Notes: And now something I've been working on for quite some time, but I feel we all might need something to cheer us up after last week, so I sat down and finished this today. It hasn't turned out quite the way I wanted it in regards to tone and tension, but then again, I discovered a few great elements that I didn't anticipate, so there :D I guess the trouble is mostly that I haven't really written in a long time and sort of lost my flow... I may give this a polish/rework at some point, but I'm leaving it for now. Hope you enjoy anyway.
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Apollo's Bow
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„You know, Dean, in order to use the Bow of Apollo, you need to be able to actually shoot it," Sam points out.
"Don't worry. I will instruct you," Cas says, his voice calm and confident. "Archery is an art in itself and may take many years of training, but with your experience and physical ability, I am sure you will be able to quickly grasp it."
And this is how Dean and Cas have ended up in the field behind the bunker. The afternoon sun at the tail end of a hot day is beating down on the high grass around them, imbuing the air with a sweet smell, like hay and vanilla. They have several bows from the bunker's stores at hand (of course, they would not be shooting the real thing just for fun. The risk of injury or mass destruction is simply too high with a weapon that powerful in untrained hands.)
Dean watches Cas string the bows with practiced movements, one after another, lining them up neatly. The angel has done away with his trench coat and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt all the way to his elbows. The skin of his forearms is surprisingly tan considering that Cas is not usually exposing himself to sunlight. Damp patches are already forming at his armpits and they haven't even started yet. Dean rarely gets to see Cas as a physical being, but today seems to be one of these occasions as the heavenly warrior appears to be just in his element.
After setting up the target about 15 yards out, Cas uses his heel to scruff a faint line into the soil and nods at Dean. "Stand with one foot on either side of the line, perpendicular to the target face," he instructs before picking up the weakest bow from their selection - a training bow that could hardly be a threat to anyone.
Dean hefts the riser in his left hand. Compared to most other instruments they use in their line of work, it is so light. The smooth grain of the wood feels natural under his fingers, his palm fitting comfortably into the grip. He gives the string an experimental tug and scoffs at the low poundage, but Cas admonishes him that he would only be learning the proper basic form handling this one and then move up to a higher-powered weapon. Dean only listens with half an ear. He is confident that he knows what to do.
Cas finishes his little speech and takes a step back. Looking at the target, then back at Cas, Dean raises a questioning eyebrow. "Alright, Dean. Shoot whenever you are ready." Cas clearly wants to get a picture of what he is going to be working with before he issues any further instructions.
Dean huffs, slightly offended. "What, at this distance? Are you kidding? This is way too easy!" After all, he has been shooting all kinds of weapons at all sorts of targets, some small, some big, some moving, some barely visible, and he thinks of himself as pretty competent when it comes to bringing down whatever they are hunting. 15 yards on a stationary mark in broad daylight is nothing.
But Cas is not fazed. "Humour me," he says lightly, pointing down their makeshift range.
Dean rolls his eyes, but gets back into position. He nocks and arrow, confidently raises the arm holding the bow, draws back and lets fly.
The arrow sails through the air and sinks into the grass slightly behind and to the right of the target, only the neon-coloured veins jutting out between the stalks.
Dean blinks, startled. This is not the demonstration he has expected of himself.
Cas "hmm"-s thoughtfully, while Dean stares at the result of his effort with incredulity. Eventually, he gathers his wits for a remark. "It's too windy out here," he complains, despite knowing that wind had little to do with his failure.
Nonetheless, Cas lets the excuse slide. "No matter. Try a few more."
He watches Dean shoot a handful of shafts, one striking the wooden target frame, one hitting high in the corner. The others miss, just like the first one.
"What the hell?" Dean swears, frustration mounting with sudden force. He stares at the bow in his hand, then back at the unruly arrows.
Cas takes it in stride, though. He turns to Dean, hands clasped behind his back, ready to deliver his verdict. "Alright. So most of you arrows seem to have struck at the correct distance. However, there is considerable drift. You are holding the bow like a stick or a sword, and I can't really see where you are anchoring as you are a very fast shooter."
Dean huffs again to mask the fact that he only understood half of what his angel just said. "Of course I'm fast. Being slow gets you killed."
Cas smiles thinly. "In this case, being fast gets you killed all the same as you have missed the target entirely with all but one arrow. If this were a werewolf or vampire, it wouldn't even be scratched and you would be dead by now."
Before Dean can argue any further, Cas has moved forward to collect their arrows. Dean follows his movements with his eyes, standing rooted to the spot. He knows Cas is right, but it still stings.
Putting the arrows back into the ground quiver at Dean's feet, Cas nods to himself. "May I just suggest something?" he offers tentatively.
Dean sighs but inclines his head. Though he doesn't want to admit it, it is obvious that he needs instruction.
"When you draw, touch the tip of your index finger to the corner of your mouth, just here." Cas demonstrates, drawing an invisible bow.
Dean watches him put the pad of his right index finger against the plump cushion of his lips, just in the crease. Dean's gaze lingers on the digit for a moment before mentally shaking himself. Hoping he hasn't been caught staring, he raises his eyes to give Cas a puzzled look.
"That will help with aiming," Cas clarifies.
Dean frowns at him, but decides to do as asked. Retaking his position, feet on either side of their line, he raises his bow, this time drawing back on the string until he is able to touch the corner of his lips. It feels counter-intuitive to him. The arrow and string are now far too close to his face – to his eye! – but he trusts Cas. He lets his fingers open. The arrow strikes the target, nearly dead centre.
"Huh," Dean's surprise is evident in his tone.
Cas nods, satisfied. "Having a stable reference point on your face to help you aim makes your shooting a lot more accurate," he explains. "Also, did you notice how this simple alteration is helping to slow down your process? This absorbs a lot of your movement, thereby aiding your precision."
Dean absorbs this information. It makes sense, now that he thinks about it.
Cas makes Dean shoot a few more rounds and notices with satisfaction that Dean's aim seemed to improve steadily. After a while, Dean appears to be so engrossed in his training that he doesn't even notice Cas watching him with appreciation.
Cas takes this rare opportunity of being able to observe Dean unnoticed to let his eyes roam over the form of his friend. Part of him is assessing his stance, his posture and his movements as required for training purposes, but a small corner of his mind is utterly captivated by the stretch and pull of Dean's muscular back and shoulders, the way the T-shirt wraps around his biceps when he holds the bow, his handsome face calm and focussed.
He shakes himself out of his reverie when Dean goes to collect his arrows yet again.
They continue with their practice. Soon, Dean can feel himself fall into a rhythm of raising, drawing, aiming and releasing. His breath evens out, adjusting to the movements of his body. He knows Cas is still observing him from a few steps away, but Dean's focus is on the target in front of him. Thought his aim is far from perfect still, he feels calmer somehow. More confident.
He finishes another end of arrows and grins proudly at Cas. "Did you see that?" He should be this excited over something as simple as putting a few pointy sticks into a coloured circle, but somehow, it feels like a huge success.
Cas smiles mildly. "Yes, Dean. I saw." But Cas is looking at him, not the target.
Dean rolls his shoulders, dismissing the strange stab of disappointment and sudden heat mixing in his chest. He'll just do it again in the next round.
It's not quite as easy to settle back into the meditative rhythm of the exercise when Cas returns the arrows to him and then stands right behind his shoulder, much closer than before. Dean can still feel his eyes on him, following his movements with laser-focussed attention. It's very distracting, being the centre of the other man's attention like this. Eventually, he does manage to sink back into the flow, though, and focus more on the target than on the way the air between them seems to stagnate and warm even more.
Having collected his arrows, Dean returns to the line. Cas waits until Dean lifts the bow to continue his lesson.
Dean can feel him move before Cas steps into his field of vision. Pausing at full draw, Dean flicks his eyes to Cas's face, the bow dropping a little as his attention shifts, and damn, he can feel his gaze drawn back to that corner of Cas's mouth again, the one used to demonstrate the anchor point before.
Cas's gravelly voice almost startles him. "May I touch you?"
Dean blinks rapidly in surprise at the question, momentarily losing concentration, and control of the bow. The arrow goes wide.
"What?" he gasps, heat shooting to his face, equal parts embarrassment at the botched shot and something else fluttering in his stomach. He can't possibly have heard right.
Cas decides to clarify. "May I put my hands on your shoulders? I would like to check your tension and correct your positioning."
Dean stares a moment longer, trying to reel in his wayward thoughts. Of course Cas is talking about their training. His cheeks must be an obvious sunburn-red by now as he tries to cover his reaction. He clears his throat, nodding. "Yeah, sure."
Cas doesn't comment on his rattled expression, instead stepping up behind him. His hands settle heavily on Dean's shoulder blades, fingers just curling over the top of the joint.
Dean can feel the heat of Cas' palms seep through his t-shirt, spreading through the muscles in an exquisite wave. He suppresses a shiver, certain that from this close, Cas can see the small hairs on the back of his neck rising, can probably even smell the light sheen of sweat on his skin.
"Draw."
Dean jumps a little at feeling Cas's breath so close to his ear, skimming over his neck. He feels the sudden urge to lean back into the support of those hands, but resists the temptation. It would be dangerous to give in to thoughts like this.
With what seems like an enormous effort, he does as instructed, raising his arms against the barely-there pressure of Cas's palms. He notices Cas gently pushing down on his front shoulder. "Don't raise the shoulder, Dean," voice a quiet murmur in Dean's right ear as he explains.
A strangled "Mhm" of acknowledgement is all Dean can manage. Breathing out to settle his traitorous nerves, he draws the bow, holding his shot.
Cas hums in appreciation, deep and rumbling. "The tension in your back is good and even. Keep it that way." He waits until Dean released the arrow, lightly squeezing the muscles as he lets his hands sink. Dean almost sighs at the loss, instantly wishing Cas hadn't let go of him just yet.
He shoots another handful of arrows. Cas has retreated again, but Dean can't shake the ghostly feeling of that warm pressure on his shoulders. He finds himself craving more of it. What is going on with him? The desire is so distracting that he almost misses his next shot.
Aw fuck it, he thinks, gathering his courage.
"Uhm, Cas?" He tries to sound as casual as he can, with his heart beating hard in his throat. "Could you check my shoulders again?" He swallows, keeping his fingers mentally crossed that Cas won't pick up on the undercurrent of his request.
"Of course, Dean," Cas agrees easily, and a moment later, Dean can feel Cas' body heat all along his back as the angel steps up to him again.
The hands settling against his shoulders feel glorious. Dean struggles to suppress a sigh as pleasure and a shameful kind of guilt war within him, but he must have been trying too hard to conceal his reaction from Cas.
"You are too tense. Relax, Dean." The frown is audible in Cas' words, and Dean makes a conscious effort to relax his back. He is rewarded by Cas leaving his hands in place until Dean runs out of arrows.
"Well done, Dean," he praises as he steps away, fingers trailing along Dean's shoulder blades as he withdraws with what seems like a deliberate caress. "Just remember to keep your shoulders and the tension even."
The training continues. Eventually, when he is satisfied that Dean has a grip on the basics, Cas hands Dean a stronger bow. The poundage is not massive, but Dean is beginning to feel the feedback from his muscles and bones now, the noticeable recoil of the weapon highlighting instabilities and uneven tension in his frame. It is both easier and more difficult to shoot a stronger bow, he thinks. The arrow seems to fly straighter, giving him more control, but at the same time, his lacking technique is more obvious with this unforgiving instrument.
Thankfully, the feeling of the new bow has successfully distracted him from the unsettling closeness of Cas, and the repetitive exercise has given him time to analyse his reactions.
If he is honest with himself, today is not the first time by far that Cas' proximity and attention have caused excitement to thrill through his every limb. He knows it's self-delusion to assume that Cas would not have noticed even one of these little moments between them over the years.
What is different today is that he is beginning to realise that not only must Cas be aware of Dean's feelings on some level. He appears to be deliberately provoking them!
Dean can't really blame him for that. After all, he's sitting in a glass house of his own so he shouldn't be throwing stones. Particularly at the beginning of their acquaintance, he had tested the angel, pushing and teasing. It might have started out as an attempt to unsettle the immovable celestial being, to elicit any kind of reaction, but that had changed.
Dean had tried to dial it down a little once he had realised that it had stopped being just a game to him, but recently, he has gathered more and more evidence that Cas may have caught on, that he may have started to play a game of his own.
The charged atmosphere unfolding between them this afternoon feels like the culmination of something that has been building for a long time, the student-teacher aspect of their training a catalyst that may spark the combustion. The thing is, Dean is not sure that he's ready to set them alight – years of suppressed desires and John Winchester's indoctrination weighing him down - and he is scared that he may be misinterpreting his clueless angels' signals entirely.
Dean is rudely brought out of his thoughts by a slapping noise and a stinging pain.
"Ouch!" He exclaims, staring at his bow arm. A bright red welt is already forming on the inside of his left forearm.
"String slap," Cas comments matter-of-factly. "At this poundage, there is no risk of serious damage. It does remind you to keep your elbow rotated properly, though."
Dean just glowers at him, strangely hurt by the casual dismissal of his injury, however superficial.
Cas sighs. "May I take a look?"
Dean extends his arm for Cas' inspection. Firm hands wrap around his wrist and elbow. A thumb gently brushes over the irritated spot as Cas pulls it close inspect it.
Dean's pulse triples.
"Hm, it is as I thought. A minor injury." Abruptly, Cas leans down, ghosting his lips over the bloodshot skin.
Dean forgets how to breathe.
"There. All better," Cas declares, smiling up at Dean from under his lashes, a spark of… something in his eyes.
Dean stares.
The seconds stretch between them.
Eventually, he unglues his lips to speak. "Cas, what are you doing?" His voice sounds strangled and breathy to his own ears.
Cas straightens, releasing Dean. "Kissing it better. A human custom, I believe. Did I do it wrong?" he asks innocently.
Dean suppresses the urge to scream. This is exactly why he is unable to put his cards on the table, lay them out for Cas to see. The ambiguity is suffocating him. Does Cas really not know what he is doing when he perverts little human rituals like this, when he appropriates words and actions that would be glaring innuendo in anyone else for his own seemingly innocent purposes?
Cas looks at him a moment longer, his gaze assessing him, calculating now.
Dean is aware that his face is burning again, his eyes wide. He blinks and mentally shakes himself. "Uhm, thanks, Cas. Jup, all better." There may be an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. Dean swallows against it and turns back to the target, choosing to just ignore the entire incident for the sake of his sanity.
His shooting gets worse. It's hard to tell whether it's the distraction of having Cas so infuriatingly close, or his tiring muscles packing it in. He feels unsteady on more than one level. His concentration is shot to hell, too, and it takes monumental effort to force his focus back onto his movements, onto the target.
"Dean, you are wobbling. By now, you can probably feel the difference with the stronger bow. You need to keep your core immobile. Engage your abdominal muscles before you start your progression." Cas sounds just as professional and unfazed as he did at the beginning of the session.
His calm finally manages to settle Dean a little as he tries to feel what Cas is telling him and implement the instructions.
The recoil is more noticeable now that he is concentrating on his posture. He can tell that his body is twisting at every shot, his pelvis an obvious instability between his steady stance and controlled upper body. He just hasn't figured out how to fix it yet.
But Cas knows. He chooses that moment to step up close behind Dean, firmly grabbing his waist. "Hold your hips stable," he murmurs into Dean's ear.
Dean's stomach does a back flip. This time, the spike of arousal lancing through him like a bolt of lightning is undeniable. Overwhelming.
Dean gulps down a breath. He doesn't trust his voice to come out steady, so he just nods. Tries to, anyway. The movement makes his hair brush the side of Cas' face. He can feel it catching on the stubble.
The proximity of Cas' warm body, pressed all along his back, the large hands holding his hips with irrefutable strength… There is determination in the grip. Intent.
After a beat, Cas draws back on his hips just a little, and now his backside is brushing the front of Cas' slacks – and the unmistakable bulge underneath.
Dean closes his eyes on a shuddering exhale.
"Cas," he breathes, "What are you doing?" It's a rhetorical question. Cas replies anyway, voice unfairly steady and calm. "I would have thought that was obvious by now."
They both teeter on the edge of the praecipe for a second longer. Dean letting himself just stand in Cas' half-embrace and taking another moment to breathe, focussing on the sensations coursing through his body.
Cas simply holds him, waiting patiently, giving Dean time to adjust his mindset to this new direction their lesson is taking, maybe even their whole lives, if they allow it.
Dean is letting himself lean back against the support provided by Cas, increasing their contact, revelling in the warmth of it; the ease with which Cas' body seems to mould itself against him. His heart is pounding, high but steady. He swallows the excess saliva pooling in his mouth.
"Okay," he finally says. It's little more than an exhale, but Cas must have been listening for it. He hums his approval into the side of Dean's neck, low and comforting. His hands move a little further around Dean's front, as well as south, but stop just short of intimate territory, continuing to hold Dean to his chest and pressing them together in all the right places.
Cas' stubble rasps against the side of Dean's neck just before the tip of his tongue swipes out to taste the salt there, left by an afternoon of exercise. Then, Cas moves his mouth up to plant a kiss just below Dean's right ear. It's only a small press of lips, almost chaste, a little unsure, but it sets Dean aflame. He lets go of the breath he had been holding, as well as the bow still in his hand, before grabbing on to Cas's wrists that are still bracketing him. He uses the leverage to grind himself back into Cas, seeking more contact, and is rewarded by the first crack in the angels' composure as a strangled gasp puffs across the side of his neck.
Apparently, this is the sign of consent that Cas had been waiting for. He moves his hands lower, gliding a palm over the evidence of Dean's arousal, now obviously outlined through the fabric of his jeans.
Dean gasps and bucks, so Cas repeats the motion, sure and deliberate. Head sinking back against Cas's shoulder, Dean presses closer and swallows a moan when Cas carefully bites the cordoned muscles at the side of his neck.
They continue to grind against each other, struggling for a rhythm that stays elusive for now. Neither of them cares as long as what they are doing makes both of them feel good. Cas keeps mouthing at Dean's neck, sucking gently at the flushed skin while he moves his hand back and forth further down below.
Dean feels strung tight between the two counter-points of sensation, writhing in Cas' embrace. He reaches back blindly to grab Cas' ass, looking for more purchase, and tangles a hand in Cas' hair to keep him as close as possible.
A groan emerges from deep within Cas' throat when their hips finally slot together properly. Dean can feel the hardness growing, nudging insistently at the seat of his trousers. By now, Dean is pretty sure that his own erection must be leaking in his pants.
When it feels like he might disintegrate from the pressure, Cas uses both of his hands to deftly pop the button on Dean's jeans and open his flies. Pushing at the item of clothing, Cas' fingers brush against Dean, straining in his boxer briefs.
The contact makes Dean's knees buckle and they both go down unceremoniously in the high grass.
Panting, they are laying there, Cas half on top of Dean, legs tangled, hair mussed. Their eyes meet and hold.
Dean feels his heart skip at the tenderness in Cas' face.
Suddenly, it's all so clear, so easy.
Cas dips his head at the same moment that Dean tilts his chin up, and there, in the tall grass behind the bunker, with the smell of warm hay and earth enveloping them, they share their first kiss, messy and sweet and glorious.
Dean hears a keening sound and it takes him a few moments to realise that it's him making that noise. Cas isn't bothered. He smiles against Dean's lips and gentles him with tender pecks and careful licks until Dean quiets, hands coming up to wrap in Cas' hair.
Somehow, one of Cas' legs has slipped between Dean's and he bucks up against it, rubbing his barely covered cock against Cas' thigh. His mouth opens in a gasp underneath Cas' lips, his whole body tensing.
"Fuck, Cas!" Dean hisses, back arching. Cas takes the invitation to nibble at his throat, tasting the exposed Adam's apple. He presses the tip of his nose just under the hinge of Dean's jaw, breathing him in for a moment before dropping a kiss on his pulse point.
A hand wanders lower again, searching for Dean, but this time, Dean isn't too far behind. Guiding Cas into another kiss, he lets his palms skim down the angels' sides until he reaches his hips. Stroking Cas through his clothing, he is faintly amused by how little the slacks leave to the imagination. The hard length underneath is throbbing hot against his fingers and Cas groans into the crook of Dean's neck, temporarily forgetting all about tasting Dean's earlobe, as Dean gives him a long, deliberate stroke.
Dean takes mercy on him, making quick work of the fastening of Cas' trousers before pushing them down over the firm mound of Cas' ass. Cas helpfully lifts his hips and together they manage to work the material to just about mid-thigh.
Dean abandons the task of undressing Cas in favour of stroking him again, this time skin-on-skin.
"Dean!" at Cas' surprised gasp of his name Dean resolves to make Cas say it in that tone as often as he can. He runs his palm along Cas' cock a few more times, forming a loose fist. The drops of pre-cum already welling up at the slit are not nearly enough to make it an easy glide, and spit or sweat are evaporating too quickly in the heat of the afternoon. He'll just have to be gentle with the friction.
Cas has recovered sufficiently to resume his task of getting Dean out of his underwear. The pants are a baggy fit, so it only takes a little pushing from Cas and wriggling from Dean to get them worked down enough for his erection to be freed.
There is a slight pause, a moment where they both look down at themselves, exposed to each other as they are. Dean's hand is still wrapped loosely around Cas, the other supporting Cas' hip. Their chests brush with every pant.
"Dean," Cas murmurs. There is wonder in his voice.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, throat suddenly tight with emotion.
He swallows. Then he stretches up again, nuzzling his way into a deep kiss.
Cas follows willingly, stroking the outside of Dean's thigh and hip a few times before daring to move inwards. Dean hums at the touch, pushing up into the contact, and somehow, they line up perfectly; Cas and Dean and their hands between them.
It doesn't take long after that.
The ground is warm. The tips of the tall grass stalks sway and shiver with their movement. They are invisible, but their moans cut through the rustling as they surge against each other, chasing completion.
Dean can already feel it building under his navel, like boiling milk rising inexorably, bubbling and sweet. Cas thumbs his slit, knuckles brushing his balls on the way down and that's all that's needed.
"Cas!" Dean gasps, breaking their kiss as his back arches and is climax takes him. Cas strokes him through it, now with the help of copious amounts of semen. His eyes are wide when Dean looks back at him, almost shocked.
Dean doesn't think. He extracts one arm and pulls Cas down into a searing, open-mouthed kiss. At the same time, he gathers some of his seed from between them, and with the make-shift lubricant easing the glide, Cas follows after within the span of a few more pulls. He's breath-taking like this, Dean thinks. Eyes squeezed shut, back arching, mouth open in a wordless, soundless cry.
Soon, they are both spent.
Cas collapses on top of Dean, burying his face in the crook of Dean's neck. Dean pulls his other hand from between their bodies, wiping it on his t-shirt to get rid of the worst of their mess before wrapping his arm tightly around Cas.
For a minute, they just lie there, breathing hard, sweat and semen drying on their skin. Dean feels a level of contentment and peace he hasn't felt in a long while, if ever.
Eventually their breathing slows down, but neither of them seems inclined to move. The sun is going down and the long shadows of the meadow creep across them. Dean almost believes Cas to be asleep, judging by the quiet puffs of air ghosting along his shoulder and the way his weight has settled heavy against him. He idly strokes the angels' hair, then, giving in to impulse, he drops a light kiss to his temple. The warm evening air begins to fill with the chirping of crickets and other insects hiding in the grass around them.
"Guys? Hey, where are you?" Dean is startled from sleep by a voice from close-by. Sam! Beside him, Cas tenses, clearly just woken himself. "Guys?"
It's dark now, dew already seeping into Dean's clothing. Heavy footfalls are approaching. The grass shivers and rustles as a large body parts it.
Suddenly, Dean is wide awake. They had their literal roll in the hay right next to the spot where they commenced the archery training. If Sam follows the path of trodden-down grass, he is guaranteed to find them!
But it's too late. The silhouette of his giant of a brother looms above the swaying blades of grass. He is scanning the field between the line and the target, back turned. There is no escape.
Beside him, Cas is beginning to sit up – movement that will surely catch Sam's attention. Dean stills him with a firm hand, shaking his head at Cas. There is only one way out of this that will leave even a shred of their dignity intact.
"Sam, don't turn around." Dean speaks quickly, in a low voice so as not to startle his brother.
Sam tenses, just in time aborting a motion that would have spun him around. "Dean, what…?" His voice is both amused and exasperated. Dean can practically see his expression contort into funny shapes even though it's dark and Sam is facing away from them.
Dean can't think of any good excuses. "Please, just go back inside. We'll be there shortly."
"We…?" Sam sounds more amused than anything now.
Dean nods into the darkness. Cas chooses that moment to chip into the conversation. "Yes. We would both appreciate you returning to the bunker now."
Dean jumps next to him, his hand shooting out far too late to cover Cas' mouth. But Sam is smart. He knows what's good for him. "Ah," he snorts. "I was wondering where Cas was." His tone says that he wasn't. At all. But then – oh wonder of wonders! – he does start moving off towards the door with long, even strides. "See you guy back inside," he calls, "And don't make me come looking again."
Dean and Cas look at each other.
"Shit," Dean says, with feeling.
"I agree," Cas adds.
They stand, pulling clothing back into place, fastening trousers, picking grass out of each other's hair. There are very telling stains on Dean's black t-shirt, but walking in bare-chested may be an even bigger give-away.
Then again, Sam is not stupid. It's clear he must have figured them out in a split second. Well, nothing for it.
"Let's go." Dean nods his head in the direction of the door and together, they make their way over, collecting their equipment as they go.
Just before they step inside, Cas stops them. Dean turns to him with a questioning look that melts the moment he spots the uncertainty in Cas' eyes, glittering faintly in the sliver of light falling through the open door. With a quick glance to check that Sam is not waiting for them right at the top of the stairs, Dean steps closer to Cas. He leans in, unhurriedly, deliberately, and captures Cas' mouth in a gentle kiss. "For the road," he says, and that gets Cas to smiling again.
Downstairs, Sam is waiting. He smirks at them, and no sharp look of Dean's can quell his mirth.
"Guys, you do realise when it got dark and I went looking for you, I didn't come out there without a flash light, right?" Sam says, grinning. "I mean, the first time I went looking."
Dean loves his little brother, but sometimes he wants to murder him.
The end
Notes: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this. I would really appreciate your comments :) Full disclosure: as a keen archer myself, I have tried to channel my learning experience (greatly compressed) into Dean. Cas's teaching style is modelled very much after my own coach - some of the dialogue I even took word for word - except for the sexual part (my coach is a married father and was always a real, proper gentleman). But let me tell you, there were a few times where I asked him to check my shoulders when I knew there was nothing wrong at all. ;)