Chapter 2: Accident
Castiel's POV
A week later.
Dean's collarbones were a mystery to Castiel. Most of the time they looked sharp and hard. The skin was stretched tightly over them and there was something almost unforgiving about them. However, sometimes they were much less defined and seemed soft. Then they were reassuring. When Dean wore one of his greenish brownish long sleeved t-shirts with the three tiny buttons at the top, as he had on now, Castiel could just see them. He tried to keep his eyes off of them, because they made him have thoughts he found difficult to understand.
They seemed to beg for something, which was ridiculous, because bones cannot talk. Nonetheless, whenever Castiel snuck a glance at them, they made him want to run his fingers along them. His hands actually itched to undo those buttons and slip under Dean's shirt and feel Dean's warm skin under his fingers. Castiel was sure there were other bones and muscles there that needed his attention. Late at night, he often had to swallow hard, as he thought of them. Dean's collarbones were sexy.
In a way, which he usually employed to think of something else, – God help him; anything else – they were like Dean. That wasn't a much better subject, but Castiel was convinced that Dean would prefer it if he thought about him as a person instead of thinking about his body. As a human Dean was an extraordinary specimen too. There were so many contradictions collected in him. The longer Castiel spent on earth the more he came to understand that most people embodied confounding, but fascinating colliding characteristics. They could be nice one moment and mean the next, for no discernible reason.
It had to do with a combination of irrelevant variables such as the weather and what day of the week it was and whether someone had eaten their coco puffs. It was very confusing. People who were supposedly good did horrible things, while bad people could suddenly perform good deeds. When he first came down it made him question everything he thought he had known about good and evil. Mostly, humans seemed to inhabit some sort of grey area. His certainties had faded and now there were only a few things he knew for sure. One of them concerned Dean: he knew Dean was good.
Dean might torture, be cruel and callous, and show no mercy. He might hurt and maim and kill. There was nothing that Dean could do that would change Castiel's opinion of him. It was an inexplicable feeling, which Castiel, as usual, didn't understand. How could he know that? And why did he think Sam was a good person too, but he wasn't sure like he was with Dean? Maybe it had something to do with Dean trying so hard.
This was the reason that Castiel could never objectify Dean, no matter how much he liked his collarbones. The simple fact was, at first Castiel had paid no attention to his collarbones at all. When he pulled Dean out of hell, he hadn't looked at him. It was only after he got to know Dean and they became friends that the collarbones started to irresistibly attract him. Being around Dean had made him so human that he was at a loss for words to describe the feeling Dean inspired in him. It had not been like that before. Castiel thought it was a very human thing to be unable to explain things. He could describe a colour in such a way that a blind person would understand what he meant, he could talk about the nuances of silence and someone who had been deaf from birth would know what he was talking about. But he could not adequately put this feeling into words. Did that mean it was love?
'Were you ever a child?' he asked Dean. The three of them were in another motel room. Sam was lying on the left bed, his eyes closed, but Castiel knew he was listening. Dean was staring out of the window, even though there was only darkness to see. Castiel was leaning against the wall; he was perfectly able to see into the night if he had wanted to. However, it was like zooming in and it meant Dean would turn into a blur, so he didn't try.
'Of course,' Dean said. Sam stirred on the bed. The angel could feel waves of annoyance emanating from the younger Winchester brother. It wasn't right that when Castiel asked a question, all three of them knew it was meant for Dean. Unless he looked directly at Sam and spoke Sam's name, Castiel's words were always meant for Dean. It wasn't fair, Castiel knew, but whenever he tried to include Sam this only made him feel more excluded.
Sam got up from the bed and took the keys of the car and Castiel was surprised that Dean didn't protest. In fact, he didn't even look up when Sam said he was going for a drive and that they shouldn't wait up. There was a tension between the two brothers lately and Castiel felt like it would soon be coming to a head. Their banter was still fun, but the tone was no longer friendly. Underneath their exchanges there was distrust and anger. He didn't want to pry; Dean never liked it when he did that.
'I don't think you were,' Castiel said after Sam had left the room. Dean turned around, laughing, but his face was drawn.
'I've got the pictures to prove it,' Dean responded. Something deep inside warned Castiel that he should stop, but it was such an unfamiliar, intuitive feeling that he ignored it. Briefly, he wondered whether Dean might be lying. The pictures would have to be from before his mother died, because John Winchester didn't strike Castiel as the kind of father who would chronicle the lives of his children with photos. John was another human dichotomy; a good person, but a horrible father.
'Being a child means being carefree, not being responsible for others,' Castiel explained. Dean's face fell and Castiel felt a curious drop in his stomach too.
'Can you honestly say that, from the moment you carried Sam out of the house that night, you were ever carefree? You felt responsible for Sam, you cared for him; something your father should have done. The night he referred that responsibility to you is the night you ceased being a child.'
'The night my mother died,' Dean mumbled and he grimaced as if in pain as he sat down on the bed. Castiel had known about Dean long before he had dragged him out of hell. On paper the man sounded tough and like a hero. In the flesh he was even more impressive, because Castiel didn't have to look hard to see the sacrifices he had made. His insecurities, his fears, his desperation, his pain; it was right there for everyone to see. Dean was afraid, but he kept going. He was unsure of himself, but he struggled nonetheless.
There were times when Castiel wished he could give Dean the certainty he himself felt. It would make the fighting easier, Castiel believed, and he would have done that for Dean if he could. But perhaps Dean fought because he was unsure and afraid. To make it so that no one else had to experience those feelings.
'You were four,' Castiel continued, but before he could say anything else Dean jumped up from the bed and started to pace.
'It is too late for you to harp on my responsibilities,' Dean stated and he sounded tired. Time was a strange thing to Castiel. Humans were fond of saying that things were too late or too early or took too long. Free will had changed the concept of time, which was meaningless anyway. Fate made sure that everything happened at the exact right time, so there was no too late and everything took exactly as long as it should take.
'John was a bad father,' Castiel said and he was slightly fazed when Dean approached him and shoved him against the wall. This was not news for Dean. In the beginning, when Castiel would still look inside Dean, not caring whether Dean liked this or not, he had seen that Dean knew his father was not a model father. Far from it really. Still Dean apparently didn't like to hear someone else say it.
'I chose to accept that responsibility. Don't put this on my father,' Dean growled. His breathing was heavy and his hands on Castiel's shoulders were digging into his skin. It was Fate who had designated Dean Sam's keeper. This was an area that was unclear to Castiel, because it was where Fate and free will were muddled. Yet, he was aware that Dean couldn't have made a choice. If anyone had made a choice it had been John Winchester.
'At age four?' Castiel asked quietly and Dean let him go. The man before the angel looked utterly defeated. As he backed away he looked like he was about to cry. It was easier to read him when he was emotionally vulnerable and though Castiel attempted to respect Dean's barriers, Dean's thoughts and feelings flooded over him. There was a plea: Please just stop. And there was fury, a lot of fury. It covered Dean's sadness like a blanket and leaped out at Castiel.
It wasn't until Dean's fist was back where it belonged that Castiel realised Dean had hit him. His cheek felt strange. It throbbed a little. The most Castiel could say about it was that it felt uncomfortable. Much more interesting was the curious shift he sensed in Dean. Delivering the blow had added an emotion; embarrassment, – I'm sorry - but it had also dulled the sharp edges of Dean's anger. Cas' friend felt better, because he had released some of his tension.
'Your father was a jerk,' Castiel said and for a second Dean just stared at him. Castiel wondered whether the insult had not been strong enough, but then Dean grabbed his trench coat and threw him at the chest of drawers. It was as if he floated towards the cheap furniture. He could have stopped it easily, but he allowed it to happen. When he connected with the chest, the amount of noise was startling. Part of the chest splintered and Castiel was fascinated as he observed that things inside his body also seemed to be damaged by the impact. As he got up from the floor, he could feel his ribs. They hummed in tune with his cheek. It was a very unnatural feeling.
Dean didn't give him time to get used to it, because he had barely gotten to his feet before Dean pushed him towards the bed. Castiel's back hit the bed at an awkward angle and a flare shot through his body. That might be pain too, but it was quite different from the throbbing he had felt before. It was sharp somehow and he liked it a lot less than the other dull experience. The carpet felt rough underneath his hands and he stumbled.
'Fight, you bastard!' Dean yelled at him, but he only smiled dopily in return. It was unintended, but he was convinced it would further enrage Dean. His hands came for him again and he was dragged across the room. Dean slammed him backwards into the wall and his hands roamed over him. Their touch was violent, but tender at the same time. This was a contradiction that truly baffled the angel, but he felt it was true. Castiel doubted whether Dean knew if he wanted to hurt him more or make sure he was alright. His friend's fingers hesitated as they tugged at his lapels and suddenly Dean's mouth was on his.
His tongue was hot in Castiel's mouth and his lips were hard and wet on his. There was a look in Dean's eyes that Castiel had not seen before. Amidst confusion and fear something else lurked. Barely able to understand his own jumbled feelings right then, Cas couldn't identify it. However, when Dean forcibly said no, it made Castiel press his body harder against Dean's. It made him kiss Dean and rub against the bulge in his pants, until Dean's hands stopped shoving him away and started to pull him closer.
Castiel's hands were moving on their own accord. It was as if even though Castiel himself didn't know what he was doing, his body did and had decided to take over. The trench coat and his tie dropped to the floor. Dean's long sleeved t-shirt followed suit on their way to the bed. They fell on the bed and with his tongue Castiel traced a warm line across Dean's neck. As he arrived at the collarbones he paused and when he finally licked them, one by one, Dean moaned softly.
Before long all their clothes were gone and all Castiel had to do was occasionally follow Dean's instructions. He discovered it didn't really matter what he did, whenever he moved something wonderful happened and they both communicated their pleasure loudly. The feeling of Dean's bare skin against his defied description; it was better than he ever could have imagined. Yes, this was definitely love.
(***)
'I want to amend my answer,' he breathed after they were done. Fast as lightning, Dean's barriers went up again.
'What?' Dean asked. His voice had reverted back to normal already. There was barely concealed irritation and a flash of anger in it. The angel frowned. He wished he could have said that all he had used was gentle coercion, but that was a lie. Nevertheless, he had seen what was in Dean's heart and in his mind and he had wanted it too. Just as much as Castiel had wanted it.
'I want to amend my answer. If I could be anything, I'd be yours,' Castiel said with unadorned sincerity and he smiled easily at Dean. His friend responded by turning his back to him and quickly getting dressed. As he stood by the window, he glanced at Castiel, still lying on the bed, before peering into the night.
'Don't get any ideas. It was just sex.'
Somehow those words affected him more than when Dean had driven his fist into his face or slammed him against the wall. It felt almost like a punch in the gut, like actual physical pain. For a moment he felt as if he couldn't breathe. Slowly, ever so slowly, Castiel gathered his clothes to him and got dressed too. All the while Dean stared out of the window. It wasn't until Castiel muttered goodbye that Dean faced him.
'Are you going?'
'I'm in love with you, but you are not with me. What more is there to say?'
Heaven was not for him. Hell was not for him. For a long time Castiel had known he didn't belong anywhere, but the entire time he had been in Dean's arms he had felt like he finally belonged. The expression on Dean's face softened, but he didn't speak. Instead of vanishing, Castiel opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Gently, Castiel closed the door. Tonight he needed Dean's absence; he needed to be free of his sympathy. Again not knowing where he belonged hurt.
