III.

Dean snapped awake in the sweating dark, his arm on fire from the elbow down, his blood-soaked wet dreams carrying over to reality so it seemed the darkness around him was populated by shadowy victims, all waiting with sepulchral grace for him to do the honors. It took all he had to contain his twitch so it didn't turn into a scything swing, separating heads from necks at a stroke.

What a fucking nightmare. What a fucking all the nightmares. Torturing in Hell pulsed into 24/7 surround-sound murder in Purgatory and back again. His cock was as hard as a railroad spike, pulsing with blood and heat and he was so frustrated, so horrified by his overt sexual delight in the carnage, he thought he'd scream.

Castiel used to be able to walk into his dreams and smooth them out. Not that he'd ever thanked him. "What am I, three years old? You gonna sing me lullabies? You wanna snag me an Oscar the Grouch night-light while you're at it?" Cas, of course, didn't understand that reference, and once Dean put a toe into the explanation and then waved off the follow-through, they'd reached the agreement that Cas wasn't supposed to step into his dreams. Not that that ever stopped him. Cas sucked at following orders he didn't agree with.

God. The last thing he needed was to think about Cas. Cas was still furious about the Mark. It wasn't often Dean found himself on the wrong side of his angel's grace, and he was surprised by how much he hated it.

He scrubbed his face and checked on Sam, a habit of such long standing he didn't even think about it anymore. Sam slept peacefully. Lucky bastard. Wish an angel would swab out my submarine, he thought sourly. All those times Cas buffed his paintjob, and he never even thought to offer. Truth be told, if he ever had, Dean would have told him to shove it straight up his rosebud, so there was that.

He glanced out the window across the neon-stained parking lot, pretending like he was just checking the perimeter, knowing what he was really looking for, but there was nobody there—no trucks, no loose-kneed drunks, no lonely night travelers flickering home on one headlight.

They were far enough out in the boonies that the clear night sky looked almost purple, shattered by stars. Suddenly, he was seized by a desire to be outside. Take a walk. It looked quiet out there. Knowing his luck, the only three vamps in the state would find him and fang out on his ass, but that'd be fine, too. He tucked his gun into his waistband and put a knife in his back pocket, just in case.

He closed the door quietly behind him, only releasing the knob when the latch could set silently in its slot. Locking it was louder, though it wasn't a great concern. Sammy always slept like the dead. Even if he slept like a feather, keeping the door unlocked was simply not an option. He pocketed the key and turned around.

Castiel.

The angel's presence jolted through him, making his heart pound.

"Did I come at a bad time?" Cas asked, giving him a look which said it had better not be.

Dean looked down, shuffled his feet. Guilty, his posture said. Aloud, he said, "Walls're closin' in... What are you doin' here, Cas?"

Because this wasn't the old days, Cas whisking in and out on his wings like a thought. Now Dean became aware of the tick of a car engine cooling, the smell of combustion as distinctive as the sulfur of a demon's passage. The door slam when Cas got out had probably awoken him from his nightmare.

"I was not far from your location," Cas said, following his glance over his shoulder to the Cadillac. "I... sensed... you needed me."

"It's not like I prayed," Dean said, and hated himself for it when Cas flinched.

He recovered quick though, he'd give him that. "I know," he said.

Oh, right, Cas was an angel again. He had the privilege of being gentle when Dean hurt him. Not like "Steve," spitting like a kitten inside that lurid plastic gas station. The memory still made him smile. Cas, so ridiculously proud of himself, and so little, with none of the awesome power that turned his small-boned body into something as cool and deadly as an angel blade. Like now.

Cas stepped into his space. Dean didn't give any ground—he never gave ground—but he was aware of the door at his back. This should be bad. No escape routes, and he hated for a man to stand in front of him with his back to the wall. But this was okay. For some reason.

"I know what you're looking for," Cas said.

Now, that was not okay.

Dean squinted and sneered, "Really? 'Bout tell me what I'm gonna go order at Taco Bell?"

Cas bored into him with blue eyes seared white by reflected neon and Dean cleared his throat. He felt the angel's warmth through both their shirts, smelled his scent, salt and woodchips like a human man. An angel fragrance hung around him, too, something floral. It made him crazy that he could never put his finger on the name of the flower.

"This is not the best time to lie to me, Dean." Cas grabbed Dean's arm again, as he had before, his grip iron. Dean knew he wouldn't be able to break it until Cas let him break it. Cas's gaze, as hard as his grip, held him as he pressed in closer.

"Ordinarily," Cas said, twisting his face up to his, lips tight, "I would not interfere. But now you bear the Mark of Cain. Your regular form of 'stress relief' is no longer safe for your potential partners."

"Cas, wanna clue me in on what the hell you're talking about?" Dean half-laughed, half-gasped, in one last desperate attempt to dissemble.

Cas's eyes narrowed, and maybe lying after he'd been explicitly told not to was not the best idea. The angel tightened his grip until the bones in his arm ground together.

"Hit me," Cas rasped.

In answer, Dean's free arm came up, the knife in his hand reflecting pink-blue neon, and Cas, in a motion so quick he did not see it, disarmed him.

"You probably didn't plan that," Cas said thoughtfully. "Your knife," he added, handing it back.

True, knifing Cas was not his top priority. Somewhat stunned, Dean accepted his weapon and slipped it back in his pocket.

"The Mark acts in its own interest. Surely you've noticed. Your reflexes, your strength, your defense—they're all better than they've ever been. The bottom feeders you tend to pick up would set it off for certain."

What was that tone in his voice? It was Dean's turn to narrow his eyes and pierce Cas with his gaze. "Bottom feeders?" he scoffed. Then he shrugged. "I mean, it's fair. Just sounds weird, comin' from you."

"That 'weird tone' you hear in my voice, Dean, is confusion,"and now Cas really did sound pissed. He pressed Dean against the door, hard from collarbone to knee.

"Almost four billion men on this planet you could use," the angel snarled, "and you select the worst, the least worthy, and you make them defile you."

Dean smirked. "This church in Kansas, man, it's made for you. You should probably check it out."

Cas released him. Dean sagged against the door as the angel spun away, cradling his bruised wrist in his hand. A glance showed the red marks of the angel's fingers layered over the older marks from before, already turning purple.

"You think I mean that." Cas's trench coat settled around him with a sound like wings furling.

Dean was, all the sudden, furious. "What 'that,' Cas? 'That' transmission? 'That' coffeemaker? What?'"

He shoved off the door, used the impetus to put power into a swing at the angel. It was pointless: Cas simply caught his arm, as Dean had known he would.

He pressed his point anyway, brought his face close to Cas's and roared. "What's the matter, Cas? Too pure? Say it, you sonuvabitch!"

Cas took a deep breath with his eyes closed. When he opened them, Dean was struck by their deep blue calm.

With a trace of irony in his voice, he said, "Anal sex, Dean. About which I do not care. What I do care about is you, inciting the worst filth you can find," Cas was not completely successful at keeping the anger out of his voice that time, but he went on steadily enough, "to hurt you. That was what I meant by defilement."

Dean made a move to free his arm and Cas immediately let him go. He scratched his head. "So, uh, you knew this whole time?"

"It didn't seem worthy of comment." Cas swept his patented lost-horizons stare along the silhouettes of the pine trees biting up at the stars.

"Maybe we should move this party," Dean said, hooking a thumb at the door. "Sam. Sleeping."

Cas shrugged. "I'd be surprised if we haven't woke him with all the noise we made."

"He's pretending, Cas," Dean said in exasperation. "That's what humans do when Mommy and Daddy fight. Come on."