I Am Not Worthy To Be Called Your Saviour...
...I Am Not Worthy To Be Called Your Friend.
Title: I Am Not Worthy
Author: Marissa Day
Characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Bobby, Chuck, Becky
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language, spoilers for 5.18 "Point of No Return" and 5.19 "Hammer of the Gods," sexual content, Dean being a generally angst-ridden human being, and probably a ton of OOC-ness. CURRENTLY UN-BETA'D.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters associated do not belong to me. They belong to Eric Kripke, the CW, Warner Brothers, and anyone else entitled (a list on which I am not included).
Summary: Coda to 5.18 "Point of No Return" and 5.19 "Hammer of the Gods." Major spoilers for 5.18, and minor maybe major-ish spoilers for 5.19.
Dean is still upset that Castiel all but sacrificed himself so that he wouldn't have to see Dean fail: Not only did the angel's lack of faith in him add insult to injury, but his recklessness and lack of forewarning had worried Dean sick. On top of that, the fading angel still hasn't shown up after disappearing with five angels intent on getting rid of him. Somehow, Castiel manages to track the boys down and, one way or another, returns. The two of them have a heartfelt chat about the entire situation while Sam is out, leading to general angst and obligatory make-up scenes.
Words: 14, 012
Author's Notes: Gift for KellyLD on Twitter, as result of her twitter prompt. This is my first Supernatural fanfiction, as many ideas as I've had for it; this is the first one I've actually followed through with and finished, thanks to Kelly. As it is my first, I will give a minor warning that the characters might be a little out of character, but bear with me; I was trying to show a side of Dean that Kripke doesn't but it came off bogus. I figured at the very least, Dean would be gentler in bed with someone that was a little less confident; How else would he get so many women to fall into the sheets with him, aside from using his stellar looks? ;)
I couldn't think of a witty Zeppelin title that would fit, so I used a line from "The End" by the Classic Crime to uphold the musical tradition. I swear I did more research to make sure this fiction was accurate than I did actually writing it. Unfortunately there is no clue as to where the episode "The Real Ghostbusters" took place, so I went ahead and assumed it was in Virginia as there is a Pineview Hotel line in Minnesota and Virginia.
Keep in mind; The DeanxCas-ness wasn't the main focus of the story, the Coda-to-5.19-ness was. It is implied that it has been pre-established (which, from certain perspectives, isn't exactly out of canon) and all of Dean's worrying over Cas really takes place during Sam's point of view, because when it switches to Dean, Dean is worrying about all of the other crap going on. I'm so mean.
I APOLOGIZE FOR THE REALLY DISAPPOINTING ENDING.
Kelly was a life saver.
...Oh boy, I seem to like the shower scenes, huh?
Regardless, this was a blast to write and I apologize for the mediocrity and the late release.
Please enjoy!
NOTE: LIKES TO SCREW WITH FORMATTING AND TAKES OUT WORDS. IF SOMETHING CUTS OFF SUDDENLY OR IT SUDDENLY JUMPS WHERE IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE, I MUST HAVE MISSED IT AND I WOULD APPRECIATE IT IF YOU TOLD ME. THANKS AGAIN!
The silence that had settled between the two brothers couldn't be described as comfortable, but it wasn't exactly awkward, either. It was an at least partly companionable quiet that allowed Sam Winchester to listen to the motorized hum of the black '67 Chevy Impala that was currently tearing up highway underneath them and Dean's deep inhale-exhale as it set a steady rhythm. It wasn't typical for the Impala to be so quiet. Sam found it odd that after a hundred and thirty miles behind them, give or take, Dean hadn't yet taken a hand off of the steering wheel to pop in a single cassette tape. There was no Metallica grating on Sam's nerves, not even Led Zeppelin, and even after all of the times Sam had complained about it, he found himself missing the droning, screeching guitars giving him a headache because that was Dean. It was disconcerting how obvious his brother was making his unrest; Dean always made an effort not to broadcast his emotions so easily. Countless times, Sam had found himself tearing his hair out trying to understand what was going on in the other man's head, and yet there he was, refusing to take his eyes off of the road for what seemed would be the entire way to the next town. It was unsettling to say the least that he was allowing Sam to figure him out so effortlessly.
Before Sam really processed what he was about to say and how it would probably only gain a negative reaction, he found himself blurting quietly, "Are you sure there isn't anything you want to talk about?" The silence suddenly wasn't so companionable anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Dean stiffen and raise his shoulders, his mouth setting into a firm line that screamed volumes about how he felt on the subject. Sam was half expecting him to deliver his classic No chick flick moments, Sammy line, but it never came. Instead, Dean parted his lips for the first time since he'd told him that they were going to do the Apocalypse their way, and all that came out was a firm denial. No cursing, no jabs at Sam's masculinity, just a direct no. He had seemed fine a couple of hours ago, but now Sam could tell that Dean was brooding. It was never a good idea to let Dean think too long, and Sam reprimanded himself for not thinking to keep him occupied.
Despite Sam's urge to keep prodding at his brother to share, he kept himself silent. It stretched on for at least another half of an hour before the first rain drops started to hit the windshield. The rain got steadily faster as they whipped down the highway, and a detour off of the I-90 because of some sort of construction only served to increase the irritation that was crackling in the air. Sam hadn't even paid attention to what the officer had been saying when he stopped them to redirect them; maybe there was a mudslide because of all of this rain or something. It was a hurricane. The two boys were sore and in very obvious need of sleep, but Sam knew that it would be best if they kept pushing through. After all, Dean might decide to talk to him purely out of exhaustion, and if not, Sam would have no qualms with taking the wheel so Dean could get some much needed shut-eye.
For the second time, Dean's voice pervaded the silence, hoarse and rough around the edges as he rasped, "There's a hotel coming up: We should stop for the night. Try to get out of this storm."
"I don't know," Sam was amazed at Dean's ability to bring up a subject as soon as it crossed his own mind, "I think we should keep going. We really need to get in to a town, find a hotel that isn't in the middle of nowhere and work on finding Cas; Finding Adam."
"We can do that in this hotel just as well as any other." Dean closed the conversation with a note of finality that Sam apparently hadn't heard, because when Sam asked about getting a proper meal, Dean shut him down with a quick, "I'm sure there's a café here." He turned in to the parking lot of the Elysian Fields hotel, and that was the end of it.
"So Sam, what are your knees telling you now? Can we stop, or is it going to rain again?"
Well, Sam thought exasperatedly, at least Dean was trying to make witty remarks again. Sam had to silently thank Gabriel for all the help he had given them, even if he did go and die on them right when he had started to become helpful. It was another name to add to the list of all the people they'd gotten killed already, he supposed.
"Hah hah, Dean." Sam finally quipped half-heartedly, holding on to the edges of his laptop to keep it from sliding off of his thighs as the Impala curved around a bend a little faster than what was probably necessary. He had been trying to Google anything he could on the horsemen to try and find out where exactly Pestilence or Death would decide to hang out for a while, or at the very least try to pick up any signs of more-than-demonic omens that might point them in the right direction, but as usual the MSN and Yahoo news websites had nothing to report. Nothing of any use, for that matter; As far as he was concerned, the latest gossip on Lady Gaga wasn't going to help them in their investigation, unless of course Lady Gaga turned out to be Death herself. Not that it would really surprise him if that turned out to be the case. "Bobby called."
"When were you going to tell me this?" Dean took his eyes off of the road to look at him; Sam noticed with discomfort that Dean's eyes were eerily blank, as if he wasn't really invested in the conversation or even aware that he was having it, despite seeming normal on the outside. None the less, Dean's mouth had curved into a reprimanding frown.
"I forgot about it, I was busy." Sam said defensively, holding his hands up in front of himself for a second before Dean veered around another corner and forced him to grab on to his Dell again, "It was a while back, when we stopped at that gas station and you took a really long time in the washroom. He wants us there as soon as possible to figure out this whole Horseman-Apocalypse Key-Ring business. I think he might have found something."
"So, we have to go back there?" Sam could tell Dean was royally unimpressed with him, even before he continued, "Half of Lake Erie is behind us, you don't think that maybe you could have told me this before we had to double back through four states?"
"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't think you'd want to go running right back there anyways, that we could pick the horsemen's trails up on our own," Sam wasn't allowed to continue his thought. Dean cut him off with another sharp look, rolling the steering wheel to the right to slow down along the side of the road. He pulled an illegal U-turn on the lonely highway and tore back the way they had come. The trees and any other scenery that may have been rolling by had blurred in to a navy blue stripe as they sped along through the dark.
"We can't do this by ourselves, Sam." Dean finally broke the silence, his voice almost sounding hesitant, "We can't. It's too big. Obviously, we need all of the help we can get if Lucifer can gank a tricky-ass archangel and a room full of mythological douche bags so easily. If we," Dean cut himself off this time, and it only took that second for a chill to run through Sam at the thought of how easily Lucifer had practically destroyed the other religious icons. He watched Dean mull over the sentence on the tip of his tongue before he restarted it, "Even if it's just Bobby or Chuck or friggin' Becky, any help will do." There was another pause, "Okay, maybe not Becky..."
"Come on," Sam shrugged, "She's helped us out once or twice. If she hadn't called us to that convention out in Virginia, we would never have known about the case there and lots of people could have died."
"Are you defending her? She's creepy, man." Dean made a face, glancing into the rear-view mirror as if to make sure Becky hadn't stolen some other '67 Impala to stalk them across Ohio.
"Well, she is just a girl."
"Yeah, a really friggin' weird one. You're seriously going to stand up for her after she stalked you half way across the country? Even after the whole you're-so-firm business?"
"Are you jealous, Dean?" Sam's raised eyebrow and the small flash of teeth was an indication of his cheekiness.
"Jealous? Why would I be jealous of that? That's strange! At least Meg had a reason to stalk you, she wanted to kill you; but Becky? What's with you and the weird-o's?" Sam tried to interject, but Dean started up again, ranting, "Besides, I can have any woman I want. Let's go to a bar right now, Sam, see who gets all of the women."
"Oh you can, can you? When was the last time you got laid?" Sam's eyebrow rose even higher. Dean was amazed at the sheer flexibility of the muscles in Sam's forehead. He fell silent for a moment.
Sam's smirk widened and Dean tightened his own mouth into a straight line, mumbling, "Does that really matter, Sam? In case you haven't noticed, it's kind of the apocalypse. There are better things to do than thinking about when I'm going to get laid next."
Sam had no response. Dean was right: Something he thought he'd never hear himself actively think.
Idle, somewhat awkward conversation was had, topics varying and shifting until they ended up on where they were going to spend the night. It was a given that the boys weren't going to be able to make it back across Ohio, Illinois, Indiana and Iowa in one night (thankfully, Sioux Falls was on their side of South Dakota). Quite frankly, neither brother was really even in the mood to drive. Sam's eyes were becoming blurry as the night wore on and, by the look on Dean's face, his brother was probably suffering from the same level of sleep deprivation that he was himself. They opted to pull into a shanty motel on the outskirts of Loudonville, with Sam's approval, of course.
"What can I do for you two boys?" The bright, overly cheery tone in the clerk's voice grated against Sam's ears like sand paper as she set down her novel to greet them. Both of the Winchesters had to wonder how the girl could keep such a cheery tone at two or three in the morning, but none the less, Dean leaned up against the counter next to her sandal-clad toes and asked for a room. "For two?"
"Yeah," Dean confirmed, and before the bubbly brunette could ask how many beds (a question that was, sadly, asked quite frequently), he interjected, "Two queens."
Her green eyes flickered between the two, catching Sam's eye for a moment and waking him right up. There was something odd about the way she looked at them, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. It almost reminded him of something, "Two queens, coming right up." Her jeans make a soft scraping sound on the shabby, plastic covered countertops as she kicked her feet off of the desk, leaning forward to bring up a room selection on her dinosaur of a computer, "Could I get your names?"
"I'm Malcolm and he's Angus. Young." Dean supplied her, watching as her eyebrows knitted together in recognition, "Yeah, we get that a lot. Our dad's been a fan since they first started out." He smirked.
They only had to answer a few more questions on their information and provide an ID to go with the cash that they would be paying with, before the brunette slid a room key across the counter to them, "Well, Mr. and Mr. Young," The small golden tag on her red vest indicated that her name was Abby, "You're in room 204; The stairs are around back. If you need anything, feel free to call to the front desk and room service comes around at about 11:00. If you still need more time, you don't really need to check out until noon and there's a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the coat hooks if you need it."
Even as he thanked her slowly, Sam was finally able to place why the way she looked at them was so strange: It reminded him of the way Becky used to look at them.
"Creepy!" Dean confirmed his train of thought as he swung open the door and readjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder with an annoyed huff, "I even told her we were brothers!" Sam nodded as Dean continued to rant about women and the freaky things that go though their heads, catching the door quickly as it sprung back to hit him. He rolled his eyes and followed his brother around the side of the building, creaking up a flight of dangerous looking stairs and up to room 204.
The motel room was old and musty, and definitely left a lot to be desired. Despite the grunginess, Sam could tell that Abby and the rest of the staff tried their best to keep it liveable. He found himself thanking whatever deity would listen (which was probably none of them: God didn't want anything to do with them, Kali seemed to think they were the worst human beings in existence, and the rest of them were sort of dead thanks to Lucifer) that the red and gold sheets were oddly clean when he set his bag down on the far bed. The walls matched the quilt but were a mustier red, the gold patterns not shining quite so much on the walls as the threads did. There was a brownish, partly-scrubbed stain splattered on the wallpaper next to the headboard and Sam didn't bother wondering what it was, as he probably didn't want to know.
"Finally, we can listen to some real news and maybe figure out what the hell is going on," Dean dumped his bag on the other bed with a lot less care than Sam had and moved over to the faded pine desk to flick on the small, fourteen inch television that sat on top of it. The picture was fuzzy and the sound was garbled, but Dean lessened it with a few jerks of the antenna. Sam sat next to his bag and watched disinterestedly to the weather report for a moment. Nothing of value was on, so he opted to check out the bathroom; after seeing it, he sort of wished he hadn't.
The tiled walls were a tan colour with red and brown patterns on them. Unfortunately, Sam couldn't tell whether the patterns were intentional or residue from years of grunge that the staff just couldn't get off. The standing shower was tiled with the same horrendous colours, and the rectangular mirror that was mounted across from it had a crack running from the top left corner that almost reached the center. The off-white sink was scrubbed clean, at the very least, but when Sam tested the handles, he found that the hot water wasn't working properly (it was either searing hot or freezing cold) and the tap screeched whenever it had to spit out more than a trickle of water. The younger Winchester took one look at the yellow-stained toilet and opted not to bother testing it in case of overflowing, padding back across the brown carpet to a table in front of the drafty window, where he could set up his laptop. Thankfully, the internet access in the area wasn't password protected and he could do as much research as he needed; Something that was difficult to do in the car, as he kept having to wait for internet signals to come in and then hack in to them if they were protected.
"Sammy, check this out." Dean caught Sam's attention, rolling his eyes at his brother as he sprawled back onto the bed with the guest services folder open over his face, "It says here that there's a 24 hour casino about a block away. What do you say we go and try to win our room for the night, huh?"
"No, Dean." Sam turned him down, "I should probably call Bobby and tell him where we are. You know, let him know that we're coming."
"That will only take a second." Dean argued, throwing the booklet to the end of the bed as he sat up, "We can always go after you've called."
Sam shook his head, "We have work to do. We have to find Cas and figure out where Michael took Adam, and on top of that we have to find Death and Pestilence to get the keys. It'll be a miracle if we get any sleep at all tonight, there isn't any time for goofing off."
"One night off, is that too much to ask?" Dean grumbled again, flicking the television off as the reporter started to talk about the Icelandic eruption; As if that hadn't been covered enough. It was a good thing Dean was afraid of planes, although it wasn't like there would be any need to fly anywhere. There was enough going on in the United States, the two of them couldn't start searching for Death all the way out in Europe. Sam had to wonder for a second why all the terrible things that happened to them couldn't have gone on in China, but at the same time he was thankful that it hadn't, since they couldn't exactly drive across the Pacific Ocean to hunt down the horsemen.
"It's too late, tonight, Dean. It's already almost half passed three, you should get some sleep. I'll wait up and do a bit of work, to keep an eye open in case Cas manages to find us. I'll wake you up early so I can get a bit of sleep in the morning before we check out, okay?"
"Party pooper." Dean threw at him lamely, stripping out of his jacket and shimmying up the bed to rest his head on the pillow. Dean didn't bother getting under the blankets before he was out like a light. Thinking of it, Sam flicked off the main lights to give Dean an easier time sleeping and sat back down in front of his laptop, setting to work finding out as much as he could about Pestilence.
"Dean! Dean, get your ass up, it's seven thirty and I'd like to sleep too, you know."
There was no light pervading the room as Dean's eyes fluttered open, making it less harsh on his pupils as they adjusted to the dim light of the desk lamp. Rubbing at his eyelid sleepily, Dean groaned and pushed himself up on his other elbow. Sam stared down at him with his classic bitch–face, indicating that the younger brother really did need a bit of sleep or he would be hell to sit with in a car for the next eighteen hours. At the next repetition of his name, Dean swatted his brother away and swung his legs over the bed, "I'm up, I'm up."
The carpet would have felt nice on his toes, he suspected, if he had remembered to take his boots off before he had fallen asleep. His feet were hot and sweaty and uncomfortable – more so than the rest of him – and despite how awful the bathroom apparently was, Dean knew he was due for a shower as soon as he ran a hand through his hair. It was getting greasier than Sam's. Sam watched him like a hawk while he bent down over the edge of the bed to unlace his boots and his face twisted up with disgust as soon as the first one was off. Sam was apparently having the same thoughts as him, because his nose scrunched up like an overgrown rabbit's as he waved a hand in front of his face, "Phew. You need to take a shower, Dean. You smell like something just crawled up your ass and died."
"You don't smell any better, smart ass." Dean shot back, shoving his stinky boots into Sam's hands as he walked by; Sam chucked them at the door, repulsed. Sam's bitching decreased significantly in volume as soon as the creaky wooden door was shut behind him. Even for Dean's standards, the bathroom was pretty gross, but he bore through it as he stripped down and started the water. The shower head was loud and, more importantly, painful, but Dean could hear Sam's snoring over the slamming of the steams on his back and the whining water pipes. The stabbing streams did nothing for his aching muscles, which had been worsened by the hard beds, and he was getting a headache from the crying baby in the next room over. Either the walls were extremely thin, or the kid was unnaturally loud, because he could have sworn it was in the bathroom with him.
His limbs felt heavier when he got out of the shower as they had when he'd gotten in. He shuffled out into the main room with his towel, not bothering to go back into the bathroom to change. Sam was out cold anyways. He sat back down on the bed and pressed the power button on the television remote, quieting the volume, but keeping it loud enough that the child's screaming wasn't quite so noticeable; He was in for a long morning.
Dean, despite Sam's protests, had managed to get him to accompany him to the cheap little casino for an hour or two once they had packed up and checked out. Much to Sam's chagrin, Dean had won nearly three hundred at the roulette tables and Sam himself had raked in a fair amount at the poker table once Dean had convinced him to put in. This time, the first thing Dean did when he got into the driver's seat was finally pop in an AC/DC cassette to commemorate under which names they'd won the money.
"Hoo boy!" Dean exclaimed, tapping his fingers idly on the steering wheel as they manoeuvred out of Loudonville, "I told you, Sammy. We're going to sleep well tonight."
"Dean..." Sam sighed, resigning himself to watch the scenery roll by.
It wasn't until three in the afternoon that Sam dozed off, leaving Dean to really think about things. The weight in his limbs wasn't entirely physical; He was worn out mentally, too, and he knew it. He could see by the way Sam looked at him that he saw it too, and was thankful for the little break Sam's slumber gave him from the nagging and questioning, and most of all, the searching looks. Sam knew more than he figured he did; He had known for a fact that Dean meant it when he'd said yes to Michael. He had been winging it then. Sam knew he was guilty about Adam and Sam knew he felt responsible for Castiel's apparent fate. Dean maybe even felt a little bit responsible for Gabriel's death. At least he'd gone down fighting for a good cause.
After that, Dean couldn't even remember how he'd gotten to Portland, Indiana, but when he did, it was only ten o'clock in the evening and his stomach was screaming at him to stop for food; something he hadn't done since they had left Loudonville. They had almost done a full circle back to Muncie, and Dean didn't like the thought of that at all. Instead, he restarted the music that had apparently finished itself while he was driving blindly (he'd also apparently been mechanically speeding, what with how fast they crossed Ohio) and Sam snorted himself awake. Looking around, Sam's brow furrowed, "Where are we?" He glanced at the clock and a look of surprised crossed his face, "I slept for seven hours and you didn't wake me up?"
"Portland." Dean's answer was short and precise as he cruised straight through the center of town. They only started to look for hotels once they were on the outskirts of town.
"Holy, Dean. We're already back in Indiana?" Sam scratched his head, his forehead still wrinkled in post-sleep confusion, "I should probably call Bobby and tell him that we're making good time." Dean did not protest this time, knowing that the good news would serve to put Bobby in a better mood for when they actually did end up arriving. Dean had no idea why he couldn't just tell them what he'd found out over the phone, but apparently it required visuals and collaborative planning on what to do next. Either that, or his place was along the way to where he would be sending them next.
"Hey, Bobby." Sam's voice was accompanied by a glare in Dean's direction and a nod towards the volume dial. Dean rolled his eyes, reaching forward to jam the knob roughly into silence, "Yeah, we're just in Portland now. We should be there in a couple of days, maybe less, but we really do need some sleep – Yeah, we'll drive through the night tomorrow. I understand that this is important, but we're going to have to stop." Dean nodded in approval; He knew exactly how he was going to spend the three hundred dollars he'd won.
In the time it took Sam to relay the day's events to a curious Bobby, Dean had managed to scout out a relatively nice looking hotel just on the edge of town. It seemed to be about a hundred and sixty per night, so it was a good thing the two of them were only staying one night. Sam didn't approve of the cost, but none the less they'd given the clerk (a male, this time) their fake information and received a card key for the sixth floor, as well as the same reaction to their names as they'd gotten from Abby. Dean went back outside to drive the car around to the rear parking which, to his delight, was guarded by a toll booth that only allowed you through with your room key. He parked the Impala in the shade of the building and slid in the back door, scoping out the elevator and riding it up to the sixth floor.
Sam was in room 547 when he found it. The door was left open for him, and Dean was already impressed by the place before he'd stepped over the threshold. The entrance hall was divided into two smaller hallways; one that led to what he assumed would be a bathroom and the other to the main room. The carpet was plush silver, and Dean had to kick his boots off before going any further to avoid getting it muddied up. By the looks of it, Sam had done the same. His socked feet (which didn't smell quite so fishy now) relaxed into the carpets as he padded forward, met with a fresh pine sent that made his shoulders relax almost immediately. The far wall was almost entirely glass, the window overlooking the water. The blue satin curtains that rippled down over the sides of the wall from silver curtain rods were a comfortable contrast to the moonlit landscape.
Dean moved over to his bed, running his hands carefully over the royal blue comforter as if afraid he would break it if he sat down. Sam coughed, catching Dean's attention and drawing it to where he was sprawled on his own queen sized bed, nodding to the wall-mounted flat screen that he had changed to the news channel, "Can you believe this place?"
"No," Dean shook his head, "It certainly isn't our style." He paused, as if to debate over whether or not what he was going to say next was appropriate. He decided it was and finished, "Hey, it's the end of the world. We might as well treat ourselves if we're going to save it."
The look in Sam's eyes when Dean finished speaking nearly made him vomit, but he opted to hold it in and instead look away. He directed his attention to the silver-wrapped chocolates on the fluffy white pillows, "Oh look, Sammy." He picked it up, a slow grin sliding across his face, "What are the chances that these ones aren't poisoned?"
"High, I should hope." Sam returned, turning to look at him again, "I already ate mine."
Dean nodded at him and popped the chocolate into his mouth. There was a slight mint flavouring to it that made Dean's eyes close half way as he sucked on it, savouring the high quality. He hummed briskly and nodded in approval, "Worth it."
Sam shook his head. The news anchor had switched to covering an apparent flu epidemic, which caught Sam's attention immediately. Dean sobered up almost as quickly and sat down on the end of his bed, dropping his duffel on the floor next to his feet. He knew they were both thinking the same thing.
"Do you think it's Pestilence?" Dean finally interjected, once the anchor had moved on to other things.
"What else could it be?" Sam flicked the TV off.
Dean stood up and stretched his arms behind his head with a frustrated hiss, "Should we call Bobby and tell him, or...?"
"We should get some rest and check out early." Sam supplied, running a hand through his greasy hair, "The faster we get to Bobby's, the faster we figure this out."
"This would be so much easier with Cas to figure everything out with his angel bull crap." Dean found himself grumbling, turning to his duffel to grab something to sleep in this time.
"Well, he's not here, so we're going to have to suck it up and finish this ourselves." Sam interjected, doing the same thing.
Dean turned to look at Sam incredulously, "So don't you think we should be working to find him then? What about Adam, too?" Sam looked at Dean silently for a moment, as if to inquire why he was asking that question now; bigger fish to fry and all that. Dean shrugged his shoulders and rolled them, staring his little brother down as he stood to redress. Tensions had been high enough between the two of them lately, and it had been hard to keep himself in check. Dean was tired and anxious to get looking for Pestilence, but Sam didn't get it; they had to finish one thing before they started another, especially if one thing would make the other easier. It was like trying to build a tower without the basic foundations: It just wouldn't work.
His hard look seemed to wear Sam down, though, and the younger of the two stood resignedly, "Well what do you suggest we do?"
"I don't know. We can do anything; we just have to do something." Dean pushed, "Google us up some angel-summoning lingo, whatever it takes. It'll be worth dick all if we find Pestilence and then have no idea how to deal with him because we don't have our enochian encyclopedia in our bag of bull crap extermination tricks."
All that earned him was a roll of Sam's eyes. Sam brushed passed him, and the soft click of the door indicated that Sam had either stormed out or gone into the washroom. Dean was thankful that the shower started a second later. He moved over to Sam's duffel bag, rooting through his stuff for a second and pulling out what he'd been looking for.
As hot as the steam in the bathroom was, it had definitely served to cool Sam's nerves down. Dean had been rubbing him the wrong way for what seemed like as long as he could remember, regardless that it had probably only been a few weeks. It had worsened, he'd noted, since Cas had disappeared. Something the angel said must have raised Dean's hackles, and the guy was certainly taking it out on Sam with his moody brooding marathons and the random lashing out. His mood swings had become almost unbelievable.
Sam stepped out of the bathroom to fetch clean clothing and the sight that met his eyes was a shocking one; Dean was seated at the mahogany desk that sat underneath the large television, pouring over what looked to be an ancient text and his laptop, "Dean?" Sam's voice snapped him out of the trance he appeared to be in, and Dean's tired green eyes snapped around to look at him. Dean's eyebrows were raised, but not nearly as high as Sam's (again with the flexibility!). "Dean," he repeated, "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like? It's my geometry homework, mom." Dean scoffed, returning to a forum that Sam didn't recognize. It wasn't porn, which baffled Sam entirely; There was no other reason Dean would ever use his computer.
"Did you put more itching powder in my clothes, Dean?" Sam started slowly, and Dean turned to give him an incredulous look. Sam didn't question it. After all, it was the apocalypse. Dean was a little more mature than that, especially due to recent events. None the less, he shook his clean clothes before putting them on, "What are you actually doing?"
"More than you are." Dean was obviously not in a talking mood, but then, Sam wasn't exactly in a mood to deal with Dean's crap.
"Sorry, Dean, but I'm kind of focussed on the apocalypse right now." Sam snapped. The look he got from Dean as his older brother turned to face him nearly made him regret it. Nearly.
"And you think I'm not?" Dean started his tangent, his eyes going from blank to stormy in a matter of seconds, "What do you think I'm doing here, Sammy? Riding the merry-go-round and waiting for the end of the world to pass me by while someone else fixes it? I'm trying to make this better, Sam. I'm trying to find the only help we really have in this thing anymore."
"What, a drunken ex-angel with no motivation to even live anymore?" Sam's voice rose significantly. Dean sprung out of his chair, and Sam could tell it was just going to go downhill from there. Regardless, things sometimes needed to be said. "If you're so set on finding someone, Dean, maybe you should work on finding our brother. He took the bullet for you Dean, just like you said you wouldn't let him do! Don't you feel anything for him at all? Cas can friggin' handle himself, Dean, Adam can't. Imagine what they could be doing to him up there!"
Dean's breathing got deeper; Sam could tell he was trying his hardest to keep himself from flipping out. His eyes burned into Sam's and it gave him an odd sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach, as though he really had gone too far, "Don't you talk to me about regret, Sam. Don't you dare." Dean's voice had dropped dangerously, taking on a note that resembled a deep quiver. Sam watched him as he took a step towards him, gruff voice lowered even further, "I of all people am regretting this, Sam. I started this when I hopped off the rack. I got our friends killed. I got Adam taken. The fact of the matter is, I probably got Cas killed, too, and if we don't find him we have virtually no chance of finding out where the angels might have taken Adam. So don't you dare tell me how I feel!"
The hotel room fell silent, but for the sound of Dean's heavy inhale-exhale. Tension was crackling like a firecracker waiting to go off. For the second time that night, Sam couldn't take it. He turned on his heel, mumbling out a quick, semi-awkward, "I'm going to get us something to eat."
"Remember not to bring any demons back for a midnight snack – I can't say they're my favourite side dish!" It was a low shot, Dean admitted.
The door – the front door, this time – slamming behind Sam was probably the worst noise Dean had heard in a long time.
It reminded him vaguely of another hotel room door that had slammed behind Sam and the ache in his chest worsened.
Dean wasn't sure how long he stood there and stared at the silver door knob, waiting for it to turn. It never did. Eventually his eyes got tired and started to sting. He milled around idly until the anger came. Dean was surprised that security hadn't shown up at that point, when the lamp found itself flying into a wall, the desk found itself kicked into a scuffed up, misplaced mess, and the walls found themselves subject to the verbal abuse that Dean would very much have liked to direct elsewhere. Dean had no other way to express his anger than to take it out on his physical surroundings, and it wasn't like he could show that much emotion in front of Sam. There was too much to lose if they split up, and he couldn't display that much weakness to his brother. He had to be there for him. Even with all that had gone on since his returned from Hell, his job hadn't changed.
It wasn't long before Dean took a page out of Sam's book, going to take another shower to rinse away his anger and all of the sweat it had worked up. He ambled into the large bathroom, which was a stark contrast to the one from the previous day's motel. The tiles on the floors were a soft grey-green marble, and the emerald-rimmed wall panels were a pristine white. A Jacuzzi bath tub sat in the center of the bathroom, lit by a modern steamed-glass chandelier, and a water-fall shower tiled green sat in the far corner. The toilet itself looked like it cost more than the Impala, and that wasn't even including the jaded green countertops with gold and silver sinks. The mirror above the sinks stretched across the entire wall.
It reminded Dean too much of the Holy Waiting Room.
Not one for baths ("I don't understand why people enjoy bathing in their own filth,") Dean moved over to the shower, stripping as he went, and gripped the silver handle to push open the sliding glass door. He adjusted the water, turning the knob for the hot water until the streams were steaming before they could even get out of the shower head. The moment he stepped in, all of the muscles in his back and arms relaxed. Despite the heat, the water remained smooth as silk as it pounded onto his skin, working out his knots without any real pain. He couldn't be bothered to push the water out of his face as it dripped down from his hair. He couldn't say how long he stood there, exactly, staring at the girly conditioner bottle that Sam had left on the ledge. Sam normally made an effort to keep it hidden in the bottom of his bag to avoid mockery, but it wasn't like it mattered that much; everyone already knew about it.
It had to have been at least half an hour, and the water temperature hadn't even fluxuated in the slightest. At Bobby's, the only place Dean always took a shower, both boys tried to keep their bathing to a minimum to preserve the precious hot water he got out there. This time, Dean couldn't really give a care. It was just a hotel. None the less, his skin was started to splotch red and would probably be itchy and dry if he didn't get out soon. He reached down to shut off the water, shaking his head to send droplets flying from his mess of unconditioned hair.
As Dean stepped out of the shower, he caught his own eye in the reflection of the steamed up mirror; He looked old, tired out. He was only around thirty-one, but for all his life he'd never dreamed that his thirties would make him look so decrepit. He had lived a hard life, and he looked it; His eyes were bleak and empty and, thinking back to his discussion with Famine, he found he was disgusted with himself. Unable to retain eye contact with himself, Dean exited the bathroom with an impossibly plush towel wrapped loosely around his hips and started searching for a relatively clean pair of jeans to throw on. He thought vaguely as he pulled them up over his hips that he should take advantage of the services here and do some laundry to tide them over for the next couple of weeks.
Dean's train of thought was cut short by yelling that could be heard from down the hall, near the elevator. It was too quiet, but he could pick out vaguely that whoever was causing the disturbance was being yelled at by security. Sam hadn't grabbed his room key, he noted, as he stared at it where it sat on the knocked-around desk; maybe he was returning. A woman's scream was what really caught his attention, though, and curiosity got the better of him. He dropped the towel from where it was currently being rubbed over his hair and hurried to the door, throwing it open. What he saw storming down the hallway certainly wasn't Sam.
"Sir, you have to stop! Don't make us sedate you!" a rather beaten-looking staff member was limping after the intruder. He was a scrawny little guy, probably only in his early to mid twenties, and didn't look like he could really sedate anyone; certainly not who he was threatening. A group of equally roughed-up security guards came barrelling around the corner, following the trail of blood right passed the woman that had screamed. She was currently standing in the doorway of her room, white fluffy robe wrapped around her and wet, blond hair flying this way and that as she whipped her head around to watch everyone who ran by. Her face was horror struck, and Dean couldn't really blame her.
"What the hell, man?!" Dean found himself growling out, striding forward to meet the tattered angel as he continued forward purposefully; Castiel was completely ignoring the security staff, his blue eyes burning into Dean with so much intensity that it almost made him want to step aside like the rest of the civilians in the hall. Castiel didn't stop until he was directly in front of Dean, staring him down at close range, "What did you do?!"
"They wouldn't let me in to see you, so I used persuasion." Castiel stated hardly, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit. In all of the many times Castiel had made a dramatic entrance, looking as bad-ass as could be, Dean had never seen him enter quite like he had this time: His clothes were tattered and blood stained and his trench coat hung off of him in threads, the bottom hem and the right sleeve missing entirely; His white button up was buttoned haphazardly, the two or three buttons even fastened being in the wrong slots; His pants were more threadbare than an angsty teenager's jeans and his suit-jacket-turned-vest was all but missing. To top the look off, he wasn't even wearing shoes, and the one sock he had on revealed all but one of his toes.
It only took a second for the security guards to catch up, grabbing Castiel's elbows with more force than would seem necessary; apparently, they all knew better the second time around that normal methods wouldn't work. Castiel tensed up, about ready to throw them off with a flick again, but Dean put up a hand and gave him a look before he could follow through with it, "Whoa, whoa guys. Take it easy. He's fine, he's with me."
"Fine?" the woman down the hall practically shrieked at him. Two children were hiding behind her at this point, staring with curiosity. "He looks like he just murdered someone!"
"Let him go." Dean straightened up, staring the security guards in each of their faces as he sized them up. There was about seven or eight of them, not including the regular staff members. Castiel must have done some damage downstairs. "He isn't a threat." He ducked back into his room, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a couple of fake FBI badges, "My name is Alonzo Mosley and you're currently hindering the investigation of my partner, Eddie Moscone." That caught their attention.
Castiel jerked his arm, but Dean could tell he wasn't really putting any effort into trying to get out of their grip. The officers were still suspicious, for good reason, and Dean's face hardened even further, if possible, as he flashed their badges when they started to ask why the guy hadn't said so in the first place. He pushed, "If you don't let my partner go by the time I count to three, I'm going to personally haul you in for the interference of an FBI investigation. It doesn't matter who you are, the law still applies to you and not adhering to a federal agent--" He didn't need to finish: The officers were already letting Castiel go, and Cas rolled his shoulders in apparent annoyance. Dean nodded to the by-standers (a small crowd had gathered) and grasped Castiel by the front of his shirt, yanking him into the hotel room and slamming the door behind him.
As soon as the door was closed, Dean whirled around, turning on Castiel, "What in Whoever's name were you thinking, storming in like that?!" Castiel's response was lacklustre compared to the flare of Dean's irritation: A simple head tilt and a slight furrow of the brow was all he offered for the first few moments.
"They wouldn't let me see you." He finally repeated, "You had not checked in as Dean Winchester, as I knew you wouldn't, so I could not offer a name when I was asked to..." he paused, cringing the slightest bit; he was still bleeding, "...to tell them who I was visiting." He finished.
"How did you even find me?" it occurred to Dean that while Castiel was very obviously a tough little nerd with wings, he was also very limited because of his fading halo.
"Bobby." Castiel rasped, and Dean held out an arm in case he decided to topple over without warning, "Sam called Bobby. I had assumed that his residence would be the... most logical location to begin my search for you as soon as I had regained enough strength, and he informed me that he had spoken..." He huffed again, tired, "Spoken with Sam... thankfully, Sam had happened to mention which hotel you two would checking in to and I could relocate –" Castiel's coughing cut him off, a substantial amount of blood bubbling passed his lips as his knees buckled.
"Whoa. Cool your motor mouth, Cas," Dean instructed gruffly, hooking his elbows underneath Castiel's armpits to hold him up, "You're going to hack up a lung with all the talking you're doing." Dean dragged him carefully over to his bed and laid him out on the royal blue sheets, regardless of the blood that was starting to stain them, "We need to get you patched up, then I can give you a piece of my mind." They could talk about where exactly Castiel had beamed himself after Castiel was out of critical condition.
Dean bent to rummage through the medical bag that he'd shoved in the cubby under the night table and pulled out a few rolls of bandages and antiseptic spray. Castiel continued to stare blankly at the white ceiling, even as Dean sat down next to his hip to pull what was left of his trench coat off, followed by his tattered suit jacket. Next, Dean's fingers fumbled open the three incorrectly fastened buttons. As he slid the shirt open to reveal Castiel's pale chest, he was shocked to see the angel banishing sigil still carved into his flesh. Most of it had healed into scar tissue, but blood was still oozing from a few places. Dean hissed: The further he pushed the shirt off, the more cuts he could see peppered over Castiel's skin. He dumped the bloodied clothes into a heap on the end of the bed and set to work wiping the blood off of his skin with a cloth. The task proved difficult, however. Every time he swiped the cloth over a cut, it would just produce more of the thick fluid. Eventually he narrowed his ministrations to one section at a time, washing down Castiel's torn up arm and wrapping it up before moving on to the other. He saved the midsection for last; He didn't want to force Castiel to sit up, but he knew he would have to.
"Come on now, Cas." Dean grunted encouragingly, sliding an arm under his shoulders to help him sit up; the pained, rasping groan that answered him did nothing to help the situation, especially after he saw the slashes on Cas' back. He wiped them down with extra care to avoid hurting him more than necessary. His frustration with the angel didn't help, however, and he couldn't help but intentionally make him wince a couple of times before wrapping his torso and shoulders, "I'll get you some clothes."
Cas laid back down carefully as soon as Dean stood and went over to his duffel. His clothes would be a bit too big for Cas, but they would have to do. He pulled out the cleanest t-shirt he had, the one he had been planning on wearing, and a pair of comfortable pants. It took longer than normal to change Castiel into them and all that did for his temper was cause it to build. Castiel... What had he been thinking?
"Listen up." Dean started, once Castiel was settled against the headboard, "We need to have a little chat about that shit you pulled back in California." Castiel stared at him silently, his eyes half-lidded and tired. Dean took it as a signal to continue, "I was convinced that you'd gotten yourself turned into angel food cake. You don't think you could have answered your phone while you were pissing around out there, where ever there was?"
"I was resting," Castiel supplied calmly. He kept his voice quiet to humour Dean, but Dean cut him off.
"It doesn't take that much energy to pick up a fuckin' phone and drop me a message. It's simple, Cas, a text message can do wonders." Dean's voice was getting harsher; he knew he shouldn't be so hard on Castiel, but god damn was he pissed.
"I am sorry."
"Don't be so passive, Cas!" Dean's voice rose for the second time that night, his body stiffening as he paced back and forth in front of the bed, "I thought you'd gone and gotten yourself killed. Do you know what that feels like, having someone die for you?!"
"It was a learning experience for the both of us." Castiel's voice was still deadly calm, if not a little weak, and it was just making Dean angrier. How could he be so cool at a time like this? Dean questioned him, and Castiel immediately supplied, "I have learned that I should have more faith in you, Dean. Sam was right..." he paused to cough again, readjusting Dean's pants under his thighs, "You did not say yes to Michael. I apologize."
"And me?" Dean barked, stopping mid-pace, "What did I learn out of this, oh mighty Castiel?"
"You've learned what it feels like to be Sam and I. The rage you are directing at me is similar to the way those around you react to your actions when you jump eagerly into harm's way for your loved ones."
That got Dean boiling, and he wasn't even sure why. All he could do was turn away from Castiel, unable to come up with an appropriate response. Was this really what Sam, Castiel, and all of his friends felt like when he did the right thing? It couldn't have been the same. What he did was the most practical way to get things done; what Castiel had done was just suicide. It was a miracle at all that he had gotten away relatively unharmed. And by that, he meant alive.
It took a few moments of thought, but Dean finally managed to come up with a half assed response, "It wasn't like that, Cas. You were anything but eager when you threw yourself into the flames for me. You were all but willing to get yourself killed because you lost your faith in God, and then you went and lost faith in me. Have a little faith in yourself, for crying out loud!" He turned to meet Castiel's steely eyes. The look Castiel was giving him had turned unreadable, "Did you honestly think that sacrificing your own hide for Adam was the only thing to do in that situation, or were you actually hoping those sons of bitches would off you and put you out of your own damn misery? What about me? Were you actually willing to put your blood on my hands because you were too weak to keep going? I can't live with my hands stained in your blood." His tone was sharp, and the way Castiel's face twisted into a scowl was a telltale sign that he may have touched a nerve.
"It isn't the same thing at all, Dean." Castiel had pushed himself to a wobbly stand. It brought down the intimidation factor, but not by much. The entire room seemed to darken, but it could have been the moon going behind a cloud, "My father abandoned us. He betrayed us all and everything I had ever believed in." His voice had risen for the second time since Dean had met him; that he could really remember, anyhow, "You were all I had left. My family hunts me and my father doesn't want me to find him. You were the only thing I had left to hold on to, and you didn't think I was worth any of it, anyof what we had worked for. You were going to throw it all away even though everyone was depending on you and I couldn't live to see you let me down like that!"
"Oh, really? Didn't think you were worth it?" Dean spat. He stepped forward and noted with pride that Castiel stepped back to keep the distance between them, "Did you even try to see this from my point of view?!" He clenched his fists. He could feel them shaking as he advanced on Castiel, but the angel continued to back up despite the sure, unphased look on his face, "The only reason I was going to say yes to that son of a bitch was to protect you, and Sam, and Bobby and Lisa and Ben and all of the people I haven't killed yet. I'm human, Cas, I can't handle the fate of mankind being thrown at me out of the blue! I'm scared, Cas, I'm scared for all of you, not myself. I've been looking out for everyone I care about all of my life: I can't take care of the world. Not alone!""You selfish little bastard," Castiel's face twisted into a look of physical pain, "You think you're alone in this? What do you think Sam's been doing this whole time? What do you think I gave up everything for?" he paused, his back hitting the window with a slight jostle that made him wince, as his back was still pretty torn up, "I sacrificed everything –"
"Yeah, for me. I got that the first time, seeing as you beat me half to death to get the point across." Dean's open palm came into contact with the window beside Castiel's head; He slammed it forward with so much force that the glass was left vibrating for a few seconds afterwards. Castiel didn't so much as blink. Dean growled, "What I don't understand is why you would be stupid enough to sacrifice everything for me."
"Because," Castiel stared up at him with more defiance than Jimmy's vessel seemed to be able to contain, "I believe in nothing more strongly than I believe in you being the only hope to preserve this planet; to preserve something as precious as human emotion and free will." Castiel still seemed to remain unphased by the heavy admission, "You can preserve people's capability to feel love, something angels were never supposed to feel. Don't take that away from me. Not now."
Something Castiel had said caught Dean's attention. His fingers curled against the glass as he searched Castiel's face for clues. As usual, the angel was revealing nothing, so he persisted, "What do you mean supposed? If you're talking about Anna, I don't think that was love."
"No, I am not talking about Anna, Dean." Castiel's voice turned acidic to make his eyes as they narrowed, flickering as though he was uncertain as to which eye he was supposed to be looking into; Dean's left, or his right.
"Well, then what were you talking about?" Dean licked his suddenly dry lips, continuing his fruitless search for answers. Castiel's eyes flickered downward ever so slightly to follow Dean's tongue, and before his mind could really catch up to what was going on, Castiel's hands were on his arms, flipping him around to hold him against the glass. The chill seeping from the window into the bare skin of his back was a stark contrast to the heat that was starting to spread through the rest of his body. The temperature increased at least a degree with every second that he continued to meet Castiel's intense stare, but he didn't mind the sweat that broke out of over his skin. He found himself thinking that he liked the heat, wanting to feel just how warm Castiel would be pressed up against him.
An odd half grin spread across his face. He could feel Castiel's breath (which was oddly, but also pleasantly, scentless) caressing over his lips and down his neck. It was making the entire situation that much worse, and before he could think too much about it, he found himself chuckling, "So much for being a high-class hotel: I think the air conditioner's broken. Is it just me?"
Castiel, not quite understanding the meaning of a rhetorical question, answered him immediately, "The air conditioner is fine, Dean." Dean was uncomfortably aware of how Castiel was steadily leaning closer, never breaking eye contact.
"Are you sure?" They were sharing breath, by then, and shocking blue eyes that were staring into his green ones were getting hazier.
"I am positive, Dean. I can hear it from the corner. It functions adequately..." Castiel's lips brushed against the corner of Dean's mouth as he spoke, and that was all it took for Dean to tilt ever so slightly to the right to silence Castiel with a kiss. It was slow, and it was obvious from the way Castiel stalled his reaction that the angel didn't really know what to do. Something changed, though, when Dean lifted a hand to coach Castiel with a gentle touch to his jaw line. The angel was a quick learner; Dean supposed he shouldn't be too surprised. After all, Castiel had watched him interact with a fair few women, Anna being one of them, and he was sure he'd been watching him countless times before he'd met him.
It wasn't too long before Castiel pulled away, nipping Dean's bottom lip with an experimental slowness as he did so. The angel's hands had smoothed up his arms to rest on his bare shoulders and he leaned their foreheads together quietly, "Show me."
"Show you what?" Dean's own hands slid down the angel's sides, but he was careful of the bandages concealed underneath the thin tee that Castiel was still wearing.
Castiel's eyes burned into his with a different kind of intensity this time, "Everything." Dean gave him a confused look in response, his thumbs brushing over the angel's newly exposed hip bones, "Show me what I fell for, Dean. Show me the humanity that I'm giving up my grace for."
Dean couldn't help but ask, "Are you sure you want me to do that, Cas?" After all, Dean thought as his fingertips brushed bandage, Castiel was still hurt.
"Weren't you the one who told me that iniquity was just a perk?" Dean couldn't argue with that logic. Hands ran upwards underneath his own shirt, pushing the material off of Castiel carefully. Castiel had enough sense to lift his arms over his head with a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, indicating that the action wasn't the most comfortable. Castiel nodded at his questioning look, however, telling him that it was alright to continue. Dean did just that, mouth dipping down to suck and kiss at his exposed throat; the one part of him that wasn't still mildly injured. His hands slid down into the back of Castiel's (his) jeans and he gave a light squeeze; Dean could feel the falling angel's soft groan vibrate against his lips, and the hot rush of air against his ear just made it that much better.
"Dean," Castiel's voice was barely above a whisper. Dean couldn't take the look Castiel was giving him, and opted to turn them around. He didn't want to hurt Castiel's back, though, and avoided it by turning him around to face the twinkling city lights of the night skyline.
"This." Dean finally murmured into Castiel's ear, even as his hands worked to undo the jeans that were just hanging off of the smaller man's waist, "This is what I'm fighting for. What we're fighting for: the people." Beneath them, a few pedestrians were out enjoying the crisp night air, cars passing on occasion to either get home or pass on through to the next town. It occurred to Dean that pretty well anyone with the bright idea to look up would be able to see the two bodies pressed up against the huge, floor-to-ceiling window, but the thought passed out of his mind as soon as it had entered.
"For us." Castiel finished his sentence and left the statement open for the agreement he was hoping would come. It came, but not in words. Dean's jeans fell from the angel's feet, followed quickly by the ones Dean was wearing himself. Castiel's hand left a print as it pushed against the window, which was steaming up from their body heat as it contrasted against the cool air of the outside. It seemed to fumble around for some sort of purchase before his fingers found the soft satin of the curtains and twined them into a death grip as soon as Dean's hand found the spot that counted. Dean's fingers worked smoothly in contrast to Castiel's as his free hand slid around to grip the back of Dean's thigh, "You."A particularly velvety stroke was all it took for the angel's knees to give. Before Dean could get Castiel's hand away from the curtains, they were already heaped on to the ground and Castiel's foot had slipped back to knock Dean's right out from under him. The curtains broke Dean's fall, but Dean wasn't able to really catch the other body on top of him before it landed on his chest with a painful thump. The echoed grunt from above was minimal, indicating that slowing the bleeding with the bandages had helped in the healing significantly.
"Are you alright?" Dean lowered Castiel off of him, propping himself up to look him over quickly. Castiel nodded, even though his face was twisted into a look of quiet agony. Dean immediately jumped to unravel his bandages and check over Castiel's wounds; He was surprised to find that not only had the wounds gotten better, but they'd stopped bleeding altogether, "Are you sure?"
"It's not that... It hurts." Castiel mumbled out, and by the looks of it, he wasn't entirely coherent. Dean worried for a moment that he'd bumped his head, "Why do humans enjoy this? This is a painful experience. My stomach does not seem to agree with what you are trying to demonstrate..."
"Believe me, Cas," Dean coaxed, a soft smile appearing on his lips, "It's not painful when you do it right. I think you're just embarrassed." Or overly excited. He reached over to pat Castiel's stomach, and Cas stretched out an arm to take his shoulder. Dean and Castiel shared another moment without words (Dean found those oddly creepy. The two of them had a way to speak without words that just creeped him out) before he leaned down to kiss the lightening scar on Castiel's torso.
The rest happened in a hot blur. Dean was on his back, tangled in the satin curtains in a second, and all he could focus on was the way Castiel's body had moulded right on top of his and the way the angel's calloused hands clung desperately to his shoulders for support. Castiel's palm had instinctively searched out the print on Dean's shoulder and another kind of warm tingle spread through him that Dean could only assume could have something to do with what was left of Castiel's grace. The angel atop him was undulating against his front with an elegance that didn't seem human and Dean couldn't help but gasp at the way their heated flesh made contact with every wave and ripple of Castiel's languid form. It was all Dean could do to rock his hips to meet Castiel as he rutted against him, taking what he wanted.
This is taking too long, Dean thought, as his hand slid between their bodies and under Castiel's hips to speed up the process. He shuddered at the small exclamation Castiel sounded, and it was nearly finished right then and there when Dean thought about the noises Cas would make when they went all the way... but it was the angel's first time period, let alone with another man, and he didn't want to scare him off when he was supposed to be showing Castiel that it could feel good. Castiel seemed to be enjoying the stimulation the way he was getting it anyways, and Dean had a feeling that it was because it was something much more than physical for him. Castiel was mumbling and hissing his name into his shoulder like a prayer; like Dean, yes was his everything.
You were the only thing I had left to hold on to. You were going to throw it all away even though everyone was depending on you and I couldn't live to see you let me down like that!In a sense, he supposed, he was Castiel's everything. He was now.
And just as soon as it had started, it was over with a dim flare of light that Dean could have sworn had come from Castiel's skin. He lay sprawled in the satin with Castiel half on top of him; Dean wasn't a cuddly sort of guy, but Castiel certainly seemed the type.
"I understand." Castiel muttered into Dean's neck after a few moments of heavy breathing, finally breaking the quiet of the afterglow. Dean hummed in question and tilted his head to glance at Castiel, but all he got was a face full of the angel's fluffy hair. The angel expanded, "I understand why you humans engage in such physical activities. It narrows the world down to a few square meters."
"Yeah." Dean yawned, "It certainly relieves tension." At least, the women had. This time he knew that it had been so much more than just stress relief. Castiel hummed idly and Dean knew that the rest could go unsaid between them.
"Did I relieve more tension than Anna?"
Dean coughed; he hadn't been expecting that one. Castiel appeared to have just made a joke, albeit a serious one. Dean would have to talk to him about getting a sarcastic voice, "Excuse me?"
Castiel merely repeated his question, but his tone made it sound way too formal for the nature of it, "Was it better than Anna."
"I don't see why you would care –"
"I implore you to answer the question." Castiel's head tilted up to stare straight down at Dean, and the look he was giving the hunter was bewildering.
"Yeah," Dean answered sincerely; Honesty tasted odd on his tongue, "Yeah, it was." Anna was just another girl.
"I was scared." Castiel admitted as he laid his head back down, "It was haunting, but... for a minute, I thought I was losing my grace."
"That's just jizz, Cas..." Dean mumbled sleepily. Castiel asked him another question, but it was muddled in his brain and Dean was already asleep by the time he finished his sentence. With a resigned sigh, Castiel pulled the curtains up higher (they felt rather nice on his skin) and settled in to wait for Dean's four hour minimum to pass.
Sam didn't stop driving around Portland until the clock blinked at him that it was one in the morning. Sam had cooled down considerably in an hour, and even stopped to pick up a late night dinner for them on the way back. The bag of take-out Chinese made the car smell like kung-pao chicken, but Sam knew it would fade and even then, Dean wouldn't mind it if the smell was still there when they went to leave in the morning. The Impala already reeked of cheeseburgers and French fries, anyways.
Sam pulled up to the gate and only then did he realise that he'd left his room key on the desk. He backed over to the side and got out to go into the main lobby. He caught the clerk's eye, "Excuse me, I'm so sorry, ma'am, but I forgot my room key in–"
" Oh, Mr... Young!" her exclamation had caught the attention of a young man behind her that had been nursing a couple of nasty-looking bruises, "Your partner has arrived, they're both up in your room. No need for a key, I'll let you right in so you can continue your investigation." She looked frightened.
Dean, what did you do...?
"Um, okay, thanks." The larger brother followed her out to where his car sat parked and climbed back into the driver's seat while she messed with her keys. She slid one into the operation box and opened the key pad to open the blockade with a code. Sam thanked her as he puttered in to park the Impala and wonder what she had meant when she'd pluralized partner. Maybe Dean had gone out and brought a woman back...?
It hit him about half way up the elevator when he noticed the dried blood on the first six floor buttons, not including the lobby level.
"Dean?" Sam called through the door, "Is Cas back? You need to let me in, I forgot my –" Sam cut himself off when he tried the door handle and noted that the would-be locked door had been left slightly ajar. A flash of panic coursed through his veins at the thought of their guest being a demon, rather than an ex-angel. He drew his gun, complete with rock salt rounds, as quietly as he could manage with his sweaty palms before he nudged the door open cautiously.
The panic worsened when he saw what state the room had been left in. The first thing he noticed was the dim, almost nonexistent light in the room. The lamp was broken, shattered against a wall, and the only reason there was any light at all was because the curtains had been ripped down to let in the moonlight. They'd been left in a lump on the floor. The blue sheets were stained black with blood, and Sam's heart jumped into his throat as if it were trying to figure out whose blood it was. The dark stains dripped all the way back to the door and Sam noted in disgust that he was standing in a rather large puddle of it. He moved slowly in further; the desk was knocked around, misplaced by about two whole feet, and whatever papers had been on it had been jostled off. He pushed his laptop back on it from where it had been teetering on the edge and straightened the now off-kilter television.
Movement caught his eye from the direction of the windows and he immediately turned his gun on the lump of blue satin curtain as it shifted. He crept closer to the rustling heap with the quietest feet he could manage in his hulking size and, counting down from three in his head, aimed his gun with one hand and flipped back the curtains with the other.
A bright blue eye flickered open to stare at him calmly. Sam noted that the bright blue eye belonged to a familiar face: Castiel's face. Then he noted that the familiar face belonged to a familiar body, which was lacking it's familiar clothing. The last thing Sam noticed was the other familiar body that seemed to be laying underneath the first, out cold.
"Jesus Christ, Dean." Sam could do nothing more than drop the curtain back into place. The Chinese food had been dumped on the desk and he did nothing to retrieve it on his way out the door, "I leave you alone for two hours and you deflower an angel." The door slamming did not phase Castiel, nor did the sound of Sam's ranting as it got further away, and he went back to resting with another shrug.
"Really, Dean? An angel?"
"Way to talk about Cas like he isn't even here, Sammy. Besides, you certainly aren't one to criticize."
The arguing was giving him a headache, Castiel decided, as he followed the two brothers into the Denny's that Dean had chosen without any sort of input from any of the other two people he was with. Castiel wasn't particularly insulted by Dean's complete lack of regard for his companions when it came to nourishment, but he had a feeling Sam would be when he realised that there wouldn't be a salad in sight at a Denny's. He wasn't insulted by the way Sam talked about him, either, even though Dean was insisting that it wasn't appropriate at all; Castiel and Sam weren't exactly the best of companions, and he supposed it was payback for the whole your voice is grating comment in Blue Earth, Minnesota.
"Dean, I didn't even know you swung that way!"
"Swung what way?" Castiel finally interjected. Dean turned to talk to the waitress while she booked them in, and Sam turned to stare at Castiel incredulously. The look in Sam's eyes seemed to imply that Castiel wasn't at all intelligent for not knowing the exact meaning of his words, but Castiel persisted.
"Towards men." Sam explained for him. He rolled his eyes at the way Castiel tilted his head, a frown furrowing his brow, "It means you sexually prefer men."
"But I'm not a man." Castiel stated bluntly. Sam rolled his eyes and Dean punched his brother in the shoulder to get him to follow with the waitress, who was apparently ready to seat them. Castiel observed from where he was standing until he was called to follow, which he did obediently.
In all honesty, Castiel was scared that Sam could be right.
Sam waited until the waitress had handed them their menus and walked away to start up his complaining. Even without alcohol's influence, it pulled on Castiel's nerves, "What – Dean, this is all junk!"
"It's not junk, it's meat, Sam: Meat. As humans, we have a reputation for eating it." Dean responded, picking himself out a large meal combo. Sam flipped through with a sour look on his face and finally decided on pancakes and hash browns. The two brothers glanced at Castiel, but before they could ask him if he was going to eat, the waitress had returned with her notepad. Dean ordered the three of them a round of water and then placed their meal orders, insulting Sam's food choices in the process. After that, the three of them sat in a silence that was obviously uncomfortable to everyone but Castiel. It wasn't until their food had been set in front of them that anyone dared to speak again.
"What was it like?" Sam finally broke the ice, much to Dean's disbelief.
"Really, Sam? Really?" It was all the older brother could muster as he munched on a slice of bacon. At least, Castiel thought, he swallowed before he continued, "What kind of question is that?"
"Well, I don't want the details!" Sam said defensively, but the damage had been done and there was no going back, "He's an angel. I was just wondering why your eyes weren't burned out yet or anything."
Castiel graced him with an answer, "I can't leave my vessel, Sam. Even so, I wouldn't do so to engage in such acts with your brother. It would be much akin to trying to copulate with a comet and would be anatomically impossible for –"
"Thank you, Cas, for the biology lesson." Dean cut him off, offering him a piece of bacon. Castiel accepted, turning it over in his fingers with a frown, and Dean sighed, "You eat it, Cas. Like a hamburger."
"This does not appeal to me." Castiel stated, lowering the bacon strip from eye level to switch his gaze to Dean, "I don't think I find this appetizing."
"Come on, Cas," Dean urged, gesturing to him with a lump of hash browns on his fork, "take a bite. There's more to life than deep fried cow parts and smiting things."
Castiel finally complied, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. Finally, he murmured, "I was wrong. I enjoy these more than the burgers." He leaned forward slightly, nearly getting ketchup on Dean's sleeve as he snagged the free side of bacon off of Sam's plate and started to chew it down with a mechanical rhythm.
"Hey –" Sam didn't bother arguing. He didn't know why he'd even started to argue: He hated bacon. He sighed, "Dean?"
"Yeah?" Dean's voice was muffled by the wad of pancakes he had just jammed into his mouth.
"So... you and –"
"Yes, Sam. Yes." More muffling.
"I have to say," Sam said over his breakfast, finally lifting a square of pancakes to his mouth, "I did not –"
"– see that one coming." Chuck Shurley's fingers lifted from the beaten up keyboard they had been flittering over as he let out a relieved sigh. Thankfully, the next part he would write would be about the fight to find Pestilence. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn that the Winchesters were the worst things to happen to him. Day in and out, it was constant visions of two rather butch men slaughtering things Chuck hadn't even wanted to know the existence of, or, more recently, tense scenes of pent up sexual tension and mushy, disgusting looks that his readers would do nothing but complain about if he was ever allowed to start publishing again.
Gospels, Chuck questioned, how were these even gospels? Were angels so cruel that they took enjoyment out of watching his reactions every time Dean stripped naked in front of his mind's eye to have sex with yet another woman?
Or, in this unexpected case, another of his definitely male characters?
"You didn't see what coming?" Becky's voice sounded behind Chuck, seconds before her thin hands found his shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. She was reading over his shoulder again.
"Just – Nothing, Becky. It's dialogue." Chuck answered quickly. He hadn't even had time to jump in surprise before he realised his mistake, his eyes widening. "Becky, it's not anything you'd even be remotely interested in reading, I swear that –"
"I'm interested. Let me read it!" In a blink, Becky had extracted him from his chair and taken his place, scrolling back to the top of the chapter. Chuck took his usual place on the bed to wait for her to finish reading. As usual, he stared up into his grungy wood-panel ceiling with the most disturbing scenes playing through his head before the tell-tale chirp came, "Sam, I thought you were smarter than that! Read the fan fictions!"
"Don't even mention the fan fictions." Chuck rubbed the bridge of his nose, about ready to refill his empty coffee cup.
"But it's true," Becky chimed, "It was practically canon since he first made his entrance. Everyone saw Dean and Castiel coming."
"Not quite in the same light I did." Chuck quipped. He pursed his lips, resolving that yes, maybe today was the day he would bleach his prophet-ism out of his system. With that thought playing in his mind, he went to refill his coffee cup.