Dean is almost one hundred percent sure he's dreaming because for one the sky is purple and second the handprint on his arm is burning worse than ever. Except that it's not a hot burning; more like shoving your hand in a subzero freezer for hours. It's a cold burn. And Dean thinks that's weird in its own right. So when he sees Castiel standing stark naked on top a hill, Dean thinks this is it.
He's done.
Gone off the deep end.
But his body's reacting to the image. His cock is twitching under his jeans and his stomach is doing somersaults while trying to ride the expressway to his knees. He shouldn't be feeling like this. He shouldn't be thinking of all the different positions the angel would look the hottest in. But the way Castiel's skin is glowing in contrast to the violet sky, like the bright ring around the sun during an eclipse, is turning Dean on.
And he's sure he's just earned himself another ticket to hell, but he's besides caring anymore. 'Cause Castiel's sauntering towards him, gliding down the hill with strong, deliberate steps. Dean's breath is non-existent, and for a moment he's sure he's forgotten the entire concept of breathing. Castiel is just that damn gorgeous. Dean's not sure if gorgeous is the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. So he thinks it fits when his mind is quite literally a puddle of fucking goo.
Castiel stops just short of colliding into Dean's chest. He stands straight, shoulders pushed back, chest raised high. He looks like he's ready to salute someone, Dean thinks. He thinks Castiel just might so that when he lifts his arm, sticking it straight in the air like and eager teenager waiting for the teacher to call on him in class. Dean doesn't notice the scars at first (he's too focused on memorizing Dream Cas' body so he can compare it to the real one later). But he does see them, and he feels sick, because they're not the only ones.
Castiel's body is like a map of every fucked up thing that could happen to someone. The scar on his wrists, on his chest, on his hips, Dean's seen them all before. Has felt them all before. Castiel smiles at the epiphany like he's reading Dean's mind. Because Dean knows what he's seeing, knows who he is seeing. And he fucking hates it.
Because he still wants Castiel. Dean still wants to feel himself inside the angel as he bucks and moans beneath him. Except that Castiel is wearing his skin. He's donning every single wound Dean's acquired since he was a kid. And he's exploiting the pain that came with each one like it's nothing. Like Dean's life doesn't mean a goddamn thing here.
And that hurts worse.
Worse than any stab wound he's ever received, because it's Castiel and it's him and it's every fucking piece of bullshit that meant something at some point. That's how it always is for Dean. He never comes first. He's never had that right, he guesses. And you can't miss what you never fucking had, right?
Suddenly Castiel's hands are framing Dean's face. The angel rests his forehead against the hunters. He closes his eyes and whispers, "You aren't worthless," He sounds out of breath, like it took way to much energy to complete the sentence.
Dean wants to say, you're preaching to the choir.
He wants to tell Castiel that his blind faith will someday be reason for him to fall.
But he doesn't. He can't.
The words stick in his throat like knives, shredding him from the inside out. And he thinks Castiel is perusing his mind again, because the angel traces Dean's bottom lip with his tongue and says, "I know, but it's true."
"Sure," Dean says. "whatever gets you through the day, Cas."
Castiel chuckles; the sound is foreign. Dean's never heard him so much as stutter, so he flinches a little, trying to pull away so he can mull over the how his heart is jack-hammering in his chest from the way Castiel's lips are smiling against his.
But Castiel locks his fingers behind Dean's neck, keeping the Hunter in place, making sure their eyes meet.
"You don't even know," Cas says as he shakes his head.
A small smirk graces the angel's lips and his eyes darken. Dean watches in horror as the brilliant blue irises disappear behind a flood of pure black.
"You don't even know," Castiel repeats. His voice isn't his own; it's deeper, more evil. And right away, Dean knows who's holding him.
Oh God, does he know.
Dean shoots up in bed and grabs at the back of his neck, trying desperately to dig Alistair's hands off him. For a moment he fights the darkness before realizing nothing is there. That he's been dreaming. Again.
"Fuck," he curses.
Something moves next to him, groaning sleepily.
"Dean? You okay?"
"Cas?" Dean knows it's him, but he had to make sure. The nightmare is still pounding in his skull. So he stiffens and asks, "Back in Ohio, three months ago, what happened after Sam died?"
Castiel rubs his eyes and yawns.
"We had sex."
"Where?" Dean demands.
"The Impala in the middle of Bobby's junkyard because you said it meant something," Castiel sits up, covering the handprint on Dean's shoulder for support; the magic that used to connect them having worn off long ago. "Dean, I'm not him," he adds.
"No," Dean nods slowly. "no, I know that."
"I'm sorry."
Dean looks at him, wondering what he's got to be sorry about. The look on the angel's face says everything. Dean shakes his head.
"It's fine. He's better there," Dean whispers. "probably pissing off Gabe or Mike."
Castiel smiles, the rare genuine one that he saves just for Dean.
"Actually it's the other way around."
For the first time in weeks, Dean laughs.