Knew that all there would be was black.
Dean can feel as the angel tenses under the contact, as the last amounts of stolen Grace cower in his human vessel. He recognizes the manic bloodlust that has become so casual to his life, flitting between the cracks in his heart that formed when he became this. He doesn't remember how to love, to pity, to care- but he knows how to kill, and that seems to be enough.
The First Blade presses harder against skin, but Castiel doesn't panic. The sharpened jawbone teases the space directly under his chin, drawing a clean line of crimson, but that doesn't drive Dean further like it always does. Like it's supposed to.
He doesn't notice the dull ache in his gut for what it is. He suddenly feels sick, spiraling under too many memories and too many regrets, things he hasn't felt since he became the new Dean. Since he became improved, became faster, became better.
It hurts too much, reminds him of too much. He hasn't let his hand drift away from his blade in months but now the grip feels weak, feels fading. He wants to run so he does, disappearing into shadows that hadn't been there, leaving the angel in secluded silence.
The second time they met, it was in a wide field tucked into Kansas. Castiel had been following Dean as the demon left hints for him to find all over the United States, broken messages and strange deaths, all sealed with blood. This time, he had even further motivation, further reason to push himself forward.
The grass swayed up to his hips, tickling his ankles, dry and crisp. It ran as far as the eye could see, the horizon dotted with rich green trees and fluffy clouds lazily trailing the hazy blue sky. He could make out the faded imprint of a crescent moon in the canvas above, could smell the evening air and feel the comfortable heat.
Dean was the one behind him, and it hurt to see his face. Above the layers of demon and rot there was those shining hazel eyes, glimmering above fresh red lips that framed his delicate nose. Castiel turned to see them too close, close enough to count every single freckle that was sprinkled across porcelain skin.
Dean was alive, but he looked so... dead.
They stared at each other for the longest of moments, trying to memorize faces and steel emotions. With a devilish smirk that rivaled Lucifer's, Dean's eyes flickered to black, and Castiel found that he couldn't look at him anymore.
"What's wrong, Cas?" Dean mocked, stepping closer. Now they were pressed against one another, hot breath glazing over the dying angel's cheek. "Am I too ugly for you now?"
The question sent a shiver down his spine, goosebumps bubbling along his arms, chill overcoming his heart. Castiel didn't know what to say to his righteous man, now so tainted and impure.
"Castiel." The name was shot at him in a poisonous manner, every syllable and letter strung together in a way they hadn't come off Dean's tongue in years. Cold fingers gripped his chin roughly, bringing his face up, and Castiel couldn't bring himself to let his eyelids fall.
Those irises, unblinking and crystal blue, seemed to reveal all that Dean wanted to see. In a second he was gone, once again leaving Castiel to his own silence, face flushed and head spinning.
The third time they met, Castiel was almost afraid to keep tracking down the demon. He had told the other Winchester what had happened, watching those big brown eyes darken and eyebrows furrow in concern. He knew Dean wasn't himself, but he hoped that he could fix that, so here he was again.
It was just as night was starting to brace dawn, the very corners of the horizon bright and the skies without stars. He stood alone in a bare desert on the face of Nevada, sands smooth and cactuses tall. The air was humid, teetering on the edge of unbearably hot, but he had enough angelic power left not to feel discomfort.
Strong arms came around his waist, chin resting on broad shoulders. He could hear as Dean breathed into the fabric of his trenchcoat, as if reminiscing, and the angel was reminded of how the righteous man had carried the same coat across the country.
Something broke a little inside of him, and he think he finally realized why he cared so much, why Dean hadn't killed him by now. They were dancing along to this little game, like puppets controlled by hope and hate, mixing together with half-baked love flourishing in the result. He faintly chased the thought as Dean's lips found his jaw, faintly wondered when their strings would be cut and only the ruined remains of toys would be left.
It was just the bare pressing of lips against skin that came from that meeting, not met, not exchanged. And when the contact disappeared, all Castiel could think about was if Dean would ever stop leaving.
The fourth time they met was dangerous, anger bubbling over the top and words flying in a rage. It was just after Dean's kill that Castiel had caught him, too close than what Dean had intended, too fast. He had been trying to close off his emotions since they saw each other in that alley, hide into the constant bloodlust ingrained into his bones, but now it had spiraled too far and all he could muster was rage.
When he pounded his fists into Castiel's weakened form, he knew that they were both reminded of other times. That they both thought back to when Castiel had shoved the older Winchester against the wall, the blood that he had drawn and the bruises he had marked, the words that he spoke and the regret that he felt.
"I did everything for you!" He had said, and he had been true. Castiel had draped himself in the flag of Heaven, but ultimately, it had been about saving one human. Dean thought he had failed, knew that he failed, but Castiel... too full of hope, too full of heart.
The angel took the beating in stride, took the harsh words and the raw emotions Dean wasn't supposed to feel. The demon could see Castiel's Grace as it curled up into his whole form, beautiful as it was, but stretched out to the limit. There was no longer the wings that he had never gotten to see, broken and torn at, something that had happened when Castiel lost what made him angelic, when the angels fell from the skies like stars. And Dean hated it that he cared. There was nothing else to do but to show the other that hate, to imprint it on his body in the form of crimson and pain.
He left the one he cared for a bleeding mess. He left the one he loved.
The fifth time they met, Castiel had finally managed to catch up with his righteous man. He had realized a few things, too, some of them bittersweet and the rest reluctant. But finding what had once been his charge, what still felt like his charge, was something that he had no other choice to do. Being with Dean in whatever way he was had become an addiction, stronger than any dark indulgence humanity could offer.
Dean wasn't angry this time- merely empty, kneeling in a puddle of blood that wasn't his own. It was an empty street branching off some highway, asphalt tucked away into the distance.
He could sense the raw power of the Mark of Cain, turning what was salvaged of Dean's once pure soul black. It was Castiel's hands that pried away the First Blade from Dean's desperate fingers, and it was his hands that wiped away the tears.
Their first kiss was as innocent as it could be, but innocence was simply another illusion of life, a lesson you discover as you succumb into sin. It was soft, inexplicably gentle, lips tasting like loss and helplessness and other things they shouldn't.
It wasn't Dean that left, not really. It was fear that took him, and Castiel didn't hesitate to start the chase back up again.
The sixth time they met, it wasn't as gentle as the last but it wasn't as rough as the fourth. They found themselves in a musty motel room someplace off a highway in Oklahoma, beds creaky and lights dim. Dean pressed into Castiel, handsome features looming above the angel, and he took everything the other gave him. He took everything Castiel had.
It was supposed to be a reassurance, in Dean's mind. Castiel was supposed to cry below him, was supposed to bleed, and Dean was supposed to laugh. But the vessel held up stronger than he wanted it to, as did the angel riding it inside, and the only thing that spilled from Dean's mouth was frustrated whimpers full of loathing. None of them enjoyed the night but Castiel found himself ashamed of the physical pleasure he took from it, wishing that the demon had a reason to stay after it was done.
It continued like this as they met again and again, clinging onto one another and tearing themselves apart. Somewhere down the line Castiel stopped telling Sam when they met, stopped seeing the younger Winchester altogether. And somewhere after that, Dean stopped doing it because of an obligation to cause Castiel pain, started doing it because of a need to feel.
On one of those such times they had met, both forgetting the number, it wasn't a show of desperation. It wasn't cold-hearted sex, Dean fucking the angel into the mattress as he tried to beat the submission out, failing on each attempt. It became making love, battered and withering as the emotion was, until it turned deeper and meaningful and right.
They faintly noticed as they became so drawn together, when Dean would disobey the king of Hell and his blade would taste no more blood. It was a rare occasion when there wasn't more than a small touch, when it was more than a bare exchange of words before the afterglow. Sometimes, Dean would curl up, pressing himself against the dying angel, and Castiel would hold him tight throughout the whole night. He would ignore Sam's prayers for now, ignore the constant pounding of his stolen Grace, focus only on his righteous man.
Dean started praying when his pain grew, when he could barely move and human functions became a necessity. Castiel would hear the whispered words when Dean thought he was asleep, reaching out to an absent God, and his heart would be touched in ways he wasn't aware it could anymore.
As Dean became more human, Castiel became more dead, and he didn't know which one of them was hurt the most.
It was the last time they met when Dean finally whispered those three little words that humans valued so much. It was that time that Castiel understood why, and was there to whisper them back. It was a miracle that he held on long enough to see the smile that came, upturning Dean's lips and bringing a shine to his watering eyes. It was a miracle that he was able to lift his head up to meet that mouth in a kiss, a last exchange of lips, and it was probably the time he started believing in miracles, too.