I strongly recommend listening to the song, even if you're already familiar with it.
Dean and Castiel belong to Eric Kripke. "When the Levee Breaks" belongs to Led Zeppelin. They're the cool kids in this sandbox.
The first notes echo lazily but steadily through the bunker, bouncing off the walls and multiplying in empty corridors, and Castiel knows this song.
Castiel is aware that it was first recorded in 1929, and then, more importantly, once again, in December of 1970; that what he is currently hearing was at the time a brand new Ludwig drumkit placed at the bottom of a three storey stairwell of a former poorhouse in Headley, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom; that it is going to last approximately seven minutes and eight seconds, seven, six, five, four; that...
…Dean blinks and frowns, as the same drums start thrumming quietly in the background, deceptively quiet under the smooth tidal wave of conversation and sounds coming from the pool tables, the rhythm compensating for what it lacks in volume by vibrating through the floor and climbing up the cheap vinyl of their seats seemingly right into Dean's tumbler, even though the surface of amber liquid filling the glass remains undisturbed, "'s nothing," Dean shrugs a bit too nonchalantly in response to Sam's question, "just starting to really hate this song, everyone uses the drum riff and thinks it automatically makes them 'heavy metal'", and his eyebrows go a bit too high up, and his lips are pursed a bit too hard, and his pupils are a bit too dilated, but it is a different time, so long ago, when Castiel could still allow himself not to care about whether or not Dean told the truth about inconsequential details, and that's what it was, a small, nonsensical piece of trivia in a game that was never supposed to begin…
…yes, Castiel also knows that. And amidst all this knowledge and awareness, he is fairly sure that usually the opening drums of this particular song are not accompanied by the sound of a hammer punching holes through the suddenly paper-thin walls, accentuating every now and then the backward wailing of harmonica. He also presumes that it is highly unorthodox for a song to chase its listener, to come closer, and closer, with every beat of its own rhythmic heart.
He should run, perhaps.
But he cannot bring himself to run anymore. He was a soldier in Heaven, and he is tired on Earth, and right now, in a rare moment of integrity, both parts tell him to just stop and face whatever comes next.
That is when Dean comes from around the bend of the corridor.
His arms hang loosely at his sides, one of them weighed down by the fingers clasped around the handle of the hammer, the other by the bright red mark burning on his forearm. Their downward slope is balanced out by a challenging tilt to his head up, giving him an air of audacity rooted in the very core of him, born out of confidence in his own abilities. The green glimpses, sudden and sparkling, violent, from under heavy lids and long eyelashes. Full lips pull up in the corners, the dimple on the right carving a bit deeper than the left one into the smooth-rough plane of his stubbled cheek. His walk falls somewhere in between a stroll and a stride, lazy and unstoppable.
His steps match the drums perfectly.
And as he looks at him, taking in the proud curve of Dean's chin, the uninhibited force of his gait, Castiel cannot help but think "Finally." Finally, Dean Winchester knows, and he's breathtaking in recognition of his own strength.
He pauses about two steps away from Castiel and gives him a long, long look. Castiel has managed to live long enough to notice how Dean's gaze brushes his hips, his hands, his shoulders, then glides sinuously along his collarbone, up his neck and jawline, for one heart-stopping smidge of a moment stops completely on his lips, to finally rest on his eyes.
Although, to be fair, Castiel must admit that his awareness may have less to do with experience, and more with how unabashed Dean is in the act, how openly he lets the vicious, vibrant green of his eyes sweep lazily over the angles of Castiel's body.
It probably should disturb Castiel more.
All at once, the opening reaches its culmination, a man named Robert starts to sing, and Dean buries the hammer in the wall a hair breadth away from Castiel's left ear.
Castiel does not flinch. He sees no point.
Still holding onto the hammer handle, Dean puts his other hand flat on the wall on the other side of Castiel's head, effectively trapping him between his arms.
"Never did like that song," he starts casually, as if it was this other time and place, as if they were still just Cas-and-Dean-and-Sam in one these cheap diners he used to favour, on the road to another adventure. "Well." Blackness obscuring his eyes for a split second and an accompanying smirk, sharp and calculating, tell a different story. "He didn't like it. But you probably know that, you little stalker".
Castiel knows the opening is small, but he gives it a shot.
"You're still you, Dean. If only you…"
The hammer is pulled from the wall with an utter lack of effort that is, frankly, alarming. Dean lets his armed hand hang casually at his side. Meanwhile, Dean's other hand slides higher up the wall, bringing Dean's face closer to his own. Castiel is suddenly swept by an onslaught of bright images and references, deceptively familiar, but absolutely foreign at the same time, movies Dean – his Dean – would probably describe as "chick flicks" and then proceed to watch avidly, frames full of young men leaning over young women, "jocks", and "cheerleaders", and "bleachers", and "lockers", close, and intimate, a mating game, dance, ritual almost, and…
Castiel clenches his jaw against sheer absurdity of the comparison. The consequences of knowledge given, not gained.
"Am I?" Dean raises his eyebrows. "Or maybe I'm someone else? It's a really tough question right now, you know. Am I human? No. Am I a demon? Yes. But apart from that, everything seems kinda blurry. Am I Dean? Sure, I look like him, I talk like him, I have the same face and memories, hell, we even share the same," he pointedly allows his gaze once again to slide over Castiel, "…tastes. But," he shrugs, "some other things change. Take this song. I love it, now. In fact, I think it's gonna be one of my favorites." Some hidden meaning dances in Dean's eyes, when he looks him straight in the eyes, his face a picture of almost boyish, cruel joy. "So yeah, I'd say I'm Dean, but if you wanna ask what exactly it means, and who the hell is Dean Winchester now, I'd have to tell you: I don't know, Cas. What answer would hurt you the most?"
This, Castiel knows from his own experience. Desire, hunger, thirst – they all might seem problematic, but only when they stand on their own. When combined with simple malevolence, they become clear. Understandable even. Born to fight, Castiel knows creatures that thrive on destruction infinitely better than the backs of James Novak's hands.
Once, or a thousand times upon a time, a long time ago, he has seen good giants, gentle beasts feeding on stardust that came to them willingly in hope of benediction.
At the same time, he has seen evil things lured by the song of blood, any blood, bringing promises never to be stated or clarified.
Now, after everything, he cannot help but look down on the simplicity of their choices.
As long as Dean keeps reminding him of how far removed he is from the one Castiel pulled out of hell, how twisted and temporary his state is – must be – Castiel is safe.
Calm and cold, he tilts his chin up. And narrows his eyes.
Dean chuckles.
And oh, how the tables turn, how disturbingly warm that sound is, how unsettlingly bright is the grin blooming on Dean's face, how distressingly small becomes the distance between them, when Dean relaxes and sags a bit closer to Castiel.
"Gotta admit, the old Dean is not the only one who missed this."
His eyes sweep down Castiel's face, probing, searching. Castiel doesn't know what he must find there, but apparently it is enough to make him drop the hammer. It hits the floor loud enough that Castiel can hear it even amongst the music as Dean's both arms once again trap him against the wall.
"You know why I didn't like the song?" Dean doesn't wait for an answer. "'Cause it's about breaking points. Never seemed wise to provoke fate." He smiles, almost wistfully. "You and old Dean, and even me, we know so much about them, don't we? Breaking points are our thing. They're always there. There's always this… potential for catastrophe. You just take it, and take it, and take it, and then one last drop tears everything down." For a split second Dean falters, lost in thoughts. The ring of hopelessness echoing faintly through his voice is achingly familiar.
"Dean", Castiel tries with what he hopes is all the faith into the soul he once met in hell bleeding into his voice, "there are some things and some… people, that are unbreakable. Not ever. Not completely."
It only seems to snap Dean out of it.
Any traces of vulnerability vanish from his face as he smirks. Castiel doesn't recognize the devious edge to this smile.
Dean's eyes are hooded as he peers at him from beneath his lashes. Castiel knows the warm weight of this look.
Castiel thinks helplessly about frogs trying to climb out of a water well, two steps forward, one step back, two steps forward, one step back, and then one step forward, two steps back, one step forward, two steps back…
"So, yeah, hated the song. And it's a damn shame, too, 'cause it's awesome, one of their best. Now," Dean's voice dips low, as he leans impossibly closer, "when it comes to your vessel though, I seem to have the exact opposite problem."
Castiel freezes as Dean nuzzles his collarbone lightly and then moves up, his nose barely brushing a hot, electric line up Castiel's neck.
"Me and your Dean are in complete agreement. Jimmy was a fine-looking guy, but damn, if he didn't make my… our blood howl even half as loud as you do, Cas. He was just so… nice, y'know? And you, Cas," Dean huffs a hot laugh straight on the exposed skin of Castiel's neck. Castiel tries and fails to suppress a shiver. "You can be one mean, sneaky, lying son of a bitch, don't you? Deep down, there's always been something inherently disgraceful about you, angel." The name both a term of endearment and an insult in Castiel's ears at this point.
"I've seen it when you killed your own. I've seen it when you pulled a number on us, on Crowley, on whole goddamn universe. I've seen it in Camp Chitaqua." Some unintelligible amusement flashes in Dean's face accompanying last two strange words. "I've seen it every time I saw you fight, and let me tell you, Cas, you always fight dirty, and… fuck, you just can't seem to keep it straight." His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smirks crookedly. "Pun intended."
There is perspiration gathering over Castiel's top lip, in the hollow of his throat, in the small of his back. There is heavy thudding of blood in Castiel's ears, and Castiel wishes desperately that he could say it's all fault of Jimmy's heart, but it seems that he only has his own to blame.
"The things I've always wanted to do to you…" Dean murmurs and then sighs into his ear, a quiet sound full of contentment. Castiel swallows. "Sure, there must have been something else to it, some huge, crazy, stupid thing, but this emotional shit's boring, isn't it?"
Dean never stops breathing words into Castiel's ear as he slowly wedges one thigh between Castiel's legs. Then he grinds, and Castiel slams his clammy palms flatly against the wall as he barely stifles a groan.
"Let's focus on your indestructible Dean lying awake long at night and thinking about ripping your clothes off, jerking off to the thoughts of his angel, sweaty, dirty and human underneath him. How's that for a hero, hm?"
Castiel's head swims, the tensions between their bodies familiar and strange, comforting and terrifying at the same time. It is difficult to think with Dean constantly changing right before his eyes, line between green and black blurring conveniently.
"I think it's the hair," Dean adds after a few beats, mock-seriousness lacing his words. "Anyone ever told you it always looks as if you've just had a really dirty quickie?" Dean laces his fingers through the hair on Castiel's nape and tugs.
Castiel hisses and bites hard on his bottom lip to keep a growl from escaping. Dean's eyes drop to his mouth. For once, he doesn't bother to hide it.
Just like their dance, the song building up in the background, almost, but not quite forgotten, is slowly, but surely nearing its climax. Dean catches up to the lyrics with ease.
"Cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good… When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move," Dean sings lowly into Castiel's ear, sweet and hot, accentuating the last word with a smooth roll of his hips.
Lost in the tempest, swallowing his own moan, Castiel manages to think that maybe it's time to allow his given knowledge help him gain something else.
And so he moves.
His hand sweeps up the curve of Dean's back, one of the few last things still truly gentle about him, to land surely on his shoulder, the same one Castiel once gripped unwittingly tight.
It's Dean's turn to freeze.
It lasts only for a second, but for Castiel it is enough. When Dean very slowly pulls back to look at him, eyes momentarily wide and full of gold, like lights reflecting in wet pavements during storm, Castiel is ready, and so is the song.
"All last night sat on the levee and moaned… Thinkin' about me baby and my happy home," he intones softly along with Plant. "It is also a song about longing for home, Dean."
Dean blinks.
Once.
Twice.
His eyes change quickly between green and black.
Settle on black.
"How about you put your grace where your mouth is, angel", Dean hisses. "Or better yet," his eyes become green again, "you leave your mouth exactly where it is right now, and we test your little theory. 'Unbreakable', you said. You talking about yourself?" Dean peers at him curiously.
Castiel falters, then opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted, when Dean throws his head back and barks a cruel, foreign laugh.
"You dumb fuck, you still talking about me? About good, ol' Dean-o? 'S too precious. How naïve you can be, Cas?"
Self-deprecation is a flicker of familiar light against unfamiliar darkness. Castiel licks his lips and calculates. He probably can work with that. He'll take the risk. Any risk for Dean.
And isn't it how it was always supposed to be, flashes through his mind as Dean's hands slip down, to cup his jaw on both sides. Cas versus Dean. Pulling each other up and down, a rollercoaster of salvation and damnation, fueled by trust and free will.
Their hips brush as Dean crowds him further against the wall.
"The thing about breaking points, Cas, is that everyone has one. The only question is how heavy is the rain."
His fingers are hot at the back of Castiel's neck. Dean's touch changes. His right thumb pushes delicately, almost tenderly, against the bolt of Castiel's jaw. It then brushes his cheekbone, the cleft in his chin. Finally, it comes to rest at the corner of his lips, and Castiel can feel himself once again being caught in the downpour. He takes a breath and this time, he allows it to slowly pull him under.
"Going down now, Cas", Dean echoes, as the music unravels and crashes around them.
And Castiel no longer knows and no longer cares, whether Dean's eyes are black or green, as long as Dean's fingers keep raining on his skin, as Dean's breath keeps pouring into his lips, as the wave of harmonica and drums and Dean sweep over him…
…and then the guitar strikes for the very last time, and Dean's lips touches his, and that's the last drop, in every possible sense of this word, and
the levee
breaks.