Warnings: Strong language, sexual content, disturbing descriptions of violence and sex.
Summary: Dean and Cas become inseparable after their blessed night together. Reliving the past, Dean is haunted by Lisa and Cas reveals a part of his dark history.
A/N: This is the weirdest fanfic I may have ever written. Like, I don't understand why, but sometimes it creeps me out and makes me hella depressed, lmao. Every chapter gets longer than the last. Holy frijoles, this is one fucking long chapter. I really hope you all don't mind insanely long chapters. I am enjoying writing this and so grateful that you all are reading! I'm amazed! Really! Thank you, and I hope you like this installment. :)


The chill of the winter night was no impediment to Dean's ability to fall asleep. After bundling up in every stitch of clothing he owned, he wrapped himself in his sheets and fell into an instant, coma-like slumber. What posed a challenge was removing himself from his bed the next morning.

"Dean Winchester," called one of the guards at five past six in the morning. He met with total silence. Tapping his pencil once to his clipboard, he spoke again. "Dean Winchester."

The heap on the bed that was Dean didn't stir and the man in the uniform standing outside of his cell lost his patience. The crash of his nightstick upon the thick metal bars of Dean's cell emitted a loud, ringing noise that caused several nearby inmates to cringe. Dean, like every other prisoner, hated that sound with a passion, but he barely moved upon hearing it. "Hey! Five twenty-nine twenty-nine!" The guard shouted. "Rise and shine!"

Five twenty-nine twenty-nine moaned and curled more snugly into his pillow and sex-scented sheets. "I'm sick," Dean groaned. "Sleepy."

Cas.

Dean thought of last night and whispered his friend's name so softly into his pillow that it went unheard. If he had to wake, he wished Cas could be the person to wake him instead. When he imagined all the possible ways Castiel might choose to wake him, Dean made a low sound of pleasure.

"Sick, my ass," The guard answered. He passed his clipboard over to Edgar so the morning count could proceed on schedule while he dealt with Dean.

"Unbelievable," the guard grumbled. To rouse Dean, the guard had to prod him with his nightstick and then physically drag him to his feet. When Dean heard the guard mutter complaints, he begged to be left alone to sleep, but the guard was insistent. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty. This ain't no day spa."

"Get yer mitts off me," Dean hissed as he struggled in the other man's arms, "At least take me out to dinner first."

Thankfully, guards were more lenient with prisoners that had difficulties leaving their cells in the mornings than they were with prisoners that were late to return to their cells at the appropriate times. Dean had no prior morning violations, so he was let off easy once he was on his feet. The Winchester was the last man to the showers and the last man to the mess hall.

His permanent seat in front of Gabriel had been waiting for him. That space on the bench was the niche he had carved for himself in a world where he never would have thought he could belong. Habitually, they all took the same spots each day to the point that the hundreds of breakfasts they had shared together were practically indistinguishable from each other. If not for Gabriel's new magnificent beard, Dean could have easily mistaken this day for any day months ago.

Gabriel had taken to growing a beard early in January just so something would be different. The condition of his facial hair was one of the few things in his life that the musician could still control. With his well-groomed beard, Gabe was dashing and appeared more mature. Yet, Dean had already begun to become used to it as well. The most striking change at breakfast that morning had nothing to do with their physical appearances. Dean sat down in his familiar spot and received several inquisitive glances from his companions.

"Mornin' princess," Gabriel said around a mouthful of partially chewed biscuit. Dean responded with a low groan and Charlie had to stifle a laugh with his palm. In a fog of sleepiness, Dean's eyes gradually found their way to Castiel, who returned the gaze when he could no longer pretend to be so completely fascinated by his porridge. Whatever thoughts they shared in that instant went unspoken.

Beginning with the day he had first persuaded Cas to visit Dean at his cell, Gabriel had always encouraged their friendship along. But, if he had been told then that he would soon be watching them so silently enchanted with each other, Gabe would not have believed it. His plotting had worked a little too well. Now, he had the urge to shout something at the pair because they were so obvious in their quiet worship of each other, but he resisted.

Neither Dean nor Castiel made any comments to suggest they'd spent a perfect night together. When Dean frowned and spoke, he posed the most ordinary question to Gabe and Charlie, "What day is it?"

"Thursday," Charlie replied. He hadn't been able to wipe off his grin since Dean had joined them at the table. Dean was in the most profound sex stupor he'd seen in a long while. Charlie had learned about Castiel's plans through Gabriel and he knew exactly what had happened without needing to have it spelled out to him.

Because he could, Gabriel had set up the most absurd requirements for Castiel to obtain the personal lubricant just to see how far Cas would go to get it. Gabriel had acted like getting him lubricant was the equivalent of breaking into Fort Knox with nothing but a trowel and a bucket of moxie. Castiel almost certainly knew better, but he had worked for Gabriel tirelessly without question, and Gabriel was confident he could have made him work more.

With a fierce craving for eggs, Dean sighed, "It should be Sunday."

"You're preachin' to the choir, amigo. Every day should be Sunday," Gabriel responded and then was taken aback by a subtle detail change about Dean. "No me digas, are you wearing Castiel's shirt?"

"What? No," Dean answered, befuddled. He inspected his shirt and stiffened when he noticed a patched-up tear he'd never seen on one of his own shirts. He wasn't so much embarrassed as he was stunned. He'd spent the night in Castiel's shirt without knowing it.

"Well, he's wearing yours." Gabriel quirked his head to the side and pointed to the cufflink Cas was still wearing on his sleeve. "This isn't his, and five twenty-nine twenty-nine is your number."

They seldom spoke of their prisoner identification numbers because their numbers made them feel like objects. Every man had one stitched upon a small white square on his left shirt pocket. Gabriel was 87425, Charlie was 18336, and Death was 33284. "You're wearing Cas' number," Gabriel said, "Two-six-four-three-five."

Dean blinked. "So?"

"So, it doesn't belong on you." Gabriel wore the expression of a man who had just seen the stars suddenly shift in their positions. "It's not a lucky number if you're wearing it."

Dean ignored Gabriel to lean over the table to touch Castiel's sleeve, letting his fingers graze the bones of his pale wrist as he retrieved his golden cufflink. "Give me that..." Dean muttered to Cas without an ounce of believable malice. "You thieving rat. That's my birthday present."

Cas restrained a smile as Dean placed the golden object in his pocket. The area of his skin that Dean had touched tingled. Cas, who was generally more of a listener in the mornings, was even more quiet than usual. The slightest touch from Dean had sent him to cloud nine, and he didn't trust that his tongue could produce any words that would not be embarrassing. Death, Charlie, and Gabriel were all at the same table, but they were like the ocean surrounding the island of Dean and Cas. Gabriel and Charlie argued about the importance of their numbers while Cas and Dean continued to give each other loving, serene glances between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of biscuits and gruel.

"And what do you mean a lucky number? None of our numbers are lucky!" Charlie cried to Gabriel. The redhead had hated his number the instant he had seen it, but he probably would have hated any number that had been branded upon him. Numbers were for cattle.

"If you add Cas' number and mine together… you get eleven thirty-eight sixty," Gabriel remarked in wonder, but Charlie wasn't catching on. "It's got poetry to it. I'm planning to use it for gambling and as my lotto number when we get out of this joint. But, it's only lucky because half of it belongs to Cas."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean eyed Gabriel, thinking he was losing his mind again. Dean remembered how a few days ago Gabriel had experienced a small meltdown and claimed that his beard was the only thing keeping the universe continuing.

"It's what you call 'destiny,'" Gabriel explained. "The numbers are all random, but the man wearin' it isn't. We all had to be in the exact right place at the exact right time over and over and over again to get these exact digits, and that makes them more than a mess of scrambled numbers. Cas and I are pals so that's got to mean our numbers were meant to be together. Eleven thirty-eight sixty. It even sounds lucky."

Dean exhaled noisily and looked up at the ceiling. "You're a loon, Gabe. There's no such thing as destiny."

"Oh, yeah? Is that what you think? Dean, if even one thing in your life had been different – something big, like your Daddy falling for someone that wasn't your mom, or something small, like you working late instead of getting home on time – if any one of those things had been different, you wouldn't be sitting in front of me wearing the wrong number."

"C'mon, destiny is just a thing that was invented to sell little brown books to schoolgirls and housewives," Dean replied. He was speaking to Gabriel, but his eyes kept focusing back on Castiel, who was unmistakably amused by what Dean had just said. Unknown to the other men at the table, Dean and Cas had once spent a day reading out loud from one such brown book. Dean had never heard Castiel laugh more than he had the day he had recited the tale of the young maiden who was saved by an Arab sheikh and carried away on his galloping horse. They didn't carry many brown books in their library because they weren't popular among the all-male population, but the few they had were gems.

Dean didn't give a damn what number was on his chest and he didn't understand the attachment Gabriel had for them. He ate the rest of his breakfast quietly and decided that Cas looked mighty fine donning five twenty-nine twenty-nine. Dean felt good being branded by Castiel's two-six-four-three-five as well. After breakfast, Dean addressed Cas on their way to the library, "You took my shirt?"

"It was an accident."

"You realize I'm going to have to take that off you today."

Castiel shot Dean a coquettish glance. "It would be wrong for you not to."


The aches Dean felt in his body were not as sharp or painful as he had imagined they would be, but he was slower than usual that day. He worked casually and carefully, reliving every hot moment from last night in his mind as he labored. Without any warning, Castiel approached Dean and began to unbutton his shirt just before their lunch hour. Dean inched away in surprise, checking the library to see if anyone was around to catch sight of them.

"Relax, Dean. I'm just taking my shirt back. 'Not in public' was one of your rules, wasn't it?" Castiel asked.

"We've skirted that line," Dean reminded Cas. "Very closely."

Castiel pulled the cotton away from Dean's shoulders to reveal a plain white, sleeveless undershirt. Cas paused, wondering if the undershirt was also his, and then was distracted by Dean's bullet wound scar that was only just visible around the edges of his undershirt. With fascination, Cas watched his skin prickle from the air. Dean shivered.

"You cold?"

Dean reddened, knowing that his nipples were hard. The library wasn't well insulated at all. "You're taking my clothes off during winter time, what do you think?"

"Were you very cold last night?"

Dean's less than complete state of dress and his memories from last night made him feel particularly vulnerable to Castiel's question. Castiel was a handsome furnace. Dean had longed for his heat through the night and when he had first awoken. One of the things that had made it so difficult for him to leave his bed that morning had been the chill. "It's always fucking cold in this place."

Castiel began to unbutton his own shirt and Dean joined in the endeavor with his eyes focused on Castiel's chest. "I don't feel it that strongly," Cas admitted.

Dean perked up at the new tidbit about Cas. He wasn't surprised by the detail because he still held on to his belief that Castiel was a Soviet immigrant, used to the mountains and the cold. With a smile in his eyes, Dean suggested, "I should wear both of our shirts then."

The thought of Cas working all day in only his undershirt was a happy one for Dean.

When they succeeded in undoing all of the buttons of Castiel's shirt, Castiel reached out to pull Dean near. Cas was susceptible to the beautiful brightness of Dean's eyes and sensitive to any discomfort he might feel. He had the incredible desire to place Dean next to a fire, but there were no fireplaces to be had in the penitentiary. Instead, Cas tried to warm him with friction from his hands. Up and down, his hands moved over Dean's scarred skin. As good as it felt, Dean was indignant about this treatment. "Cut it out, you sap. I've been cold before. I'm a man, God damn it! I've been in all sorts of bad weather."

Dean remembered having been caught in the rain during the invasions of Italy. He had marched through mud, carried packs weighted down by water, and slept in sopping wet clothing for weeks. Long before the war, Dean had been a man built to endure. Dean remembered having lived out of the family car as a boy and of clutching Sam close at night to protect him and keep him warm because they had grown up with a father that hadn't always been successful at keeping a roof over their heads. He remembered the wind that had torn at his young face during the day and ruined his hands as he broke his back doing odd jobs for strangers to supplement whatever his father earned. In those moments, another person had never comforted Dean. He had only ever been the one to warm Sam up at night, just as Cas was doing to him now.

When Castiel stopped rubbing his arms and back, Dean didn't move away from him. He wanted to hold him back and to stay warm, but they were not in the right place for that. To his ear, Dean whispered, "We should have a smoke."

They quietly exchanged shirts and Castiel pulled out one of his cigarettes. Now that he didn't have to barter them for a gift for Dean, he didn't have to be as careful about rationing them. They would share a single cigarette anyway because Cas still liked to pass indirect kisses with Dean through the paper and tobacco. Dean revealed his treasured Zippo lighter and raised it to the smoke between Castiel's lips. The spark and the flame set an alluring glow upon Castiel's face.

Dean wouldn't light a cigarette with a match like a civilian. He would only use the familiar, much loved metal lighter that reminded him of his military service and of all of the brothers he'd made and loved. The lighter in Dean's hands was one of the only things he had bartered with Gabriel to obtain. It was the lighter he had carried to prison, and he paid Gabriel for more fluid whenever it ran out.

Castiel drew a long drag and blew the smoke in Dean's face. "Why do you always do that? I can light them myself."

"You're my honorary brother," Dean replied, taking a deep breath of the air surrounding Cas. He tapped Castiel's forehead with his lighter. "This is a soldier's lighter, sweetheart. If we're gonna have smokes, we've gotta smoke like kings."

Dean drew from the cigarette, enjoying its warmth and Castiel's nearness. It dawned on Castiel that Dean had only begun giving him such special treatment after getting out of solitary. He didn't light anyone else's cigarettes. Cas stroked the lighter in Dean's hand with the pad of his thumb. "I didn't know that."

"You're not up on current affairs, I get that. That's why I'm here." Dean took a pause to transfer the cig back to Cas. "Yeah, we all got these. Sammy's got one too."

"I don't think I'm worthy of it, Dean. I'm not a soldier."

Dean contemplated Castiel for a moment. Sometimes he honestly forgot that Castiel wasn't a military man. Something about him was inherently tough, loyal, and warrior-like. Since neither of them knew much about his past, it was possible Castiel had been a soldier and he just didn't remember. "Sure you are," Dean said, "You'd fight for what you believe in, wouldn't you? You'd fight to protect someone you care about."

Castiel could see the sunny brush Dean was using to paint his service. Dean was silent about almost everything about the war even after having known Cas for over a year and having had many opportunities to talk about it. If being a soldier was so noble and glamorous, he expected Dean would have had more to say on the topic. "Is that what being a soldier is to you?"

After a distinct pause, Dean gave an answer that was surprising in its honesty. "It's part of it. The rest is a lot of orders and a lot of getting blown up. But that brotherhood, it's what makes us."

Castiel took another pull from the cigarette, but this time he drew Dean in slowly for a kiss to exhale the smoke directly into his mouth. Dean had never shared a cigarette with his brothers in arms like this, and the contact made his body burn. When they parted, Dean blew gentle curls of steamy smoke against Castiel's lips. For some moments they completely forgot about the stick of tobacco in favor of sharing smoky, heated kisses.

Three men entered the library at that time, which was the only reason Dean pulled away. They had perfected evading the eyes of others by knowing every space in the library and how often each space was usually occupied. They were fortunate that there were so many tall, stocked shelves because they usually had enough time to hear someone enter to compose themselves before they were seen. Dean took the cigarette and was about to leave to go about his business, but he stopped to search Castiel's shirt pocket. "My cufflink! Thieving son of a bitch."


Since Dean's birthday, Dean and Castiel had been closer than usual. They decided the lubricant would be rationed because Cas didn't want to wear Dean out and they had to make it last. Dean was still slightly sore on Friday. On that Friday, they spent a great deal of time neglecting work to spend time in the storage room. They made love as they had in the past, with impassioned mouths, fervent caresses, and an abundance of intense friction. By the time they were exhausted from sex, many of Dean's scars were accompanied by marks of love. Castiel had deliberately lavished the insides of Dean's thighs with sweet kisses and sucks because they were marred by irregular scars the Winchester would never explain.

Castiel's dark hair, as always, had ended up in complete disarray. Dean could only kiss Castiel for so long before he was compelled to weave his fingers in his hair. Castiel loved the way Dean stroked his scalp in gentle motions as if he believed Castiel wouldn't notice the fetish he had for his hair if he touched him very softly. Castiel's hand teased the spot of Dean he adored before settling on Dean's backside as the Winchester rested on top of him on the floor of the storage room.

"What does it matter, Cas? If we work or don't work…" Dean breathed into the other man's collarbone. "We could go out there and fuck up all the books on purpose and it wouldn't make a lick of difference."

"We always could." Castiel shrugged. "It would give us something to do."

"Or we could just burn it all," Dean sniggered. It wasn't the first time Dean had contemplated arson, nor the first time he'd mentioned it. "There's so much paper in there. I've got a lighter. It would burn up good."

Castiel tilted his head to look at Dean. He caressed his hand up his body and stroked the nape of his neck.

"We should burn everything," Dean said. "Would you be in on it?"

Castiel thought for a moment, but they both knew what his answer would ultimately be. "Of course."

They didn't burn down the library that day, but they did ignore responsibility to keep each other satiated in a warm, loving embrace. When Dean went to bed that night, something unexpected happened. After so many months free of them, Dean had a dream.

When he closed his eyes that night, Dean saw his kitchen as it had been before being covered in blood. He visualized the vivid yellow of the walls and the solid white of the cabinets in such detail that, for a moment, he was certain that he was back in his home in Iowa. The wooden table with the red top surrounded by four red and white checkered chairs sat in the middle of the kitchen a few feet away from the rustic blue back door of the house. Lacy white curtains hung over the little window on the door and over the window above the kitchen sink like sugary veils of royal icing. Lisa had decorated the kitchen to look permanently like the Fourth of July, and Dean forgot that anything terrible could have ever happened in such a place. The daffodil walls, the rose and white seating, and the forget-me-not door created such a bouquet of striking color that Dean did not notice he was not alone until the sound of chopping compelled him to notice the presence of another.

Wearing a red apron over a blue dress that had white polka dots, Lisa was preparing something at the kitchen counter. Her legs were bare because she had donated every last one of her stockings to the war effort. Lisa did her hair like Rita Hayworth, letting her dark hair tumble down the left side of her face in glamorous curls. One of the things Dean had always admired about Lisa was her complete lack of vanity and her genuine nature. She didn't need to do much to be beautiful and she often disregarded the conventions of beauty for comfort. Those stockings had made their way out of their home delightfully, for more than one reason. At the moment, she wasn't wearing any shoes.

When she turned to Dean, he was startled by how normal her eyes were. They were the dark brown of chocolate rather than the solid black of evil he had become accustomed to seeing in his dreams. A smile as bright as the moon erupted on her face at the sight of him. "Oh! Hi, Dean. I'm making a pie. Your favorite."

Dean inched near the woman cautiously without acknowledging her because he was afraid she would turn into a raging bull at any instant. That fear was evident on his face. This isn't real. It's a dream. If he concentrated on how the situation before him wasn't real, he thought perhaps he wouldn't be there and he would be safe. He might even wake up. Dean's focus was broken when Lisa began to pour liberal amounts of white from a large container into the pie filling. Upon seeing the Umbrella Girl on the side of the container, Dean cried in horror, "Lisa, that's salt!"

He was still too afraid to touch her, but Lisa did pause and turn to Dean, revealing her eyes to still be normal. She had covered a mound of chopped apples with salt. Disturbed, Dean questioned her. "Why are you putting so much salt in the pie?"

"Salt's good for you." Lisa smiled in return as if there was nothing wrong, and continued to douse the pie filling with salt until the container in her hand was empty. The pie filling was now almost more salt than it was apple. Dean rubbed his face and when he looked back at the wife he knew to be deceased, she was already putting the pie in the oven. Promptly, she faced him, holding the pie cutter in Dean's direction. Red flags flew and alarms blared within his dream-self and he backed away in fear, toppling over a chair.

"What are you doing?" Lisa asked, frowning.

"J-Just stop. Right there. Just stop," Dean begged, lifting his hands to protect himself. "You're going to stab me. Just don't. Don't do it this time."

"Why would I stab you?"

"You're Dream Lisa. Dream Lisa always stabs me," Dean panicked.

"What makes you think I'm Dream Lisa?"

"I killed you, that's why! This is a dream." Dean could sense his chest moving up and down with dread. Following more of Dean's adamant urging, Lisa put the pie cutter down on the breakfast table. She appeared to be very worried for him and was completely lacking in the rage and hatred he had come to associate with her.

"It's okay, Dean. Sit down, please," Lisa entreated Dean and lifted the toppled over chair so he could sit. He obeyed even though every previous experience he'd had warned him to do otherwise. "Sam's going to be fine," she said, "You worry about him too much."

Only in a dream could a total change of subject feel so ordinary. When it came to Sam, Dean didn't understand the phrase 'too much.' "I can't help it. He's my brother."

Lisa looked down at the floor, her expression indecipherable. The entire time he dreamt, she never made a move to touch him. She always kept a safe distance away from him like there was an unseen buffer surrounding his body. She was so much like the Lisa he'd known long ago that Dean stopped fighting whatever was happening in the dream. "Have you been taking care of Ben?"

The question had been spoken softly, sadly. "I can't, Lisa," Dean replied. "I'm in prison."

"You promised," Lisa cried and her eyes swelled with emotion. She had always taken care of so much and asked so little of Dean.

"How?" Dean answered. The kitchen remained as bright as ever, but it was the extreme opposite of how Dean felt. "How am I supposed to do that when I'm not free?"

In distress, she raised her voice, "You figure something out!"

"He's with your sister," Dean explained and Lisa appeared to calm down at the statement. "Everyone looks after Ben. Everyone, that is… but me."

"Well, fine, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook." Lisa hated arguing with Dean. She always had, so anytime she expressed displeasure, Dean was moved by it. In the next instant, Lisa regained her easy attitude and teased Dean. "And, please, don't let Gabriel touch you."

Dean stuttered, "W-What? Why not?"

"He's supposed to be with Charlie." Lisa covered her mouth and giggled as if she'd just told a hilarious joke.

"How do you know about Gabriel? And Charlie?" Dean shot back and Lisa shrugged.

"I know everything. Now eat your pie before it gets cold."

In far less time than it should have taken for Lisa's salt and apple pie to finish baking, it had been baked and placed in front of Dean without him being aware of it. He looked down at it and it was unreal in its perfection. Flawless. Little waves of heat radiated from its surface. Lisa's pie was the dessert incarnation of the sun, sitting upon the red sky of their table. Dean reached for the fork that had been waiting for him to take his first bite. The silver was less than a whisper away from breaking its crust when he woke up.

The morning bell rang with its characteristically loud, whining buzz. He heard the buzz crash into his dream and he lived reality and his dream world simultaneously for a quick second before his eyelids flipped apart. The sight of his cell after his dream of Lisa made him feel a sadness so complete that he felt weighed down by it. Dean woke up realizing how good Lisa had been, and how colorless his life had been since he'd killed her. The walls around him, his clothing, and everything else that filled his world was so gray and plain in comparison to the house he had once owned and the responsible, kind woman that had managed it with love.

Lisa had always been secondary to Sam. He had always preferred having a beer with his brother while watching the stars, to spending time with Lisa. He had been more proud of his car than he had been of her. That morning, more than ever, he hated himself for not having loved her more. He would never see that glowing kitchen again and he would never see another polka dot dress.

Her eyes were brown.

He left his cell in such a hurry that he didn't realize the little bag of magic he kept at his bed had unraveled during the night and spilled its contents all over the floor. Dean was so agitated that he bumped into Cas gracelessly while filing into the line to get his breakfast. Castiel steadied him with a gentle touch.

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel said and his eyes were a blue so deep they were as unreal as the pie of his dreams. His eyes were always beautiful, but today they were vibrant and Dean had never been so happy to see a living person. He had trouble recognizing how something in the real world could be as flawless as something in a dream.

"Mornin', Cas." Dean swallowed, unsure if he was really awake or not. Lisa continued to haunt him even then. Dean was off the entire morning. At breakfast, he kept staring back and forth between Charlie and Gabriel. Dean's staring was so unconcealed and bizarre that Gabriel remarked on it. Dean responded to him with uncertainty. "Are you… supposed to be together?"

Charlie snorted, almost spitting out his coffee and Gabriel laughed. "Have you been smoking some funny cigarettes?" Charlie asked. "If you have, you should really share. Gabriel and I always sit together."

"Oh… Yeah, I guess you do." Dean frowned, wondering if that was what the new Dream Lisa meant. It had sounded like the new Dream Lisa didn't like Gabriel making passes at him, but it was always hard to make sense out of dreams. As he made his way to the library, Dean wondered why she had never mentioned Cas.

Dean worked vigorously that day because he was trying to get over the disturbing feeling he had from his dream. His waking world was so dull that it was easy for him to forget the all colors. What he couldn't shake was the feeling of emptiness he had. He took a break and spread out on the table that always served as his makeshift couch.

He had taken his rubber band ball into his hands to throw it up into the air and catch it as a diversion for his thoughts. Dean had made the rubber band ball after making a paperclip curtain that hung by the back entrance. The paperclip curtain had been a time-consuming project last year that ended in an ultimately useful warning device to alert them if other men were entering from the back entrance. The paperclip curtain made noise and the rubber band ball was fun to throw. They each had important functions. Dean's frustration grew as the ball refused to do its duty of wiping his mind of the life he'd had on the outside. He couldn't stop thinking about the house, Lisa, and Ben.

Lisa had been born pretty. She'd grown up hearing that her prettiness was all she would ever need because it meant someone incredible and wealthy would undoubtedly fall in love with her. She had felt that she should have been satisfied, even grateful, for those words, but she hadn't been. Discouraged from working and going to college, she had begun to seek out trouble and danger. She had wanted to do things and feel things that were beyond pretty or the opposite of pretty, and that was how she found herself with a man that hadn't wanted to settle down anymore than she had. She hadn't been disowned and branded as a whore until she got pregnant. Lisa had been so disgraced that she had no option but to run away from Michigan with nothing.

Iowa was the land where she had learned to lie. She told the story of how she had been married and how her husband had been killed in an accident so she could find work and support for herself and her baby. Lisa had known a widow was far more sympathetic than a woman that had been reckless. And yet, she had been drawn to Dean because he was tough and wild. He had been a copy of the men she should have learned to avoid. He was dirty, he cursed, he didn't go to church, he was blunt to the point of rudeness, and he was cocky to a fault. He had been exactly all of the things she had always wanted to be. Dean had been lonely, but free. He also had a family, a job, and a house. Dean had everything she desired and everything she needed. Lisa had been certain Dean would be different because his smiles to Ben were genuine and because Dean babied and cared for his brother with a love and complete acceptance that was a stark contrast to what her sister had done for her. Lisa's sister had told her that she was stupid and that everything had been her fault.

Dean had guessed her past before she had ever explained it and it hadn't bothered him. He had been convinced he was soon to die. Dean hadn't wanted to go to war without knowing what it was like to have a family of his own, so he had married Lisa, grateful that she already had a child that he could love.

Dean squeezed the ball in his hands. He hurled it against the wall furiously, and it shot from the wall to the floor and back to his hands. He was still so angry and so displeased that Lisa's end had been so much worse than the rough life she had lived as a young woman.

Castiel had taken to the front desk to work on a project he had been putting off for a while. He didn't mind Dean's silence or the violent crashes of his rubber ball against the wall by where he stood because Cas was deep in thought. Looking at the calm, disinterested Castiel aggravated Dean. Like the ball, Castiel was supposed to alleviate his dissatisfaction. "Cas!"

"Yes, Dean?" Castiel answered, without looking up from his work. He had a pencil in his mouth and was looking as handsome as always.

"What're you doing?"

Castiel exhaled a breath of impatience and flicked his eyes to the side in that famous expression of his that exemplified exasperation. He answered with the obvious. "Working."

"Come talk to me."

"I'm busy."

Dean sighed a sigh that could have been heard from every corner of the library. He went back to chucking his ball into the air and catching it, until he lost all patience and turned to scribble something on a piece of paper. When a paper ball crashed right into Castiel's forehead, the blue-eyed male showed no signs of being surprised. With composure, he reached for the paper and unraveled it.

I'm bored.

Castiel fixed his eyes on Dean. "Am I supposed to do something about this?"

Dean nodded in the affirmative and Castiel ignored him in favor of doing his work. If Castiel wasn't going to talk to him, Dean would talk to Cas. Whether he listened or not was not Dean's concern. "I used to play baseball with Sam."

Sam's going to be fine.

The only positive thing he could glean from his dream was what Lisa had said about Sam. He had no logical reason to believe her, but he did. The belief that Sam would be fine pulled him together. Dean sat up on the edge of the table and pretended like he was going to hurl the rubber band ball directly at Cas. "Sammy was about eleven. We were in school for a few months before Dad moved us again and that school made us pick a sport. I picked baseball."

Castiel was listening because he couldn't fail to listen when Dean talked about his life. Dean continued. "Sammy picked baseball 'cause I picked baseball."

"Were you a pitcher?" Castiel asked. From what he saw of the nearly plaster-cracking fierceness of his hurls of the rubber band ball, Castiel could easily imagine Dean on the field, tapping a foot on the pitcher's mound.

"I've got a damn good arm, yeah, but I could play it all. Not Sammy. He was no good." Dean scrunched up his nose at the fond memory. "When I got kicked off the team, Sammy quit with me."

"Why did you get kicked off the team if you were so good?" Castiel had abandoned his pencil on the counter.

"I missed too many practices and games. I didn't give a damn. I missed school all the time. Playin' hooky or working. The other kids were all snobs anyway. I didn't wanna play with them."

Dean reclined back on the tabletop, resting his head on the stack of books he always used as a pillow. He wished he could play baseball that very instant – not with strangers, but with Sam. A period of silence passed so Castiel went back to concentrating on the inventory book in front of him. Then, Dean broke the calm again. "You ever think about…" Dean started softly, "How we've got nothin'? How we'll never have anything?"

Dean heard Castiel's book shut and he heard his steps approach. Castiel's face was soon peering down at him, expressing solemn interest. "No cars, no families, no houses, no women, no things of any kind. I don't have Sam. You don't even have your memories."

"Every man has something," Castiel said. He didn't want his memories, but he didn't feel like pointing that out to Dean in that moment. "You have your memories, very good ones."

"What do you have, Cas?"

Now and then, Castiel wasn't sure if Dean was purposely obtuse. Cas was staring at everything he had and everything he wanted. "Faith," Castiel said, "And my mind. As long as a man has his mind, he has something."

Dean winked at Castiel. "For a second there, I thought you were going to say me."

Castiel pushed Dean's book pillow out from under his head and Dean cried out complaints as he was knocked off his balance onto the table. Cas pretended to go back to work and Dean watched him with intensity. Castiel did have something else. He had a kind of fortitude that Dean didn't think he could ever emulate. He could be sarcastic and prudish, but Castiel was almost always composed. Dean wanted a piece of his mind so that he could absorb whatever awareness he had that made him so naturally tranquil and in control.

Castiel couldn't fake working for much longer. He returned to Dean and threw something soft on his chest. Perplexed, Dean gathered the items in his hands. They were a pair of fingerless navy blue knit gloves. "What the hell is this?"

"Things," Castiel replied, failing to sound as annoyed as he desired. Dean happened to express a desire for things the same day Castiel had been planning on giving him something. He watched as the Winchester sniffed the gloves apprehensively. "I thought you would recognize what gloves are."

"Yeah, I get that, but why are you giving them to me? Where'd they come from?" Dean tried one on and wiggled his fingers gleefully. His knuckles had been cracked from the cold and he expected these gloves would help.

"I found them years ago. I had forgotten about them until you mentioned being cold. I don't need them, so, naturally…"

"Well, this ain't exactly what I meant by 'things.'" Dean teased. "This is still pretty much nothin' in the grand scheme of things."

"You realize how unbelievably unappreciative you are?"

"All I'm sayin' is Charlie gave me cufflinks. Gold ones."

Castiel glared at Dean for a hot second or two. "If you want to be someone's kept woman, I suggest you seduce a guard. Guards are the only people around here with belongings of value."

Dean laughed and reached out to grab Castiel's shirt before the man could storm off. "I'm raggin' you. These are good. They're great! I like the color. Thanks, babe."

Castiel grabbed Dean's chin hard and gave him a kiss on his eyebrow. "You irritate me."

"You got any scarves?"


That Sunday, Dean accompanied Castiel to the chapel for service. Dean usually avoided the chapel, but he had a strong desire to remain by Castiel's side that week. Gabriel never attended chapel, claiming he'd been to enough services to last him for at least three lifetimes already. Charlie wasn't religious, so it was just the pair that attended with a few other inmates. Truthfully, Castiel preferred Dean not to go with him to services. Dean was a big enough obstruction in his relationship with God already.

When Castiel thought about what he wanted and needed, he thought of Dean well before he thought of God, and that was an issue he tried to deal with at chapel. It was an issue that was difficult to resolve when Dean's warm body was sitting next to him, distracting him from all things holy.

Whenever Dean wasn't making snide remarks under his breath during the sermons, he would wear defiant smirks or make aggravated faces at anything he believed to be 'bullshit.' In other words, there wasn't a second that passed without Dean expressing some form of dissent. The service was not long that Sunday. At its conclusion, all the other men left, leaving Cas, Dean, and the convict-preacher in the chapel. The preacher, known as Talbot, approached Dean and greeted him kindly, "It's good to see you here again, Dean."

"Fuck off, Talbot. I ain't here for you and I ain't here for God. I'm here for the man that sodomizes me so good. Nightly," Dean purred and wagged his eyebrows. On every occasion, the Winchester was purposefully crude to the preacher because the uptight, arrogant man with pale, soft hands was easily perturbed by vulgarity. After hearing Talbot's sermon on the depravity of sodomy and homosexuality, Dean made a point incite the holy man as much as possible on both topics. He hadn't needed to hear that sermon to hate him. Dean thought he was a phony that had lined his pockets taking advantage of the vulnerability of others. He thought a 'rich preacher' should have been an oxymoron.

"You hang by a slender thread," Talbot replied through clenched teeth before leaving.

Dean grumbled to Cas when they were left alone. "I don't know what he did, but I just know it's something awful. I'd put all my chips on rape. Little boys or little girls. It's always one or the other with these guys, isn't it? When I find out, I'm gonna smash his face in 'till it matches the ugly of his insides."

"Could you avoid using words of violence here?" Castiel urged, torn from his silent prayer by Dean's comments, as always. Asking for peace while being around Dean was a futile effort, but Cas made the attempt anyway. Today, Dean appeared genuinely sincere in his apology.

"Oh, sorry," He replied. He cast his gaze to the massive cross in front of them and crossed himself in a sloppy gesture. Dean was never consistent in how he made the sign of the cross, and that was something that brought Cas amusement. "I'm sorry, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and the…the other one."

"The Father!" Castiel blurted out.

"I know that. I was pullin' your leg," Dean teased and looked back at the cross to finish his apology. "To the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, apologies for talking about sodomy in your blessed house. We don't do it nightly. We've only done it once, but you fellas know that, what with y'all being all knowing and everything, right?"

Castiel pressed his eyes closed and again tried to finish his prayer. He regularly prayed for guidance to be the best man he could be, but he also prayed for Gabriel, Charlie, Sam, and Dean. He prayed the hardest for Sam and Dean. Cas asked God to give Sam safe places to rest, to give him peace of mind, to remind him that he was loved, and to help him return home. His prayers for Dean were similar, but more personal.

Cas prayed for Dean's safety as well, but he also specifically prayed for his mental and emotional health. He wanted Dean to hope and to know love once more. If something should ever happen to Castiel, he wanted Dean to be protected and for him to never feel pain again. Dean had already suffered and continued to suffer too much, in ways that Castiel knew the Winchester hid. The thought of Dean in agony for any reason was more than Castiel could bear. Cas had seen the face of Dean when he was broken on the outside and on the inside and he did not wish to see him like that again even from beyond the grave. The matter was so important that he had long ago begun to pray for Dean more often than he prayed for himself or anyone else.

All the time Cas spent in prayer, Dean spent daydreaming. After a few moments of speculating about the haughty preacher, Dean interrupted Cas a second time. "Don't pretend you didn't like it. Me ruffling Talbot's feathers. I saw you grin."

Castiel pried opened eye, "No, you didn't."

"I heard it," Dean smirked.

"That's not even possible. You can't 'hear' grins."

When Castiel prayed, Dean thought he looked absolutely precious. He was loveable when he was lost in concentration, talking to his imaginary friend. While Castiel resumed praying, Dean turned around to make sure they were totally alone before sliding a little too near to his friend. Dean figured Cas had to be nearly done with his prayer so he allowed his fingers to feel over the cotton covering Castiel's back just above his belt. His hands were happily gloved and mischievous. In the silence, Cas' face burned with heat. Dean made his intentions clear with soft words of temptation. "Hey, Cas, if we're going to Hell anyway… you suppose another sin would hurt?"

"W-What?" Castiel was not affronted by Dean's words as much as he was appalled by how inclined he felt to partake in the sin presented to him. Ripped from concentration by the fingers at his waist and the sharp green eyes upon him, Cas' mind was flooded with thoughts of doing anything and everything that Dean wanted to do in the chapel. Castiel tried to reason a way that Dean's proposition would not be a desecration, knowing well that he was wrong to defend such indecent behavior. When Cas turned, he was sitting thigh to thigh with a Dean that looked thrilled by the prospect of fucking him in the chapel. Dean's arm was resting on the back of the pew behind Cas and his lust was a potent wave, rolling liberally from his body. "Is there any universe in which you would respect the church?" Castiel asked softly.

"Yeah," Dean eased closer and let a gloved hand creep onto Castiel's thigh. "The universe where preachers don't find themselves in jail." Dean took his chances and bent over to press their lips together. A jolt of pleasure passed through Cas' body as Dean gently caressed his hand up his leg and as he continued to kiss him with passion. Castiel couldn't bring himself to stop returning those kisses because Dean demonstrated how fiercely he wanted Cas with every one. He privately cursed his body for being so responsive to Dean in a way that clouded his judgment. He kissed Dean back, eager and fearful of what the other man would do next. Perhaps even Dean was self-conscious about fulfilling his own sinful fantasy because they did nothing but lock lips in the chapel for an extended period of time. All thoughts of prayer were obliterated. Castiel wanted to be pushed down on the pew and touched more, but, the instant the sound of the door opening rang in their ears, Castiel hastily shoved Dean away.

The inmate that had entered threw his hands up and complained. "God damn it to hell. I missed the sermon again!"

"Yes, you did," Castiel answered, powerful shame displayed on his face. Cas ran out of the chapel without another word and the stranger sat down at the pew nearest to the cross, completely unaware of the steamy kisses that had been shared in the space only moments ago. In a strange moment, Dean could almost feel himself being watched by the eye of God. He looked up at the ceiling, expecting to find a disapproving holy spotlight aimed at him, but there was nothing but wood.


Castiel was reticent and irascible the rest of the day. Normally, they rested together on Sundays in a relaxing atmosphere of tranquility. Dean had destroyed the calm of that Sunday. When he sat to play the guitar in the yard, Castiel wouldn't sit beside him. In fact, Castiel was involved in activities completely removed from Dean. Gabriel appeared and interrupted the music to snarl at Dean, "What did you do to my precious baby brother?"

"Nothing!" Dean replied. With shaky hands, he began to tune the guitar even though it was already tuned. Gabriel grabbed his wrist to stop him. "I…Nothing. It wasn't anything that bad. While we were in the chapel, I might have, um…"

Dean scratched behind his ear and made a shifty, guilt-ridden face.

"Ugh, stop!" Gabriel knew all he needed to know. He tore the guitar away from Dean. "You aren't going to touch Mary today. Not with those dirty hands."

Gabriel, the self ascribed keeper of Mary, stormed away and gave other men the privilege of playing. Anguished, Dean searched for Castiel, intent on apologizing because he knew that was what he should do. He found Castiel in his cell, curled up with a copy of The Prince. When Castiel saw him, he exhaled a long, aggravated breath.

Dean felt Castiel's disapproval so acutely that it stunned him out of words. The blue-eyed male put his book down and regarded Dean. "What do you want, Dean?"

"For you to stop looking at me like that."

Castiel gave him the look he had been giving Dean harder in response. Somehow, even his narrow-eyed disdain was alluring to Dean. Baffled, Dean sputtered, "What is that face you're making? I can't tell if you're givin' me eyes or just really unhappy. Or both. See? This is how a fella gets confused!"

"You weren't confused. You were being deliberately provocative."

"It's just a chapel, Cas. It's not the Pearly Gates." Dean had gone to apologize, but he had started an argument. Even at the Pearly Gates, he would have wanted Cas and he didn't think there was anything wrong with that.

"You don't even try to understand."

"Hold on a second. You don't buy into what Talbot says, do you? About what we do being sinful? For fuck's sake, Cas, if we do it here or we do it there, we're still doing it either way and God's gonna see."

"That's not it. It is the chapel. The chapel is a part of something that matters to me," Castiel said. Dean had already begun to cast his eyes up dismissively. When he wasn't being intentionally offensive on the subject of his faith, Dean was nonchalant to a degree that provoked Castiel to his limits. He could practically read Dean's mind on the subject through just his body language. In a moment of frustration, Castiel got up and raised his voice. "Pay attention! I've told you before that my faith is important to me and you don't care. It's the only thing that I have that hasn't been sullied. It's the last thing I have! Do you understand that? The pure love of God is something I need. You tamper with it, on purpose, for a laugh. You get your kicks defiling what's sacred."

The sheepish look on Dean's face suggested Castiel was spot-on. At the same time that he felt thoroughly chastised and wounded, Dean was also aroused by Cas' fury. For once, Dean did not appreciate the tingly feeling Cas gave him because inappropriate arousal was the source of their current predicament. "Do you forgive me?"

"You didn't apologize," Castiel grumbled.

"I was going to… but, I think you're wrong." Dean began. He gave a cautious shrug and went on, somewhat doubtfully. "Our thing is pure. Who's to say it's not as pure as whatever you have with… uh, God?"

"What?"

"Hey, alright, I got a theory here. Let's pretend God is real for a sec. If God is real, he's making me feel all this stuff 'cause he designed everything, including me. So, me wanting you is just God inside of me telling me to want you, right?" Dean contemplated his next words before speaking. "Instinct, Cas. It's the purest thing out there and my instinct is…you."

Cas cocked his head to the side, in awe of the words spoken by Dean. He wasn't sure if he should be insulted or amazed. Long ago, Castiel had taught Dean his favorite passage from the Bible. Whether Dean remembered it or not, he was basically translating it through his particular Winchester lens. "Love comes from God…" Cas whispered.

God is love, and all who live in love live in God, and God lives in them.

"I'm right." Dean straightened up in a cocky, self-assured posture, thinking he had come up with the perfect loophole to excuse all of his desires.

Castiel felt love for Dean. His love for Dean was what he thought could bridge his path to redemption, but he could not fathom the thought of Dean returning that love. Tiptoeing near the idea made Cas jittery. Dean was talking about lust. Lust was not love. Yet, everything they did together were acts of love. "That doesn't mean you should – not in the chapel!"

"Why not? Before the chapel, there was just a patch of grass. Now it's just a patch of grass with a lot of wood piled on top."

"Will you ever stop being so difficult all the time?" Castiel huffed. "Not in the chapel. It's like your rule of 'not in public.'"

"Okay, okay. Fair enough," Dean agreed, knowing he had pushed his luck way too far that day.

"Good," Castiel answered. He retreated back to his bed and searched out his book. He was done talking to Dean, but Dean wasn't done being near him. Dean settled down on Cas' bed, looking keen on staying for a long while. "What are you doing?"

Dean glanced around the cell with a mixture of bafflement and annoyance. "What's it look like? What, am I still in the doghouse? I thought we were good."

"I was reading."

"Well, quit reading, egghead. You read too much. It's a day of rest. You ought to be resting." Dean said. When Cas continued to stare at him uncertainly, Dean went on, "It's in the Bible!"

His fingers pried the book from Castiel's resisting hands to set it aside. Dean knew Cas had read nearly every book in the library and he had seen Castiel read that particular book before. Cas had spent most of the day being angry with him and Dean was eager to mend the rift by any means possible. He wanted to talk to him, and he couldn't if Cas was reading. Dean also wanted to be the focus of his attention in a positive light.

In resignation, Castiel leaned his back against the wall of his cell that was adjacent to his bed. He misread Dean's proximity as a sign that Dean wanted to continue what they had started in the chapel and he was not happy about it. They read together all the time. It was a form of resting they often enjoyed but today Cas didn't think he could enjoy it while Dean was around. Dean leaned up on the wall next to him, letting his legs hang over the edge of his bed.

"Listen. Sometimes I don't get you, but you are my best friend," Dean admitted quietly, with effort. Cas was the first best friend he'd ever had, apart from Sam. Dean had acquaintances and good friends, but rarely people like Cas. He never tired of Cas and he loved arguing with him as much as he enjoyed having frivolous conversations with him. He would die for Cas and he was certain Cas would die for him.

Cas looked away when Dean spoke. Dean didn't often verbalize his feelings so Castiel was moved by his confession, but he wasn't moved enough to be in a good mood about it. "I'm so sorry, Dean," Cas answered sarcastically. "I'm sorry for being so confusing. If only there was something I could do about it."

Like tell you when I don't like something only to have you ignore me.

"You could start by telling me something about you," Dean replied in a firm, no-nonsense tone. At this, Cas regarded the Winchester with clear unease and surprise in his eyes. "So, you don't remember your life before this joint. You only remember the Bible, but what about after that? Is there some big fucking secret about your first 11 years here too? Before me? Not even Gabe, the blabbermouth, tells me shit about …a-anything! It'd be a lot easier for me to not piss you off if you gave me something."

Castiel swallowed. He had not been expecting the conversation to drift in this direction. "You're far more interesting than I am. My stories wouldn't interest you."

"Bull. Shit."

"I never tell you things because," Castiel hesitated, "I don't… I don't have any good stories, Dean."

"You have to have at least one. If not, tell me a bad story."

"About what?"

"God damn it, Cas. Anything!" Dean fumed. He knew what life in prison was, but he also knew a man couldn't live for eleven years anywhere without a single thing of note happening to him. Respecting Castiel's privacy, Dean had never specifically asked Cas to tell him what his crime was because he had expected Cas would tell in time, but he never did. Cas would speak of his favorite things and of things he disliked. He would discuss philosophy and books, but he wouldn't touch his own past. "How about the first guy you fucked? Tell me about that guy."

Castiel visibly tensed and Dean frowned. He thought that story had some potential to be positive because Castiel had somehow learned what he had learned to bring him pleasure. It had never entered his mind that Cas may have, at some point, been a rapist or that he may have hurt another man he'd had sex with. "Wait, he's not…He's not dead, is he?" Dean asked anxiously. "You didn't… did you?"

"He is dead. Murdered." Castiel exhaled a hefty, mournful sigh. "I didn't kill him. I wouldn't have."

"Oh, okay."

Castiel thought back to a time over a decade ago. Horrible as it was, this story was still one he could tell Dean if he omitted some details. "I passed my first year here in a daze. I was completely alone all of the time, and I liked it that way. I still couldn't comprehend what had happened to me. I didn't know who I was, but I was regarded as dangerous and insane. Not a soul would talk to me. So, I spent all my time thinking, reading, and praying. I didn't need anything else. I didn't want anything else."

When Castiel spoke, Dean listened with such attentiveness that the world around them disappeared. It had been the 1930s, some of the worst times in the country's history. The prison had been even more of a hellhole in that era than it was now. Yet, the outside was so bad that it wasn't much of an improvement from the inside. In prison, a man was guaranteed food and a roof over his head and sometimes that was enough to be better than what the free man had. Castiel remembered those times as dusty and gray.

"The only attention I ever got was the bad kind. I got into fights, but only when men challenged me. The challenges didn't last for very long. I put too many men in the infirmary. I didn't mean to… not all the time. I just didn't know my own strength."

"The guys left me alone for the most part. That is, until Raphael."

Immediately, Dean began to wonder if Raphael had been the first man Cas had fucked, but he didn't interrupt the story.

"He came here almost exactly one year after I did. He was tall and lean with dark hair and eyes. He never showed emotion. He was so hard-boiled he looked like you could break a nail on his skin. I didn't care about him at all until he started trouble here. Things were never the same after Raphael. To this day, I don't know what his agenda was, but he liked to polarize everyone. It was like he wanted to see blood for the sake of seeing blood. He must have been in a gang on the outside because he had a gang mentality. Cataloging the guys, fighting, and provoking them into fights. He wanted anarchy."

"Why the fuck?" Dean whispered.

"I didn't understand it. I never will. But, he wanted to challenge me. He thought taking me down would mean something," Castiel said remorsefully. He knew why it would have meant something. Cas had been regarded as the most evil inmate and killing Castiel would have boosted the status of his murderer. "There were a lot of guys that hated Raphael. Some of them, like me, just wanted to mind their own business. Some of them believed I would win in a showdown and just wanted to be on the winning side. That's how I met Hector."

"The meaning of 'insane' became clear to me that year. Raphael, Hector… Hector was this guy…" Cas furrowed his brows. "Volatile. Blond, blue-eyed. He was emotional and so eager to fight. He wasn't afraid of me either. He goaded me on, saying I shouldn't take shit from Raphael. That I could take him, and that I should."

Telling this story was exhausting for Castiel. He took a break to look at Dean and get a sense of his feelings. He couldn't imagine how Dean could think hearing his story could have any benefit. Yet, Dean wanted to hear more. Dean swallowed, licked his lips, and asked, "Is Hector the guy?"

"He's the one I fucked, yes. The first guy…" Cas ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of nervousness that he rarely exhibited. "It was awful. He was as extreme about sex as he was about everything else. He liked pain. It didn't feel good and he bled the first time… He bled a lot."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Dean squirmed beside Castiel, so thankful for the lubricant and Castiel's carefulness that he had no other words.

"I didn't know that would happen! W-With bare skin. He told me that was what he wanted. He cried and it was just so – so horrendous, but then he laughed. He laughed. How can someone laugh at that?"

Jesus fucking Christ.

Hector, bent over a desk with tears stinging his eyes and a large, impish, and satisfied smile on his lips, entered Castiel's mind. His blonde hair had been sweaty and had covered half of his face so that Cas could only have a glimpse of his tears and his mad grin. Cas would never forget it. "But that was only part of our relationship. With Inias and some other guys, we would try to break up the gangs Raphael had built up. I thought we were helping, but it made things worse. There were fights every day. People got stabbed in the back and raped on the regular."

"Hector wasn't a bad guy, but he was overzealous. He wanted to believe in something and I guess he believed in me." Hector had been as eager to fight as he had been to give Cas blowjobs and his body. That was how he had showed his loyalty to Cas.

"I was a terrible leader. I had no idea what I was doing, but I resolved to be at least competent at having sex without causing pain. I told Hector he wasn't any good to me if he couldn't walk so we worked something out. That's how I learned what I know."

Some of it. Hector had been his first, but not his last.

"So how'd he die?" Dean cut in. Castiel couldn't tell a story like that without providing the ending.

"Stabbed, by one of Raphael's guys. Stabbed in the back, like so many others."

"Cas, I'm – "

"It's fine. It was bound to happen, I guess. Hector had become almost as bad at starting fights as Raphael. He never got to see the showdown he'd always wanted to take part in…"

"What happened? You got him, didn't you? You got Raphael."

After another long, drawn-out exhale, Castiel nodded. As he'd told his story, he hadn't been able to look at Dean for the majority of it. Now, Cas was picking the material of his pants, trying not to think about how easy it had been to end a life. "It came to that," Cas said. "Raphael didn't last for more than a couples of minutes. After a few days in the infirmary, he died."

Shit. Dean was now sorry that he'd asked him anything. If all of Castiel's stories were like this one, he thought that perhaps it was better for Cas to keep them to himself. Dean didn't judge Cas any worse for the story, but he could see how difficult it was for Cas to face what he'd lived. Dean gazed at him sympathetically. "It wasn't your fault, Cas. Sounds like this Raphael son of a bitch was asking for it."

"That day was a nightmare. It was chaos. A free-for-all. All I had wanted was peace… The rules were different after that – better – but I don't think the ends justified the means."

"Fuck that, Cas. If you didn't kill this guy, he would've killed you," Dean stated and, with some reservation, Castiel nodded in confirmation of the statement. "If someone's got a mind to kill you, you have a right to at least try to kill him first. That's how it works."

"I didn't feel anything when he died. I didn't feel what I thought I should have felt," Cas whispered. More than anything, in that moment, when Raphael had been bloodied and broken by his hands, Castiel had been coolly fascinated by how fragile human bodies were. Someone as mean and seemingly immortal as the tough Raphael had crumbled in seconds. Castiel had trembled with the life-snubbing power he had. Cas tried to explain. "Just relief. Maybe I was a little bit happy."

Dean leaned forward on his knees and thought of a time in his life that was almost identical to what Castiel was trying to describe. In a surprise fight, he had stabbed an ambushing enemy soldier in his vital organ. Amazed, Dean had watched blood flow like a river all over his hands and arms. It had been a kill from close quarters, vicious and leaving an impression on him that he would have forever. If not for the color of his uniform, the man Dean had killed might have been mistaken for an American. But he hadn't been an Allied troop at all, and Dean had experienced the same awe of how quickly life could be extinguished from a body. "Relief is not the same thing as enjoying a kill. You didn't enjoy it, did you?"

"No."

"Then you're fine." Dean answered so decisively that he drew all of Castiel's attention. Castiel laughed a wry, unhappy laugh.

"I could be lying," Cas said.

"But you're not. You wouldn't lie to me."

Yet again, Castiel exhaled. "Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"You always assume the best of me."

"'Cause I know you. Whatever happened then, that wasn't you," Dean replied with complete resolve. "That was something you had to be."

Castiel didn't believe him. Dean groaned and put his hand in Castiel's face, wiggling his fingers in his direction. "You're the bookworm that gives horrible presents, like smelly old gloves that don't even got all their fingers. I assume the best of you because you're my best fucking friend, like I said. God damn it, Cas. Don't you pay attention? You think I would be best friends with a lying, cold-blooded murdering rat bastard?"

"What if you are?"

"I ain't!"

"You're not…disgusted by me?"

"A little bit." Dean allowed for a pause just to make Cas fidget. "I'm kind of disgusted you can go through all of that and still not let me fuck you in a church."

The scandalized look on Castiel's face prompted Dean to grab the other man and squeeze him tight. "Not that again!" Cas hissed, "You – You're infuriating."

"I think you mean 'adorable,'" Dean responded with a cheeky grin. He pulled Castiel down on his bed and continued to hold him loosely. His lips found the space above Castiel's eyebrow.

"Dean, I'm not in the mood."

"Not in the mood for what? A nap?"

"You want to… nap together?"

Dean chuckled and cast his eyes to the ceiling. "Not if you're going to say it like that. It's not napping together. It's just – the day of rest. Your story was so good it wore me out…made me sleepy. And now I don't feel like walking to my own bed."

Castiel was fairly certain he was being invited to cuddle, which was something that had never happened between them before without being preceded by sex. Hesitantly, Cas slung his arm around Dean. The bed was so small their bodies had to be overlapping in some way. Cas expected Dean to caress him or kiss him, but he did neither. Dean remained still and closed his eyes in contentment now that Castiel was near. "Day of rest," Dean mumbled. "So shut up and sleep."

"Not if you're going to be rude about it."

Dean grinned and placed his lips to Castiel's forehead again in a kiss that lingered. "Please shut up and sleep."