Supernatural and its associated characters belong to Eric Kripke (who should be reported for abuse and have his mind-children turned over to me!)
Author's Note: My little space markers STILL aren't working, but I've found a solution.
WARNING: There's Dean/Cas. Real Dean/Cas. Also, I was in a strange place when I wrote this, so it's a little trippy.
AND WHO CAN BELIEVE THE BADASSNESS OF CAS THIS SEASON? Not me, that's for DARN sure! I mean...damn. He's just...damn.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Dean wakes up in the panic room.
For a moment he thinks he's back in his grave, the one Castiel let him crawl out of alone, with dirt and blood jammed under his fingernails and skin that felt too fresh, too sensitive. He realizes his mistake quickly enough; light pours in through that pentacle-fan grille Bobby installed and damn they need to get that guy a girlfriend. Preferably of the hunter persuasion...maybe Ellen? He'd always thought they liked each other, in that strange old-person way that was more like schoolyard dating than any sort of grown-up 'let's have sex and get married and buy a Golden Retriever' thing. And they're pretty much his parents anyway...
"Dean," Sam's voice echoes in the circular room, and it's the wrong acoustics for a pine box six feet under, so he's decidedly, one hundred percent, not in his grave then. Good to know. "How are you feeling?"
Dean thinks about saying, "Dead, thanks. And you?" But he doesn't, because that would make Sam unhappy.
"Did we get the shrimp?" he asks, and it's not as witty as what he was planning on saying but it doesn't make Sam cry either.
"Bobby did." Sam shuffles into view; Dean realizes he's flat on his back, on that uncomfortable cot he and Bobby had to strap Sam to when he was all hyped up on Vitamin Bitch. He's just glad they didn't handcuff him, or put the damn thing inside the Devil's trap on steroids. "We're officially kicked out of the Wal-Mart."
"Cheap Wal-Mart knockoff," Dean grumbles, but he feels a little bit guilty because he knows Sam likes the bargain electronics. Just because Dean's never leaving Bobby's house again doesn't mean he has to get his and Sam's faces pasted on Wanted posters outside every store within a hundred mile radius. "Sorry, man."
"That guy was an asshat." And seriously, asshat? They're not teenage girls...or gay teenage boys, for that matter, even if Dean was always a little iffy as to what exactly Sam and Howard Brennen were doing locked up in the bedroom for hours on end. "He got what he deserved."
"His Rocky Road all over the floor? I think that's more of a janitorial-"
"Cas kicked his ass for you." Sam says, and there's something in his voice that makes Dean blink. He sits up and gets a pounding headache and one of the scars pulls weirdly on the skin of his back, but he manages to do it, looks Sam squarely in the face (the guy's sitting down for once). There's a little smile at the corner of Sam's mouth, a twinkle in his eyes that Dean only sees when he's got his hand super-glued to a beer bottle or when the hot sci-fi slave girl he's chasing down the streets of San Diego turns out to be a guy named Roger dressed up as a sci-fi slave girl.
"Remind me never to piss off the nerd angels," he says, testing the waters. Sam full out grins.
"Man, the nerd angels love you."
Dean's running that through his Older Brother ScanTron when Castiel shows up, popping into the panic room he was certain they'd angel-proofed after their first disastrous meeting. His hair is ruffled, more unkempt than usual and Dean thinks he might even look a little dirty, possibly like he spent the night on a park bench in New York. The soft blue eyes Dean's always thought were pretty in his own heterosexual way are streaked with red lightning, pained and focused intently on Dean's face (he hasn't shaved in two nights, so it's probably looking a little rough too).
"Sam, could you-"
"Going." Sam winks at Dean; Dean's still a little out of it; he can't quite grasp the point of the wink. He just props himself up against the wall, which feels like it's got salt and iron shavings mixed up in it. He's still mildly irritated with Castiel at this point, but has personally and privately reconciled with him now the angel's beat up a store employee. Check that off the guy's bucket list.
"Hit it," Dean says. "I'm listening."
Castiel nods and sits on the edge of the cot, close enough that Dean can see him trembling but far enough away that they're managing to not touch. At all. In a not-even-the-hem-of-his-trenchcoat-is-within accidental-touching distance kind of close-far way. It is at this moment, still suspended between the belief that he's just crawled out of his coffin all hypersensitive and weak and the reality of sitting in Bobby's panic room against his very uncomfortable wall, that Dean realizes he'd rather like to be kissing Castiel. Or smelling him.
"Dean." Castiel's using his 'Heaven hath a mission for thee, insignificant mortal' voice, which doesn't bode very well for Dean's hope that they'll be kissing (or smelling) each other by the end of this conversation and damn, he's never letting Castiel mind whammy him again. It puts him in a weird headspace; he might as well smoke pot. Pot might even be healthier, for Christ's sake. "Dean Winchester."
"Cas." He's thinking about leaning in and kissing him just to wipe away that awkward, Dear God Don't Reject my Romantic Advances Miss Elizabeth Bennett look. And also, does Sam still have that bootleg copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' in his duffel? Castiel smiles faintly, and for the first time Dean wonders if he can hear his thoughts. Wouldn't that be awkward.
"I can," Castiel says, answering Dean's unpunctuated question to his inner consciousness, and before Dean can blink or say something like Your mom can, Castiel swoops in and kisses him. He's taken lessons since the first time, because he's not so much pushing the lower half of his face against Dean's face; he's actually kissing him, in a man on angel, Rose to your Jack (with Dean playing the part of Jack, thank you very much) kind of way. For a moment the only sound in the room is Dean and Castiel's nose-breathing, the slick separation of their mouths when they shift and part and find out how to not bump their noses or bite each other.
"Huh," Dean says and he leans forward and gives Castiel a nice solid sniff, just because he can; the angel smells like chocolate and snow and something deliciously botanical, and he thinks they should make a perfume for men that smells like Castiel. Castiel for Men; will most definitely increase your ability to mate.
"You're beautiful," Castiel says firmly, placing the pads of his fingers against the side of Dean's neck. There's a wide, jagged scar there where Lucifer cut his throat, and Dean faintly remembers being trapped in the back of his head while Michael tried to scream and all the air fizzled and slipped away before it reached his mouth... he recoils. Cas shouldn't be touching him. Nobody should be touching him. What the hell had he been thinking?
"Stop that." The fingers on Dean's neck skate up into his hair, which is thicker and longer than it's been since Dean was a kid, enabling Castiel to get a firm grip and hold him in place. He squirms, suddenly made uncomfortable by Castiel's proximity and power and dear God where's Interrupting Sam when he needs him? Trying to scoot away from an Angel of the Lord is like trying to swim a mile with a twenty pound anchor tied to his ankle; it's impossible, can't be done.
"Cas-"
"I don't care about the scars," Castiel says. "You had them before you went to Hell and you never wanted for-"
"I wasn't this fucked up."
The angel frowns, frees one of his hands from Dean's hair and places it on his shoulder, over the wide swath of scar tissue that had once been Castiel's handprint; Dean wonders if it hurts him, the absence of the brand. He wonders if Lucifer knew.
"You are still mine." Castiel's voice is soft and low, the faraway rumble of a freight train winding up scrubby mountains, raising goosebumps on Dean's skin. "No matter what you've done, or what has been done to you."
"Christ," Dean says. "Way to lay it on thick."
Castiel blinks patiently at him and doesn't go on talking, doesn't spout any more earth-shattering lines about owning Dean; still, the words are almost preferable to the rigid, electric silence after them. Dean wonders if he should say something clever, something that puts a decisive end to whatever it is Castiel thinks he's going to get here (which is nothing). He wonders if he should pretend to fall asleep like he used to when he and Sam were fighting in the back of the car and Dad threatened them with an ass-kicking. It used to drive the poor kid nuts; he always ended up with a foot-shaped bruise on his scrawny behind because he'd been screaming at his abnormally passive older brother. I know you're awake! Faker!
"I'm not Sam," Castiel says.
He tips forward, officially violating Dean's space, which Dean wouldn't usually mind because Castiel's a social retard and things like personal bubbles don't mean much to him, but suffice it to say he does now Castiel's decided to develop a big gay man-crush on him. Damn it why does he have to smell so nice? It's gotta be some sort of angelic perk... the corner of Castiel's mouth twitches and Dean, offended, thinks maybe he's laughing at him. Hahaha, Dean and his crippling homophobia/self-esteem issues. Laugh it up, Wingnut. See if you get one piece of this sweet ass now.
"Why are you making this so difficult?" Castiel breathes into the soft, vulnerable space between the hunter's neck and his shoulder, the faded khaki of his trenchcoat almost completely obscuring Dean's vision and Dean remembers the odd moment when he existed in two places at once. He'd been able to see his body stretched across the sofa, bloody and beaten all to hell, but at the same time he'd seen Castiel, holding Dean's soul in the palm of what passed for a hand; angels aren't what he thought they would be, all razor edges and swirls like the inside of a celestial lava lamp instead of white robes and Birkenstocks. He could see Castiel's eyes, still the same shade of indescribable blue, and the thin, soft filaments of his wings, the strange beat-twist of something that might have been his heart, but everything else had been up for interpretation. This feels the same way; like Castiel's standing in the panic room, vessel-free and exposed with his wings taking up all the space and he's holding Dean's soul between Heaven and Earth.
"I'm not," Dean says softly. "I don't mean to."
Hush, little one. You are safe.
"I know," Castiel replies; he kisses Dean's cheek, the ridge of bone beneath his eye, and he thinks maybe that could be enough. A nice, warm angel sitting in the passenger seat, Sam's legs jammed up in the back and the computer screen glowing as he flips through endless Word documents on exorcisms and lamias and God knows what else. Bobby only a phone call or a long drive away, Ellen and Jo on speed-dial...
"It's perfect," Castiel says.
"Really? I thought it was heavenly."
His quip earns him a still, irritated pause.
"Even I know that was a bad joke."
Dean Winchester...this is your life.
I'm not quite sure if this is the end or not...a shoutout to all my dedicated readers/reviewers! I love you all. Thanks for sticking with it! :)
Te gusta? No te gusta? Review please!