A firm, old and dirty mattress hit Dean's backside. Castiel looked down from his hovering position above him, looking into Dean's eyes, full of anticipation. Dean looked up; a smile filled his face and seemed to transfer to Castiel's. Not a second fell between them before the two were attacking each other again. Dean was running his hands through the stubble on Castiel's face, the scratchy and roughness of it was what Dean lived for. Castiel's hands were god knows where on Dean's lower half, but somehow he managed his pants off.

Dean grabbed at Castiel's shirt and practically ripped it off—

"Dean,"

"What?"

"This is new. Why do you do this to all my shirts?"

"You wear the same shirt every day."

"Whatever."

Castiel grabbed at a small box in the drawer of their night stand. He pulled out one of the tiny plastic covered squares in it, and pushed it to Dean's mouth so he could rip it open with his teeth. Maybe that was one of Castiel's biggest turn ons, it was a bit kinky, but Dean wasn't complaining. Dean worked at Castiel's zipper, pulling it down until he could see the whiteness of his underwear. He couldn't wait to pull that down too, yanking it away and revealing what he wanted. Castiel didn't wait to prepare himself with the condom after Dean had stripped him, he was anxious to get inside Dean—to feel him.

As soon as Castiel had made himself ready, Dean was too. With a grab of Dean's thighs his legs were resting on Castiel's shoulders. Castiel waited, he stopped and looked down at Dean. He wanted to see the hunter there, lying on the bed wanting him, ready for him—Castiel had made him like this—Castiel had—and it felt great. Before Dean could notice the stop he had already shoved forward, into Dean.

He let out a cry, a cry of gratitude and pleasure and need for more but it was already enough. He grabbed onto Castiel's arms, gripping them tighter and tighter with every thrust Cas made. Dean bit his lip, sucking in and trying with all he had not to scream. Not to yell, to cry out he wanted more, more of him or tell him how good it felt. He tried hard to hold it back but he couldn't he just—couldn't.

"God!—Cas—oh god!"

Castiel almost stopped; almost made the world around him stop revolving and everything stand still. His eyes opened from the previous state of squeezed-shut-pleasure. His face centered down, looking at Dean,—the tears glistening in his eyes.

"Dean,—"

"God Cas!"

Castiel looked away from his partner, looking up at the ceiling not knowing how to react. Dean didn't understand. He would never understand. How it felt to hear your father's name—the one you're really betraying—during your betrayal. A single tear fell from Castiel's right eye, as 'In the arms of an Angel' by Sarah McLachlan bellowed in the background. Cas stared at the ceiling, still on Dean.

"Cas . . . ?"

He couldn't. He couldn't hear the man of his desire, the core of his sin attempt at soothing him through this. How could he have been so foolish? To try and think this was okay, that if his father saw him as important enough to contact he'd condemn this. Castiel pulled away, practically jumping off the bed and running to the bathroom in this old, shabby motel.

"Cas!" Dean cried, but his call couldn't have done less to stop the angel. A loud click echoed from the bathroom door closed. Dean hadn't moved, hadn't budged from the position Cas had left him in. He had laid on the bed, in a deep gaze at the ceiling unknowing of what next. He hadn't the slightest what caused Cas's eruption, but he couldn't have been further from understanding it.

Cas's wails of sadness and unsure regret could he heard worldwide, probably. He was stationed in the corner of the old the small room, huddled into a fetal-position. What could be worse? Thoughts ran through his mind. My betrayal? My constant, betrayal? I've served my father for years; never excelling, never trying hard enough to show my love and gratitude. And later I repay him by this? What kind of son am I? Castiel ran his hands through his hair, and across his face. He washed his face multiple times, staring at himself in the mirror. Thinking, sitting, walking, hitting, staring everything and he still couldn't figure himself out.

A snap and the front door of the room was open.

Sam.

He looked at Dean, Dean returning the action. Sam looked as confused as Dean, unknowing filled with confusion and a dab of fear. He looked around the room, his mouth hanging open and not a sound escaping it.

Now, needless to say, Sam wasn't a fool. Regardless of the fact that his whole life had been training in mystery solving and fighting, this scenario was an easy one. Not only could he hear Cas's cries from where he stood, but the state of Dean screamed Cas. Sam didn't want to ask, to know the actions leading to this outcome. He didn't need to be informed of previous occurrences—he knew now, and that's what mattered.

Sam looked to his side—he was filled anger and sadness and he didn't know which to express. His eyebrow twitched. He didn't want to and couldn't handle this now. It was all too much, and it wasn't as if this were the two's first conflict. Sam didn't know how much more of Dean and Cas he could take. He only managed a word;

"Dammit you two!" And he was gone. With a swipe at the keys of the impala, and a slammed door there wasn't a sign of him.

Dean probably should've—and would've if it weren't for his state—yell at Sam for touching the keys to the impala, let alone driving it. But he didn't. He just lay there, not moving—he reacted in a minor way physically, but internally Dean was 10 kinds of fucked up. And Sam—well, Sam was already driving away.

Sam had been driving for god knows how long, and he hadn't even thought of stopping. Of going back—to see those two? No, he couldn't. All they've seemed to do is cause conflicts, discomfort—and due to noise—less sleeping hours for Sam. Sam shook his head, looking forward into the night of the road.

He kept going and going, shaking his head and looking at street signs until one, one in particular caught his eye. It read;

'DEAN END'

Sam didn't want to, maybe he was in control, maybe he wasn't, but all that didn't matter. He turned, following the road behind the sign. He kept going until he sat, stopped in his car in from of a cliff. There was no telling to exact location of the bottom, or how high the cliff was. But that was all a blur of questions in his mind that didn't seem to hold significance. Sam revved to engine of his car, and a single tear fell down his right eye as faintly—jut faintly—'In the arms of an Angel' by Sarah McLachlan played in the background. And he drove. He fell, off the cliff, falling, gravity pulling him down.

The explosion could be seen from anywhere. A huge, red cloud filling the sky with booming sounds immediate from it.

Not moments after the eruption Cas and dean walked into the spot where the impala had just sat before Sam drove. They coiled their hand into each other's, one tear falling from each of their right eye. From behind him, Dean retrieved a boom-box and flicked it on to play 'In the arms of an Angel' by Sarah McLachlan.

Cas ran his hand around Dean, seizing his waist in Cas's fist. He pulled him close to comfort him. Dean went on to rest his head on Cas's shoulder, accepting the comfort the angel was offering to him in this time. The two gazed out to the cliff side Sam had just fallen, wondering what next. The Cas pushed.

He pushed with a force, an effort so hard, Dean flew forward and off the cliff. Falling in the manner and direction same as his younger brother. Cas didn't know one man's falling could make an explosion that big, but it did. Huge and loud and seeable from anywhere. Cas lifted the boom-box Dean had been holding, and started 'In the arms of an Angel' by Sarah McLachlan over again, another single tear falling from his right eye.

Before much more could be done, rational decisions thought through, Cas jumped. Down the side of the cliff, following his lover and lover's brother. His trench coat flew back in the tremendous power of the spiraling wind. Falling and falling until the large red cloud that had followed the two before him emerged.

Somehow, magically with no one there to do it, 'In the arm of an Angel' by Sarah McLachlan played on the boom-box, and if you cared enough, if you knew enough to look, to see more you would. The small, almost invisible rock near the boom-box shed a single tear from its left side.

And that . . . that was enough.