(Author's note: It is not my fault…sometimes these guys are just insistent and uncooperative.)

Chapter 3 –

Professor Campbell is pretty justified in needing a drink – Sam can't imagine what it's like, hearing that much crap about his older brother. So, he understands it, can get behind it, but it's not five yet and Sam wants to help Dean keep his promise about cutting back on the drinking, so he's a bit pushy about the four of them getting ready and heading to the attack site. Once he gets his brother moving, Dean pulls Cas back out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder and a tip of his head, leaving Sam to escort Bernie out.

"So, Bernie, want to come back to the hotel with us?"

Dean's smirk blooms suddenly, his snort of laughter unrepressed and carrying, and Sam nearly swallows his tongue as Bernie arches one eyebrow smoothly, lips curling into an amused grin. "I meant while we got our stuff together. For the hike. And the camping."

"Smooth, Sammy. Real smooth." Clapping a hand to his brother's shoulder, he gives Bernie his best shit-eating grin. "You gotta forgive my little brother here. He gets a bit overeager." Oh, and this is the payback. Retaliation for this morning's joke between Cas and Sam at Dean's expense, and Dean would have milked it except that Sam could tell he wasn't really feeling it. At the first sign of Sam's patented bitchface, he quirked his lips into a more natural expression. "Actually, you know what? Why don't you and Bernie head back to her place, get her stuff together first. I can pack you up, and Cas and me . . . we've got things to do back at the motel."

Sam's not stupid – and Dean isn't being subtle. This isn't a hint, any more than it's a suggestion.

Even without looking at Cas, Sam can tell that his brother's singularly focused on the angel standing silently behind him, looking out over the parking lot with his hands clenched at his sides, gaze unfocused. Even if they were alone, he probably wouldn't retaliate in teasing about this. Sam knows that these two will stay curled into their own shells until they find a way to break through their tension. Sam wonders how Bernie will take this new revelation, because she's not stupid either, and he can see her gaze shifting between Dean and the angel, understanding slotting into place in her amber eyes.

"Yeah, sounds good. Call me when you've got everything together." Slapping Dean on the shoulder maybe a little harder than he has to (they'll get back to the sniping later, it's a silent promise), Sam offers a smile at Bernie again, and follows her to her Jeep Cherokee, climbing into the passenger's seat as Dean leans into Castiel to get his attention, his words enough to draw the angel back to them again and send him moving for the shotgun seat of the Impala.

. . .

At first, in the early days of their relationship, Dean handled his need for the fallen angel quickly and bordering on violently, but over the months he's grown more used to this overwhelming urge to touch his angel. He has stopped fighting his attraction to another man – because it's not men, it's Cas only -and now it's Dean who stands too close, and who follows almost on the heels of his angel as they enter the motel room.

"Hey, buddy, you're tensed up like a guitar string wound too tight," Dean murmurs in his ear as they close the door behind them, and he grazes a hand down Castiel's arm, cupping his elbow and drawing him after, walking backwards as he offers a crooked smile, green eyes searching Cas's face. "Let me give you a massage. No expectations. Just a little something I learned how to do a long time ago."

Dean leads his angel to the bedroom and tells him to take his clothes off and lie down, and he can see the moment Castiel really checks back in. He doesn't like this, didn't miss Cas swallowing two pills from his pocket down in the restaurant, and if damnit he will not watch Cas sink into what he became in the future Zachariah showed him. Cas has never been able to ignore him, and he can anchor him now in this. Whatever it takes.

Blue eyes flicking back to Dean, Castiel cants his head slightly to the side, attempting to read him and eventually letting him lead. So much of their time was spent as two alpha males attempting to control. . . maybe it was time to let go.

Jacket, boots, socks, come off and are hung, folded, rolled – it's like watching an awkward striptease –shirt, t shirt, jeans, boxers, stripped off with no intent to cause the tightening Dean feels inside, done with such innocence and trust. All these years of screwing up his life, and Cas still trusts him.

Cas positions himself on the bed, stomach down, face hidden, but his ass is exposed; and before Dean can even touch his angel, he can see the muscular cheeks clench. Dean bites hard on his lower lip to stop any sound from escaping.

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable like this," Cas complains. "You're still fully clothed and I feel – exposed."

"Stop trying to get me outta my pants, Cas." Dean makes soothing, hushing sounds as he moves slowly toward the bed; and Cas's breathing starts becoming quick and shallow. But Dean doesn't touch him yet, just clicks the bedside lamp to a low nightlight and turns on the iPod sitting on a speaker-charger. Led Zeppelin plays with the insistent guitar strumming at decibels lower than Dean blasts it in the Impala. "Whole Lotta Love" spills out.

You need coolin' baby, I'm not foolin'

Dean pours oil in his palm and rubs his hands together to warm it. Then Dean starts using his strong wide palm, with long smoothing strokes on Cas's back, following the tensed lines of his muscles. This isn't just the urge to touch for Dean – he meant it about the tension. Castiel's carried his stress in his knotted shoulders and ramrod straight back since the moment he fell, with every claustrophobic episode and every difficult conversation.

I'm gonna send you back to schoolin',

Cas moans quietly, low and sandpaper rough - the tensed back has been a constant ache, but under Dean's ministration he relaxes and yes, oh, good… Dean is digging into those muscles, forcing them to unknit with firm, knowing hands.

Way down inside honey, you need it,

I'm gonna give you my love,

I'm gonna give you my love.

Wanna Whole Lotta Love

Wanna Whole Lotta Love

Wanna Whole Lotta Love

Wanna Whole Lotta Love

After working on his back, Dean goes for his hands. Oiled fingers massaging each pressure point, every tense muscle. He moves on to triceps and biceps and works on them inch, by inch, by inch. Cas feels Dean's fingers move higher with tender, strong, powerful strokes on his shoulders now.

Instrumentals, slightly discordant and incomprehensible sounds. Moans. And echoes.

Then insistent guitar.

Cas startles slightly when Dean stoops to ask him softly, warm puffs of air where Cas's dark hair begins to curl on his neck, if he's cold when the shivering starts. Incoherent sounds the only answer.

You've been learnin', baby, I've been yearnin',

All them good times, baby, baby, I've been yearnin',

The foot massage makes him almost comatose with pleasure. Every toe, every pressure point rubbed, stroked and soothed. Cas is making sounds like a cat's purr now, and Dean hums a response, dragging his thumbs up to Castiel's ankles.

Way, way down inside honey, you need it,

I'm gonna give you my love... I'm gonna give you my love.

Calves and knees are next, and Castiel buries his face against the pillow, relishing the touch. Then Dean's hands move away to gently massage Cas's the underside of the angel's lower thighs… Castiel whimpers when Dean's hands move away.

When those strong hands are back, it's to gently knead the back of his neck. Then Dean's hands trace south towards Cas's lower back.

You've been coolin', baby, I've been droolin',

All the good times I've been misusin',

Way, way down inside, I'm gonna give you my love,

I'm gonna give you every inch of my love,

Gonna give you my love.

Cas wonders why he has never really listened to this music before. He wonders if he'll ever be able to hear it again without thinking of this moment with Dean breathing in his ear, nibbling the edges, lightly sucking the lobe, and his powerful hands playing Castiel's muscles like a musical instrument.

And the song must be on repeat because it begins again.

You need coolin', baby, I'm not foolin',

I'm gonna send you back to schoolin',

"Maybe we should stop now," Cas chokes out as Dean begins to massage his thighs, cupping his warm palms around each muscle and rubbing, pulling, smoothing, and moving up to where they join. But Dean just smiles at him, unrelenting – whispers payback - reaches to brush each cheek, not hurrying, rubbing circles and lightly digging into muscles. Humming as he slowly unravels his angel under his hands the way Castiel had him with a stolen kiss that morning.

Castiel has stopped making words, only short panting sounds come out of his mouth, fists clenching the sheets under him. This is the only way Dean likes to see his angel wrecked.

Dean's growl is feral and possessive, "Roll over."

. . .

Bernie's place is in Old Town, not far from the restaurant. It's a pretty typical two bedroom apartment with the smaller bedroom doubling as a study. American Indian artifacts and all types of books seem to be the main decorations. Her apartment is small enough that Sam can stand near the front door and talk to her as she moves around collecting her backpack and things for a camping trip with the sure hand of someone who camps frequently.

Sam has been shifting around, pacing as much as confined spaces and long legs will allow, by the front door. His mind is still back in the parking lot, on Cas and Dean and the recognition he caught in Bernie's stare. He has to know how Bernie feels about Cas and Dean, because … well, if she can't be accepting, he doesn't want her near them, even for the span of a recon camping trip. In this Sam has resolved that he will give up a chance for a casual sexual encounter to protect his brother's relationship and mental health. Yeah, maybe it's weird being third wheel to his brother and his best friend sometimes, but Sam knows that what they share is keeping them from falling apart, and, yeah, maybe Dean would laugh and call him a romantic, but it makes Sam happy to see his brother bloom under the angel's love.

Wrapped in his own thoughts, Sam doesn't even realize Bernie is standing two feet away with a puzzled look on her face.

"Um, Sam, something bothering you?" Bernie's eyes are assessing.

The Hunter's head snaps up, surprised at her and himself – her for coming so close without him hearing her, and himself for seemingly losing his instincts. "Look, Bernie, I know you saw Dean and Cas. I gotta know, you going to take issue with it?" He's blurting out the question and he knows it, but his brother's still limping after San Antonio and it's cueing up all his own protective instincts.

Her hand is warm and dry as she clasps his hand and draws him over to the comfortable couch.

"Let's sit a minute. I get the feeling we don't want to hurry over there, and I want to talk to you." Rather than jump right in, though, she takes a minute to offer him something to drink, and fussing around getting him a glass of ice tea, as if determining how to begin on her thoughts. "Stop me if I sound too much like a professor here, okay? I want to teach you a Native American word." Drawing a leg beneath her, Bernie settles onto the couch next to him, waiting for him to nod his agreement.

"Berdache," she says is a Native American word for homosexual. "Or bisexual really - men who are thought to live more in touch with the spiritual realm and be of 'two spirits.' The berdache are supposed to be spiritually gifted, more intuitive, nurturing, wise, and skilled." She gives a small snort and a shake of her head. "It doesn't surprise me at all to learn your angel friend is berdache … if it's comparative to Native American beliefs, he should be."

Genderless, actually, but not anymore. Sam has reached up to smooth his hair again, his hand slightly unsteady, until Bernie captures his hand as he lowers it and tugs on it gently until he makes eye contact, questioning her.

"Am I surprised by your brother? Uh, no." Bernie finds she really wants Sam to understand, always dismayed when she stumbles over pockets of Christian Bible angst over something so pure and natural as sex in someone she thought was too intelligent to be that, well, that stupid.

"Look, I know you don't want to talk about it, but it doesn't change that I know about it. I've been researching for hunters a few years now, helping keep the archives. You and your brother aren't just hunters; you are as much characters in the Christian Apocalypse story as any of the angels," she adds. "Why wouldn't I expect a human who has been chosen to be the Righteous Man to be spiritually gifted? And an angelic vessel? Like you are too? That's easy math in my mind."

Bernie is happy to see the slow smile spread across the handsome face across from her. She has misjudged his concern. She can read the relief in his eyes and instinctively knows his concern was to protect his brother from what he was afraid she was feeling. She watches his eyes light up when she continues. "How do I feel about those two gorgeous men wanting some time alone together? Maybe a little jealous because, well, they are both pretty hot."

Sam gives a short laugh and pulls back just a little. He enjoys her open sexuality, but he isn't ready to jump into bed with her, yet.

"'More intuitive, nurturing,' that's my brother for sure," Sam says, his love for his brother clear in his hazel eyes. "You know he pretty much raised me since I was six months old. And if you get to spend any real time with him, you'll see he can like…read…people. Okay, so sometimes he does that just to be able to push their buttons, but he can tell how people are feeling and their intent as fast as Castiel used to be able to just plain read their minds." Nurturing might be a smack upside the back of the head or a beer at the right moment, and intuition might be something to be weaponized for obnoxiousness, but that was just Dean being. . . Dean. Sam is happy and excited about what he has learned, so happy that he doesn't see the flicker of concern go across her face.

. . .

It grows dark quickly in Albuquerque in early December, so by the time the two cars carrying three hunters and a TA pull into their campsite they're happy to have the light from the waxing Gibbous moon to help get familiar with their surroundings. The university's campsite, actually, where the professor's students have been keeping watch for monsters under the guise of studying the stars.

The Chevy and the Jeep are parked next to each other, but nose to tail, just west of The Petroglyph National Monument, exactly where Donald Campbell had been snatched by a Thunderbird. The National Park Service runs the monument area where a collection of Native American glyphs, 700-400 years old are carved into volcanic rock. Even when the visitor's center isn't open the area cannot be completely closed off. Bernie walks them a mile into the back-end of the Rinconada Canyon trail where one of the glyphs is of a Thunderbird.

The men are fanning their flashlights over the rocks when Sam starts. "Can you believe that? Looks like some jerks are etching their own names and tagging these rocks," he complains. "How could anyone do that to a National Monument?"

Castiel peers at Sam suspiciously, then he turns to Dean. "Is he being serious, Dean? Because all of this," he says gesturing to include the monument, "is graffiti. Some is just older than others."

Bernie falls into step with Castiel as they head back to their cars. Dean and Sam listen as the two get into a rather deep theological discussion of similarities and differences of Christian and Native American beliefs. "I miss this sometimes," Sam says softly to Dean.

"Which this do you miss?" And Dean shakes his own head at that one, muttering that he feels like that line from Buffy.

"You can't brain today?" Sam asks with insincere sympathy. "You have the dumb?"

The two brothers share a smile over the pop reference thrown and caught. Sam feels good to be able to have a light-hearted moment with Dean. No death, near death, angst, or even excessive drinking. This morning was rough and he had been worried his brother would get caught in that spiral of self-loathing that talk of the Apocalypse can cause any of them.

"…the academic talks about esoterica."

"Yeah, well, some people's esoterica is another person's Tuesday." Dean answers, gruffly.

Once they leave the rocky canyon trail all flashlights are turned off, allowing their eyes to adjust to the low light conditions. They've opted for sandwiches - which are stacked with Sam's OCD neatness in the cooler along with apples and bottles of water. Next to the cooler, there's a large thermos of coffee with four metal cups. Unlike the undergraduate students, the Winchesters know not to treat a monster stakeout like a camping trip. This is business.

It's still early as Bernie and Sam take up a lookout position on the luggage rack of the jeep while Dean and Cas stretch out on the hood of the Impala to watch the skies in the opposite direction. Both sets of watchers have a sleeping bag under them, and blankets wrapped around their shoulders to ward off the sudden cold of a desert night. But this too is just practical, and the hunters' guns are outside the blankets where they will not be tangled if needed.

They hunker down, watching the stars and the skies to wait.

It's not even midnight when the roar of thunder splits the cloudless sky.