Oh, a storm is threat'ning
My very life today
If I don't get some shelter
Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away
- "Gimme Shelter," The Rolling Stones
Sam is tucked between the Explorer and the tool bench waiting when they finally return from the riverside, and for a moment Castiel selfishly wishes he had gone back to the hotel, left them there. He knows that once Dean sees his brother he'll pull away. Distance himself. Reconstruct the careful walls that shore him up; anything to get rid of the frankly dumbstruck expression on Sam's face at the fact that his elder brother let himself accept comfort, and actually speak to someone about what was bothering him.
Castiel has taken enough confessions, been a listening ear in enough bad situations, heard people's prayers and their fears; he realizes that the last thing Dean needs right now is to feel like he's being gaped at for showing signs of vulnerability.
The younger Winchester catches Castiel's eye, registers his warning glare, and then Castiel can see him pull his own thoughts back into place as well, putting aside his questions and his surprise. He closes the hatch of Ellen's car before moving, giving Dean time to know he's there, to square his shoulders beneath Castiel's arm and raise his chin, stubborn, straight-backed and proud.
It's an intricate dance; the Winchesters are practiced at letting each other set boundaries, and Castiel is a little envious of how easily it comes to them. He had that once. Silent conversations and complete understanding of the other's thoughts without voicing them aloud.
He stands back and lets them have their moment, squelching that line of thought as he lets his arm drop from around Dean, watching as Dean takes a nonchalant pose against the side of his car, one foot up on the tape-edged curve of her fender, arms crossed over his chest.
"I'm in." Dean's voice is low, gruff, but strong. "No matter what shit they dig up. Let's nail them to the wall, Sammy."
Castiel ducks his head and smile faintly, and if Sam weren't here he would kiss Dean. He has no idea how Dean Winchester ever considered himself weak.
". . Yeah, Dean. Yeah, we can do that."
xXx
"Alright. I ought to go rescue Jess from Ellen and Jo now, and you should get out of here." Sam stretches as he pushes himself off of one of the boxes in the now mostly packed living room, dragging his forearm over his forehead. The open windows do little to cool the room, the air conditioner in the bedroom window down the hall does nothing to help the rest of the apartment, and even the breeze off of the river is humid and sticky. Packing up John's apartment while they worked was Dean's idea (get whatever the hell crap you want outta here before you leave, Sammy) and kept all of them busy while Sam laid out the process for them, and the ground rules. "Early flight back. You still gonna be my ride to the airport?"
"Taxi extraordinaire, that's me. Pick you guys up in my baby, you can show Jess what a real car's like instead of that foreign hybrid piece of crap you drive in California. You're gonna be back, though, right?" Dean is sprawled, back to the wall, a cold bottle of beer held to the side of his face and his bow legs akimbo in the open space of the living room, a few feet away from where Cas slowly pushes himself to his feet again.
"My 'hybrid piece of crap' gets like sixty miles to the gallon in the city, Dean, how's the Impala do for you?" Sam rolls his eyes, snorting. "I'll be back as soon as the judge sets a date, or sooner if I have to. I just wanna get Jess settled back in, put in as much time at the law office as I can beforehand, in case things go long down here, and get Charlie set doing her technical miracles for me, pulling up everything we might need. You . . ." Sam kicks at his brother's ankle lightly, pushing it out of his way as he gets closer ". . . try not to get arrested again. The whole point of having legal advice is to take the legal advice."
Dean's smart-assed salute turns into a middle finger and a smirk, but he lets Sam pull him to his feet and engulf him in a hug. "There's a reason it's called advice and not orders, Sammy."
It's been an interesting change to witness, these two men acting like brothers, like the center of each other's worlds, comfortable in each other's space. They haven't forgotten the breakdown of that morning, everything is still raw and fresh: John's death and obsession, the assault of fifteen years ago and the abduction five years past, but they're doing something about it, now.
Dean claps Sam on the shoulder sharply, signaling the end of the hug, and Sam squeezes him one last time before stepping back. Whatever they have tomorrow at the airport, this is the real goodbye: Castiel stays quiet, happy to let them forget him for a moment, to observe what these men must be like when not surrounded by death, and it's a moment before Sam turns to him. "See you tomorrow morning, then?"
The assumption that Castiel will be with Dean and should be with Dean is gratifying, but Castiel shakes his head and offers his hand to Sam. "I have an appointment to be fired tomorrow morning. It was good to meet you, Sam. And thank you for. . ."
Castiel finds himself pulled in by the hand for a hug, and blinks in surprise at the suddenness of the gesture, awkwardly patting Sam on the back until Dean guffaws a laugh. "Yeah, okay, that's enough chick flick moments, Sam. You've got your girlfriend, paws off my boyfriend."
"Thank you. And take care of him." Sam's voice is low enough that Dean can't hear, and then he's pulling back, raising a hand to wave goodbye at both of them. "Yeah yeah Dean. Whole world knows you have dibs now. More advice for you to take or ignore, Cas: wear a tie or something for your meeting. And keep notes, too. If they are firing you because of the charges..."
"Out, Sammy. Legal talk later, you're off the clock now." Dean tetches, walking Sam down the steps. Castiel gathers up the beer bottles and tosses them into the recycle, where the glass clinks against the multitudes more gathered from throughout the house. It's concerning for a moment, and he frowns down at the addition to this shrine to alcoholism, before strong arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him back against Dean in a loose grip.
"Hi." Dean sounds a little uncertain now that they're alone, and Castiel twists in his arms to look at him, resting his palms against Dean's back, chest to chest and face to face as Castiel cants his head slightly to the side, attempting to read him.
"Hello, Dean."
"So damned formal." Dean offers a smile that seems close cousin to a grimace, and Castiel tightens his arms around Dean. "I uh. . . I dunno. I feel like I should be apologizing for this morning." Castiel tenses in place, eyes narrowing, and Dean stumbles on. "I'm clean. I mean, after. . . I don't want you to have to worry about that, after what we. . . I mean, I got tested."
"Dean, stop. I don't want you to 'apologize for this morning.' I don't want you making apologies for what happened in the past and most certainly not for this morning." Dean looks as if he's going to argue, as if he's going to say something smartassed and bitter and self-deprecating, and so Castiel doesn't let him. He kisses him once, hard and brief, just long enough to get the point across about attempting to speak over him, then resumes talking as he begins walking Dean backwards, across the floor and deeper into the kitchen. "This morning was . . . a revelation, Dean. It was amazing. You were amazing."
Dean huffs a bitter, broken laugh.
"Yeah, well, had a lot of practice at . . ."
Dean's back hits the refrigerator abruptly, Castiel pressed into him to hold him there, a hand across his lips and face inches away. No. He is not going to listen to Dean speak of himself that way, not going to let him take away Castiel's joy at sharing that with him. Standing well within Dean's personal space, face to face, he meets Dean's eyes evenly, waiting for him to understand that, waiting for the slow, careful nod of acceptance from Dean.
When he drops his hand away, Dean surges forward against his restraining grip to kiss him, and that is better. That is so much better than the alternative. He returns the kiss with interest, chasing the taste of rich alcohol on Dean's tongue, hands dropping to Dean's hips as he holds him in place, but he didn't account for his hands. Nimble fingers slip Castiel's belt loose before he recognizes the danger, and then Dean's hand is abruptly between them, the slightly too-large borrowed jeans letting Dean plunge his hand into Castiel's pants and palm him through his boxers, leaving him moaning Dean's name as he tries to tug back away from the kiss to find Dean's other hand suddenly knotted in his hair, keeping him there.
Dean's words husk across his lips, his breath hot and intoxicating. "You like me here. Like this." Dean rocks his hips forward indicatively, keeping his hand between them, separating them, but giving Castiel the slow drag of his fingers over the cotton and tight press of his palm. "Have since we kissed against the wall."
There's definitely truth to that: Castiel's heart is hammering in his chest, and he pulls at the belt loops of Dean's jeans, pressing them impossibly closer, biting at Dean's lower lip lightly.
"So stop holding back, Cas." Dean challenges, yanking back at Castiel's hair to pull him away, green eyes fever bright. There are warning bells in Castiel's mind, and there's Dean's hand slipping into his boxers, and these two things are entirely at odds with each other. Dean is trying to provoke him, trying to pull something out of him, and he doesn't know what. Everything so far has been about letting Dean take control, but he's trying to break Castiel's, and. . .
Dean's hands shove Cas's boxers clear, the heavy weight of his belt drags the jeans to the floor, and then Dean is jacking a hand down his length in the middle of the kitchen, in full sight of the windows into the abandoned garage, a dare in his eyes. And it feels good, wrenching a moan from Castiel, and Dean knows the effect he's having. "C'mon, Cas."
Dean's wrist is in his hand restrainingly, Dean's chest pressed to the refrigerator now with Castiel's body flush against his back, and he barely remembers the motion that brought him there, only that he's breathing hard and trying to pull his thoughts back together. He wants Dean. Wants to bend him over and take him face down against the counter, fuck into him and tie him on his knot just like that, for teasing him. That's his instincts trying to take control, that's the Alpha part of his brain that generally has only that one objective, and is elated at having found its mate. But Dean is playing with him, and he doesn't understand the rules or the goal. "What do you want from me, Dean?" What is he trying to make Castiel become, in this?
Another one of them?
Hiding his face against Dean's shoulder blade, he releases his wrist and cages Dean in place with one palm on either side of him against the refrigerator. The denim of Dean's jeans is harsh against his naked erection, but can't pull back, not until he understands. But he can smell Dean, now; he's aroused but tense, afraid, and Castiel doesn't like that. The push of his hips grinds against Dean through his clothing, and Castiel knows Dean's pressed tightly enough to the refrigerator door that he will be feeling the pressure too. He can hear the gasp it drags out of him, the hint of pain to his pleasure. "Dean, tell me what you want? I am not. . . I am not going to hurt you, Dean."
Dean's hands, now free, slide behind him: one pressed to the curve of Castiel's ass, one awkwardly cupping back against his hip, and he pulls Castiel into another dry thrust against his clothed ass. "Like this, Cas. . . Just let it go."
His hands fumble over the button of Dean's jeans before he peels them down his mate's legs, impatiently toeing off his own shoes to kick both of their pants out of the way, and he can feel Dean's slick now as his erection drags along his ass, the backs of his thighs with the attempt to disrobe without moving too far apart. Dean presses his forehead to the refrigerator door, legs spreading in invitation, his body presented for Castiel to take. . .
And he can't right now. Not like this. Not with Dean's eyes shut tight, his face turned away, just letting Castiel have whatever he thinks his Alpha wants.
Snatching Dean's arm, he spins Dean abruptly to face him, hooks a hand into the bend of his knee, and drives up into him. Hot, slick heat surrounds him, and the angle is a bit wrong, and he's not going to be able to keep this up, but it's worth it to see Dean's face, see his green eyes snap open in surprise at the change in position, at finding himself face to face with Castiel.
"Look at me, Dean."
Dean is perfect, but he needs Dean here with him, not locked away in his memories.
"You're here. You're with me. . ." Dean's eyes slide closed again, and Castiel cups his free hand to Dean's face, hitching Dean's leg around his waist as best he's able to do so, his entire body involved in pinning Dean against the sturdy old block refrigerator, his feet braced wide to let him piston into Dean, instinct taking over. "Open your eyes, Dean."
He punctuates the growled command by taking Dean's hips in his hands and driving into his mate, dragging from him a startled moan, and now Dean's arms are around his shoulders, helping balance him, hands pressing into his skin, and now there are eyes fixed on his face. "Cas. . ."
"Yes." Yes, that is precisely what he wants Dean to focus on; on him. Arms cinching around Dean, he stumbles backwards and manages to find the chair at the table. Sitting down on it, Dean's thighs splayed open wide around him, now he can control the thrusts with his hands on Dean's hips, Dean's feet hooked around the back of the seat.
Castiel can't help setting a bruising pace now that he can keep it up, burying himself into Dean each time and pulling out almost immediately; he can feel the wet catch of his knot beginning to form, Dean's body's growing reluctance to release him, and his name on Dean's lips, increasingly desperate. Dean's blunt fingers bite into his shoulders hard enough to bruise, hard enough to feel the scrape of his nails, and he finally plunges himself home, clamping his hands down on Dean's hips to keep him pinned in place for his knot, and surges forward to kiss Dean.
They stay like that, Castiel's kiss gentling in time until he's peppering Dean's face with them, his neck, his jaw, murmuring comfort and reminders that Dean is there, with him, and safe, Dean rumbling assurance that he knows.
If they keep each other there longer than the knot takes to recede, no one but them ever need know. And both would maintain it was to comfort the other.
xXx
It takes longer to get back to working on his car than Dean would like, though he's never complained about too much sex before. Castiel watches him—ostensibly to learn how to work with cars, but mostly because he does that anyway, and because he's worried whether he wants to admit it or not. About the hospital firing him. About Dean's issues.
They pass the night on Dean's old mattress within John's apartment, a sleeping bag thrown over it and the window air conditioner cranked up completely, a rattle and hum that he didn't realize he'd missed when he left it behind until he had it again.
For the first night since taking over Castiel's bed, Dean has the nightmares again, waking silent and tensed and alert. He doubts the mattress has anything to do with it; too many skeletons have been shook free from the closet for him to escape the effects completely.
Still unconscious, Castiel tugs him closer, head resting on Dean's chest and arms thrown around him, and while Dean has trouble getting back to sleep at least he isn't searching the darkened room for threats.