November 2000

They moved from the door to the bed, Dean bouncing against the mattress as Cas shoved him down, following him and blanketing his body with his own. Castiel slid a hand under his shirt, his fingertips cool and insistent, pushing the fabric up Dean's chest, while his lips found his neck, nipping and kissing.

"Cas…"

"Am I moving too fast?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I want."

"Why don't you just let me show you?" He nuzzled into Dean's neck again. "We don't have to do anything, you know? We could just kiss. Just lay here and talk. There's no rush, Dean."

Dean turned his head towards Cas, meeting him halfway, lips pressing together, softness and pressure. Cas slid a hand around Dean's neck, pulling him impossibly closer, licking at the seam of his mouth, and Dean opened up and let him in, the taste of Cas intoxicating.

When they broke apart, Dean's chest was heaving. "Wow. I could…I could do that all night."

"Feels better with skin to skin contact. Wanna try?"

Dean gulped. "Sure."

Cas grinned and slid his hands up Dean's chest, pushing his shirt up. Dean sat up and let Cas pull the tee over his head. He pushed Dean back into the pillows, clambering up and straddling his hips, sitting just below Dean's crotch.

He trailed his fingers down Dean's chest, lightly tracing the lines of his tattoos. "These are all so beautiful," he murmured. "I've been wanting to touch them since the day we met." He brushed his fingers over Dean's right shoulder. "It's time to ramble on…Zeppelin?"

"Yeah. And the roses and the dagger…because it was my first and I'm a walking cliché."

"No, cliché is the Winchester Arms logo and lettering down the side here, Mr. Winchester. Tattooing one's name on oneself is seriously cliché," Cas grinned as he drew his fingers down Dean's flank. The contact made him shiver slightly. "What's this one?" His fingers slid across Dean's belly.

"Uh, that's a Colt Revolver. My dad had one when I was a kid."

"What's the wording mean?"

"Non timebo mala…I will fear no evil."

"Nice. And this one?" His hand slid up Dean's right arm.

"The Hermit. It's a tarot figure, but I got it because it's in the center fold of the Zep IV album."

Cas hummed. He walked his fingers up Dean's arm and across his collarbone. "This one?" he asked, fingers tracing a circle around the tattoo on Dean's left pectoral. "It looks occult-ish."

"Found it in a book. It's an anti-possession sigil. Keeps the demons out." He held up his left forearm, the skin there covered with orange, yellow, and red flames. "This one's for Sammy. Because I carried him out the night our house burned. The initials are done to look like the ones he carved into the wood under the carpet in the Impala, and the date is his birthday."

"I like it. You said Pam did all your work?"

"Yeah, she's really good."

"Will you roll over, so I can see the wings?"

"Sure."

Cas raised his body off of Dean's hips, allowing him to roll onto his stomach. He felt Cas's lips drag along his wings, as he kissed each individual feather. "Beautiful," he breathed, following the trail of feathers down to the waistline of Dean's jeans. "I like the one down here too," he said, fingers tracing the outlines of the tattoo at the base of Dean's back. "Peace when you are done, and roses. The blade is unusual."

"It's my artist's rendering of what an angel's sword might look like. I think most people would assume an angel would carry something large, like a claymore or a broadsword, but I think an angel would carry something sleek and deadly, something they could easily conceal…" he trailed off, once again embarrassed by his passion for all things angel.

"I love that. Amazing." Cas pressed kisses along the base of Dean's spine, sliding back up Dean's back, kissing the whole way up, and by the time he pressed a series of kisses to the base of Dean's neck, he was gone. He was sweating and turned on, and filled with want.

"Cas…"

"Shh, just let me, Dean. Let me." Cas slid his hands under Dean's body, his fingers finding the fly of his jeans. Dean lifted his hips slightly to make for easier access, and Cas undid his jeans, then sat back, sliding the denim down his hips. He scooted down the bed, disposing of the pants. He pulled his socks off and tossed them to the side.

"Is this really an Impala logo on your ankle?"

Dean blushed. "Yeah."

Cas lifted his other leg, fingers brushing over his calf and the tattoo there. "No damn cat, and no damn cradle. You're a Vonnegut fan? I'm impressed."

Dean felt lips against his ankle, hands smoothing across the skin on his legs. Cas was kissing his way back up Dean's body, taking his sweet time, kissing and nipping every available inch of Dean's skin.

"Cas, you're killin' me here."

"Mmm," Cas hummed. "I haven't really even done anything yet." He hooked his fingers in Dean's boxers. Dean held his breath. "You ok with this?"

"Yeah. Go for it."

Cas pulled them down, and that was it. He was naked. He was one hundred percent naked, on his stomach on Cas's bed. His cock was hard and dripping against the softness of the comforter. Dean was more turned on that he'd ever been in his life, and he couldn't help but thrust his hips into the bed.

"There's a shamrock on your ass, Dean."

"Yeah. Um. I'm not Irish. Least not as far as I know. St. Patrick's last year. Blame Benny."

"Let's not talk about Benny." Fingers brushed his crack, and he inadvertently pushed his hips into the mattress again, this time with a breathy Cas. "Look at you. All turned on, aren't you," Cas whispered in his ear. At some point, the other man had lost his clothes, and he was pressed against Dean's back in a long line of heat, hardness jutting into his hip as Cas's breath fell hot on his neck and ear. His hand slid slowly up Dean's back, fingers carding through his hair. "Roll over, baby," Cas purred.

Dean complied, staring up into Cas's blue eyes. The room was still fully lit, both the lamps on Cas's nightstands turned on, and when he looked up, Cas smiled at him, his eyes almost black with lust.

"So beautiful," Cas murmured, dipping his head to kiss him. His lips were insistent, his tongue forcing its way in again, and Dean's body finally remembered how to work, arms coming up to pull Cas closer, one leg hooking over his. He moaned into Cas's mouth when their erections made contact, a full body shiver brought on by the instant rush of arousal.

Holy shit, it had never felt this good before, and they'd barely done anything.

Cas grinned. "Stop me if I do something you don't like, ok?"

Dean nodded.

Still grinning, Cas kissed him again, sliding down his neck. He stopped to suck Dean's nipple into his mouth, then continued his descent, trailing kisses all the way down his chest, and he was almost there before Dean realized what he was doing.

"Oh god," he whined, as Cas's mouth found him, heat everywhere. He closed his mouth around Dean's length, licking the tip, sucking him down to the base. Cas twisted his tongue through Dean's slit, then dropped his head again, taking in as much of him as he could. Dean's back arched off the bed, and Cas reached up and draped his free arm over Dean's hips, pinning him to the bed.

Cas's other hand refused to stay in one place, and as he was busy sucking Dean's brains out through his dick, his fingers slipped downward, finding Dean's balls.

"Ahh, Jesus," Dean hissed, as Cas rolled his balls through his nimble fingers, his mouth insistent, bobbing up and down on his cock, and he was so close already, it wouldn't take much, desire and heat pooling in his belly, and god he was just so damn close.

Cas looked up, stared at him through those goddamn beautiful blue eyes, and that was it. That was all it took.

Dean's whole body locked up, his hips helplessly jerking upward, and Cas sucked him all the way down, humming around him as he came.

He was dazed, and he watched, slightly detached, as Cas climbed back on top of him, straddling his hips again, and all Dean could do was lie there, mesmerized, as Cas's hand slid up and down his own shaft, hips moving back and forth in his lap, and then the other man was coming all over him, thick ropes of come splattering across his chest, his tattoos covered in Cas's come.

"Holy fuck," Dean whispered. "Holy fuck."

Cas grinned down at him, beautifully flushed, a self-satisfied expression on his gorgeous face. "Enjoyed it?"

"Yeah, just was - so damn fast."

"Not like we can't do it again, right?"

Dean nodded helplessly, and Cas just laughed at him, leaning down for a kiss.

"This is only the beginning, Winchester. Only the beginning."

Sun streamed through the window, warm on his face. There was an even warmer source of heat at his back, and an arm thrown lazily over his waist. Cas shifted, rolled over on his side. Dean's face was half buried in the pillow, a peaceful expression on the bit he could see.

He could hear Sam rattling around the kitchen, the smell of coffee in the air, but he had zero desire to get up. No, if he had his way, he'd stay here all day, wrapped around the beautiful man currently asleep in his bed.

Last night had taken him by surprise. He'd never expected, when he stormed out of Benny's, the blonde girl practically in Dean's lap, that he'd end up with Dean in his bed, warm and naked, pressed tight against him.

Cas trailed fingers down the side of his face, smiling when Dean's face scrunched up, brow furrowing slightly. He made a soft noise, and burrowed closer into Cas, unconsciously seeking the warmth of another body in the early morning chill of the firehouse.

There was a soft tap on the door, and Cas checked first to make sure they were both fully covered before quietly calling out, "come in."

Sam poked his head through the door, a big grin on his face. "So things worked out?" he asked quietly, eyes taking in his peacefully sleeping brother.

"Indeed," Cas smiled.

"Cool. Anyway, I just wanted to let you guys know I was leaving. Ellen's taking me out to the mall to get some stuff for school. I'm pretty sure she's adopting me."

"She does that. Have a good time. I'll let Dean know."

"Ok." He started to pull the door shut, then stuck his head back in. "I'm happy for you guys," he said.

"Me too. Go, Sam, have fun. We'll see you later."

Sam nodded, waved, and pulled the door shut.

Sometime later, Cas woke again, not even aware of having fallen back asleep. He could hear soft piano music in the other room, and he was disappointed to find the bed empty. Throwing back the covers, he hurriedly dressed in sweats, yanked the comforter off the bed, and padded out to the living room.

He plopped down on the piano bench next to Dean, wrapping the comforter around both of them. Dean stopped playing, turning towards Cas with a smile, and a kiss.

"Morning, angel."

"Good morning, Dean."

Castiel smiled at him, scooting closer on the bench. Dean abandoned the piano keys, instead burying his cold hands in Cas's sweatshirt. "Mmm, you're warm."

"This firehouse is a refrigerator."

"Doesn't matter. I can keep you cozy." Dean swung one leg over the bench, straddling it, and he pulled Cas into his lap. He cupped his chin in his palm, pulling him into a deep kiss, his other arm wrapped around his waist. "I can keep us both warm."

"I am onboard with this plan, but I'd like to take you back to bed."

"I'm fine with that."

The clothes Castiel had put on disappeared as they stumbled back into his bedroom, lips never separating as they did their best to stay upright, Dean kicking the door shut behind them, and they tumbled into the bed.

"So, keeping us warm? Any ideas?"

Dean grinned, his green eyes bright and sparkling.

"Oh, I might have a few."

Now

Somehow, it made sense that Dean would end up at the firehouse following his flight from the mall. After all of his protests about not wanting to be anywhere near Remington, it seemed sadly predictable that he'd ended up there. Dean pulled the big double doors closed behind the Impala and leaned against them, the solidity reassuring as he willed his heart to stop slamming against his sternum. He stood against the doors for a long time, listening to the Impala tick as she cooled.

It was cold in the firehouse, and the air smelled stale. As his sight adjusted to the dimness of the engine bay, he swept his eyes over the canvas covered lumps scattered around the floor. The scaffold stood in the same place, dust covering the planks. The brass fire pole had lost much of its shine from years of not being used. Dust clung to every flat surface and cobwebs dangled from the exposed beams and light fixtures.

A large canvas stood in place behind the scaffold, a white sheet of fabric covering it in its entirety, and he was relieved that he couldn't see it, couldn't see the subject matter. All the old crates and bins full of found objects were right where he'd left them.

Nothing had really changed. And how could it, when he refused to clean the place out, refused to put it up for sale, refused to let go of this one last piece of his past?

Dean sighed and pulled his back from the doors. He wandered through the engine bay, fingers sweeping through the dust and leaving little trails behind, touching and feeling, picking things up and setting them aside.

There was a faded, rust colored splotch on the concrete floor near a crate of old hood ornaments, and he shuddered when he realized it was blood. His blood. Dean shoved down the memory that went with it, moving to another section of the bay.

He found himself under the scaffold, his fingers toying with the edge of the fabric covering the large canvas. It wouldn't take much to pull it down and look at it. He just didn't want to. His workbench was dusty, a few boxes piled on top. His turntable and LP collection were in those boxes. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Hendrix, The Doors, Derek and the Dominos, The Beatles - albums that had been his mother's pride and joy, which he had quietly stolen from his dad when he left home. It had been years since he'd listened to one.

Sighing, Dean moved away from the scaffold, slowly wandering towards the stairwell. His eyes caught a dull shine of red paint. Cas's Schwinn. He'd left it behind when he left.

Dean stared at it for a moment, then turned on his heel, ducking into the stairwell.

The upstairs resembled a room full of ghosts, every piece of furniture covered in white drop cloths. He wandered into Sam's old room first, the bed and dresser covered with more of the same white fabric. A book lay in the center of the bed, Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. The cover was partially obscured by a thin film of dust.

His room was much the same, drop cloths and boxes full of crap that had no place in Anna's perfect little house. Dean opened the closet door. He ran his fingers over the old leather jacket hanging there, the one he couldn't get rid of but could barely stand to look at anymore. The smell of leather was overwhelming. He shut the door, and walked away from the closet. Running his fingers across the rows of art history texts and novels, he stared idly at the dusty trails his fingers left.

He slowly wandered back into the common area of the firehouse, shivering a bit in the coolness. Dean only ran the heat at about fifty degrees over the winter, just warm enough to keep the pipes from freezing when it got cold.

The sun had slipped behind a cloud, and it was dim in the firehouse, deep shadows joining the white drop cloths in making the place feel rather eerie.

There was one more door. One more bedroom. As if in a daze, Dean slowly pushed it open.

Nothing had changed, and for good reason. He'd closed this door when he realized Cas wasn't coming back and it hadn't been opened since. The air was stale, thicker layers of dust on the surfaces in there.

The bookshelves were still mostly filled. There were clothes in the closet. The bed was still partially made, one corner of the comforter pulled down as if expecting an occupant at any time. Books were stacked on every surface, and a crusty glass sat on the nightstand, a notebook and pen stationed next to it.

A ratty tan trenchcoat lay across the bed, a silent accusation of failure.

Dean sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. He stood in the doorway for a long time, staring at the trenchcoat, his eyes burning.

His failure. All his.

Cas left, but Dean made him leave. His behavior made him leave. And he could try and try to convince himself that it wasn't his fault, and that the fault lay with Cas, but Dean knew the truth. He drove Cas out, he made him leave, his actions sent him away.

He couldn't look at Cas's room anymore. Dean pulled the door shut, walking backwards through the firehouse, absently crashing his back into something solid. He turned, and ran a hand over the sheet covered mass of baby grand. The firehouse was completely dark now, just an orangey glow from a streetlight providing the only illumination.

His hand slid across the top of the piano, gathering drop cloth into his palm. With a sharp yank and an ungodly cloud of dust, Dean uncovered the piano, the black wood still shiny and inviting. He plopped onto the bench with sigh, running his hand across the lid.

It had been years. But he slid the lid open anyway, flexing his fingers and stretching his hands. The first touch of fingertips to ivory revealed that there were a few keys out of tune, but nothing jarring. He ran a couple of scales, up and down the black and white keys, muscle memory taking over, music tinkling through the empty firehouse.

Dean started picking out notes, disjointed sounds forming into melodies, and from there into song, and he let himself get swept away in the music, Led Zeppelin, Mozart, Richard Marx, Chopin, Metallica, Coldplay, Pearl Jam, John Williams, it swept him away and he let it take him.

Hey Jude escaped, and then Wonderwall, and he didn't know when he'd started crying, just that he was. His face was wet; there were splotches on his denim coat, even wet spots on the keys and his fingers.

He was crying and he couldn't stop, and he didn't stop playing, just swept into another song, In My Life falling from the piano.

Something broke in him. Something shattered. A wall, one he'd carefully built, each brick hand laid, shored up with the best mortar, and sealed with his own pain and blood.

Dean couldn't see the piano anymore, but the notes kept coming, kept rolling from the strings and hammers and he was unable to stop the flow. He was sobbing now, and it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad.

Arms wrapped around him, warm arms, pulling him away from the piano and onto the sheet covered couch, rocking him gently while he sobbed, soft lips pressed against his forehead, Ellen's soft words whispered in his ear.

He cried and cried, losing himself like he hadn't in years, Ellen holding him tight while he fell apart.

And through all of his pain, all of his grief, Dean finally acknowledged what he'd been trying to fight from the moment he saw Castiel in the bookstore.

He was still completely, painfully, unequivocally in love with Cas.