Helping Hand

- Daianta

I do not own Supernatural. Otherwise Gabriel would still be alive, and Dean and Cas would be a bloody item by now.

I got this idea after watching Season 2, episode 20, when the Djinn shows Dean what could have been. I imagined it for Destiel, and this is the result.

I just want to thank everyone for their kind reviews and story faves/alerts! It means a lot to me, so thank you. Thanks to Lozi, too, for checking this over to ensure it's okay.
I've had a really bad time lately; my university's been kicking me in the shins over payment methods and such, so I'm so stressed out. It's my birthday on September 5th, though, so hopefully it will be a good time. I'm gonna be OLD. Lol xD

Chapter Two – Out of Touch

Word Count: 3,310

Dean opened his green eyes to darkness. He expected it to be lighter, somehow. He felt like he had been asleep forever and a day, and he expected his hands to hurt where he had attacked the engine of a car the previous day. Instead, there was nothing. Dean blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the inauspicious darkness, before slipping out of the bed he was in. He hesitated once on his feet, however, eyes flickering backwards and forwards from object to object. This was not his room.

Granted, he didn't spend much time in his apartment, but he knew when something was out of place. This was all wrong. Dean suppressed a shudder, feeling the hunter's instinct take over. He tiptoed quietly to the door and opened in, glaring at the handle when it squeaked. Inside was an en-suite, and his eyebrows moved towards his hairline. At his place, he didn't have an en-suite bathroom. He closed the door a fraction before pausing, taking note of his appearance in the big bathroom mirror. There were lights inside the small room, illuminating the clean surfaces of the shower's walls, the gleaming sink surface. Little bottles littered a counter underneath the mirror, shadows blending into the darkness.

Dean's face was pale, unnaturally so, and he calmed a bit. If he was a captive, then by law someone would have come in to talk to him by now.

He was shirtless; a common occurrence for him. But he wasn't wearing pants either, which meant he was naked.

Eager to rectify that, he moved along the edge of the room, until he reached a wardrobe. He pulled on the handle and peered inside, using calloused hands to feel for underwear. He pulled out a pair of boxers, surprisingly, that fit him and he put them on, hoping that that was enough for the time being. He would search for clothes when he knew where he was.

He made for the door when something stirred on the bed. Dean froze suddenly, unsure of what to do. He didn't remember drinking last night, or bringing home a girl, but this wasn't his place, so it must be hers. Why would men's underwear be in her wardrobe?

Dean was beyond confused, and approached the bed, gently placing his feet down to avoid disturbing anything that may cause loud noises.

The movement stopped as Dean did, and he looked over the sleeping figure, back now to him.

It was pale, unmarred skin, stretching over taut muscles in her back. Thin, willowy arms stretched up to hug the pillow the figure was sleeping on, and a short crop of hair fanned on the pillow itself. Dean found himself wanting to run a hand down the expanse of exposed skin, but stopped himself. If this was a woman he had randomly slept with, he did not want to necessitate unnecessary contact. He had done this a thousand times before; go in, sleep with the woman, wake up and leave before she got up. He was callous, he knew; but he didn't know why he did it. Or why he couldn't stop himself.

More than anything, Dean felt ashamed for what he did. He had seen the unforgiving looks Castiel had sent his way more than once, and it made Dean feel two inches tall. He thought of calling for Cas, but a glance at the time told him not to. It was four in the morning, after the witching hour at least, and most people would be asleep. Even Castiel, the angel. It wasn't that he didn't sleep, he had no need for it. But he had humanised himself, almost, after the Apocalypse, and had learnt how to sleep, about eating and other things humans took advantage of.

So he didn't call Cas, but still remained with his eyes fixed on the sleeping woman in the bed. She had short hair that looked black in the darkness, gentle looking skin. There was a hickey on the back of her neck, one that Dean probably did, coupled with a few faded scratchmarks. He still didn't remember sleeping with anyone.

Last night, Dean had finished at the garage late. His boss had paid him for the overtime, and told him to go home, grab a beer and watch a game or something. So Dean had done that. Not visited a bar at all. So how in all of Hell did he end up in the bedroom of another woman?

Dean left the sleeping woman and made for the landing, where a stairway greeted him. He made his way downstairs, placing a hand on the railing like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world. Where was he? This was too weird... Had he been possessed? It didn't seem likely, the lack of damage to the surrounding areas of the house proved that, as well as his nudity and the woman asleep. There was also the anti-possession charm around his neck, although he ignored it for now.

He would have preferred the possession to the unknown situation he had found himself in.

Dean found himself in the hallway, bare feet achingly cold on the tiled floor. They were slate grey, unchipped but worn from the feet that regularly stepped over it. He wondered if he had pulled a rich woman, then snickered at the thought. It would be his fortune, no pun intended, to pull someone with money.

This definitely wasn't his house, or anyone's house he knew, and he ventured into the heart of the place, through the wooden door that seemed to vibrate, sending him closer to what felt like an impending doom. Instead, the door swung to reveal a living room, a large, cavernous place that curiously felt big enough to house an Archangel's wings. Dean shook the thought from his head, along with all thoughts of sprinting out the front door and running away. He didn't know where he was; he was only in boxer shorts, and he had no idea where the Impala was parked.

The room was decorated in neutral tones, very generic and specified nothing about gender, or the occupants. There was an L-shaped leather sofa, cream in colour, behind the door. Opposite that was a TV, situated in front of a bay window that had shut blinds. The hunter found himself staring at the electronic device in awe and jealousy. It was H-U-G-E. He ran a hand across the top of it, stepping into the room further. It wasn't dusty, as expected from a woman, but there were tiny smudge marks on the screen, evidence that it was used. He prayed to God, son of a bitch that he was, that the unknown woman did not have children.

He dropped the hand to stare down the other end of the living room. There was a dining table; a glass topped affair resting on a sturdy, wrought metal frame. He approached it, running fingertips across the glass' surface, before staring at the symbols inscribed into the cold metal. His blood ran cold, too. It was carved with evident Enochian words, and it sent his brain into overdrive.

Was he in a house occupied by a hunter? A cursory glance at the wall next to the dining table proved that, swords hung from the wall in brackets, polished and clean. There were still bloodstains from a hunt on some, and Dean knew that these were recently used.

Ignoring them for a moment, Dean gave a glance through the archway that led to the kitchen. It was reasonably sized, generic, clean. There was probably a lot of food in the cupboards but he ignored that, and stepped back out, turning on the spot to stare at the swords again. Running a hand over his face, Dean merely observed them, as if trying to figure out who owned them from the swords alone. That in itself was impossible, but he was a desperate man.

Suddenly eager to get out of the house, he headed back through the living room and entered the hallway, tiptoeing up the stairs. He was hyper-aware of the fact that there was a hunter in the house, sleeping, and the possibility of children. That was never a good mix.

He looked for his clothes in the darkened doorway of the master bedroom, where he had woken up. He couldn't find anything, and he didn't remember clothes being by his feet when he got up. A check on the woman indicated she was still sleeping in the same position she had moved to earlier, quite possibly three minutes ago. It felt a lifetime when confused like Dean felt now.

He growled, running a hand through his hair and tugging on the short strands, turning on the spot to stare at the rest of the landing space. There were two doors that immediately jumped out at him and he stepped over to open the first slowly, revealing a bathroom. He closed it again and tried the second, realising that this was probably a bedroom, probably with a sleeping child in it.

The light was on, and Dean's heart thundered in his chest again, feeling very awkward in case he was asked for his reasoning as to why he was invading people's bedrooms. This looked more like an office and Dean relaxed, stepping onto creaky floorboards as he entered the room and shut the door behind him.

Two tables were situated in the centre of the room, a computer set up in case it was needed. Books and papers were scattered across the tables, a map almost inconspicuous underneath it. Bookcases lined the walls, heavy novella poking out to greet him. The room smelled of an old library, and he realised that he actually was in a hunter's house. This part reminded him of Bobby, he grinned, moving to touch the spine of the book closest in the bookcase. Ironically, it was the bible, and next to that was Angel lore. He grinned again, wider when he thought of Castiel. The Angel had always said there was a lot more to angels than books made out, and half the information in them was not correct.

Then, there was a bookcase dedicated to creatures of the night; demons and vampires and werewolves and other beings. Glances at the other cases informed Dean that there was information on supernatural creatures from other countries, and generic books in the last bookcase.

There was a window that had not been closed over with a blind and Dean took the chance to look outside for the first time since he had woken up. It looked like suburbia, and Dean was almost disappointed. He recognised the place, however sluggishly his brain now wanted to work. He was in Sioux Falls. So he hadn't gone far then. But he didn't fully recognise the street; that would have to wait until he found his pesky clothes and managed to slip outside. He turned off the light as he stepped out of the room, and before he closed the door, he noticed something on the ceiling.

He turned the light on; it vanished. Turned the light off, and it re-appeared.

It was everywhere in the room; warded against everything. There were sigils on the walls and floors, barring entrance to a demon, and smaller ones, that helped repel demons who tried to get in. Dean left the light off and shut the door. There was another door he almost missed and almost pounced on it, slowly pulling on the handle to open the wooden door. This time, a spare bedroom opened up to him, pale but comfortably furnished.

So the woman didn't have children. It was childish, but it made Dean feel better. He didn't want to be encroaching on any children's lives, especially if their mother was nothing more than a cheap fuck. He still didn't remember sleeping with anyone.

He closed the door, before moving around to sit on the top step. He placed his head in his hands, now unsure of what to do. He couldn't find his clothes, which meant he had no idea where his phone or keys were. If the situation called for it, he would hot wire his baby, but it meant he would have to make it up to her somehow. He would have to go to Bobby's; he had no spare key and Sam wasn't in town at the moment, out on a conference with the lawyer's firm he was working with.

But right now, he could do with a little Angelic Guidance. Yes, it was important enough to garner capital letters.

Dean clasped his hands together, resting them against his forehead. "Cas, I really need you, man... I don't know where the Hell I am, and I can't find anything..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting go of the weirded-out feeling he was getting so Cas knew that he was in trouble.

There was no rustling of wings, and Dean looked up, letting loose a shaky sigh. Castiel hadn't answered him. He could count on one hand the amount of times that had happened, and there were always important reasons why the angel hadn't turned up.

"God dammit, Cas," He whispered into the darkness.

"Dean?" Came the voice from behind him. Dark and gravelly, as if Dean was lying on a rocky beach, and the waves had pushed the stones across bare skin.

Dean spun his head around so quickly, he thought he would get whiplash. Castiel was standing in the middle of the master bedroom's doorway, a sheet wrapped around him, a bare shoulder visible to the world. Dean didn't want to know what he'd interrupted, or the weird feeling he felt when he saw his Angel standing there, semi-naked.

"Dean?" Castiel repeated, leaning against the door-jamb, "Why did you pray for me? You've not done that in a long time,"

"What? No, Cas. I called you the other day," Dean whispered a reply, getting to his feet quickly, "Listen, there's a woman asleep in there, and I have no idea what's going on, or where I am. I need you to use your angel mojo to get me back home,"

Cas looked confused for a moment, blue eyes darkened by it, "Are you sure you're okay?"

He raised a hand and pressed it to Dean's cheek, running a thumb under the hunter's eye.

"You could have had another nightmare; come back to bed,"

"But," Dean hissed indignantly, pointing to the bedroom, "There's a woman asleep in that bed! I've seen her. I think she's a hunter, and this is her house. Are you not surprised by that?"

"Dean," Castiel said sternly, using his hand's pressure on the hunter's face to make him look at the angel fully, "I think you might not be feeling well. The only people who have been in that bed are you and me. This is our house; you decided to buy it. I do not understand how you've forgotten all that."

Cas sounded hurt, and Dean knew that the angel was currently probing his mind to figure out what was wrong with him.

Dean didn't understand why Cas insisted that this was their house. They didn't live together; did angels even have homes? Why would they be the only ones sleeping in that bed, too? They weren't dating, and there was no way on Earth that Dean would, because let's face it – they're both men; one is indebted to the other for dragging him out of hell and he's an Angel for Christ's sake! If that didn't earn him a golden ticket to Hell, then he didn't know what would. Still... No, he brushed the thought from his mind before it could form a solid thread. Not when there was an angel currently in contact with his face.

He moved away, gently taking Cas' hand from his face. Cas curled his fingers around the hunter's and began to drag him back to the bedroom, one hand still holding the sheet around his thin frame.

Dean froze. He had been asleep next to the angel. The elegant curve of his neck, the alabaster white of his back... Dean closed his eyes. He'd been naked, in a bed, with Castiel. His best friend, an Angel of the Lord. His best friend. An Angel.

The words kept rampaging in his head, even as Cas moved him again and spilled him onto the bed's mattress.

Best Friend. Angel. Best Friend. Angel. -

If there was one thing that Dean condoned, it was sleeping with best friends, or almost-family. That split apart friendships. He'd seen it happen. He wasn't sure that he and Cas had even slept together. He was straight; Cas probably didn't even know what to do, considering he was still a virgin.

But then Cas was in his face, breath ghosting onto his lips. Dean felt his breathing increase and the angel took that as a good thing, pressing gentle but firm lips to his. Dean bucked, raised hands and pushed the angel off him.

"What the fuck?" Dean exclaimed, suddenly aware of his own near-nudity. He expected that Cas was naked under that sheet, and suppressed a groan. This was definitely not good.

"Dean?" Cas was hurt; voice heaving with an emotion that Dean never got to hear normally. Although Castiel had become more humanised, hurt was an emotion that usually evaded the angel.

"Look, Cas, I don't know what we did last night, because I honestly can't remember anything. But whatever did happen... It was a mistake. You're my friend, right? You're an angel, having sex with another man must be blasphemous or something."

Dean bit down on his lip, worrying it with his teeth. He observed the emotions that filtered through the angel; always readable to Dean. It flickered through like a slot machine, unsure on what emotion was going to stick.

Then anger bubbled to the surface, marring the perfect face of the angel. Dean gulped, suddenly unsure of what the angel was going to do.

"Mistake," His voice was calm, too calm, "MISTAKE?" He shouted; causing Dean to unnaturally flinch at the sound. Cas could be loud. He thankfully lowered his voice to spit at Dean, "So you're telling me that the last year of our lives have been wasted because you think that it's a mistake? And since when have you been blasphemous? There is nothing wrong with two men loving each other; love cannot be defined with petty words and mannerisms. My father fully approves of our relationship, you know! So does Gabriel! He's the only reason I gained the courage to approach you. And look where it landed me; for you to turn around a year later and throw it all away. Do you know what you're throwing away?"

Dean stood, causing Castiel to take a step back. His outburst was... unexpected, to be honest. They had apparently been dating for a year, yet Dean had no recollection of that whatsoever. Like the whole year had been wiped from his memory.

"Cas, look. It's... Hard to explain. The last memory I have is of my boss telling me to go home after working late at the mechanic's. And is Gabriel with Sam, still?"

"Yes," Cas replied darkly, arms awkwardly by his side again.

Dean nodded, as if being told the weather.

"You will sleep in the spare room for the rest of tonight, Dean. I will speak to you in the morning."

Cas pushed Dean forcibly from the bedroom and slammed the door, leaving Dean to stare at the grainy wood in front of him.

What the fuck had just happened?

Okay! Chapter two's finished. I'm sorry if this chapter's weird, but it had to be done. I'm worried Cas is out of character... But come on, how would you react if the love of your life turned around in the middle of the night and said that it was all a mistake? I know I'd be pissed.

I know where this story is going, as well as knowing a way to tie in another one I was writing as a sequel. I'm too good, considering this is only the second chapter xD

Baww, expect weirdness next chapter as Dean tries to figure out what's wrong and Gabriel had plans for the warring "couple."

Talk again: I'm really wondering if this thing is broken. To me it looks like a wall of text, and I'm worried it will put people off. But when I re-do spaces, it saves and reverts back to how it originally was. It's frustrating. I'm wondering if I should use the DocX feature instead, to preserve everything I've done... BAH.