Castiel regrets flying.
Since leaving Dean in Lawrence, wide-eyed and flushed in the dark hall of the cinema, he's flown from city to city with a buzzing, anticipatory feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the angel tablet. He feels set alight, breathless and dazed, and as he replays the memory of Dean pressed against him, lips stuttering against his own, he calculates the odds of his capture if he were to fly back.
The risk is, of course, far too great.
During his brief conversation with Dean later that night, cut short by the psychic, Castiel identified the source of the feeling. Found the name for it. It unfurled at his realisation, stronger for his understanding, and while Dean slept on Missouri's sofa, it chased him all over the world.
Now, in every country, in every cinema, he becomes more and more aware of the insistent desire to go back, to keep touching Dean, to keep kissing him. He's sure he'd be able to ignore it, except that suddenly there are couples everywhere. Perhaps they were always there. Castiel isn't sure how he's never noticed them before, but he certainly sees them now, their hands together on shared armrests, thumbs stroking softly, their lips sealed against lovers lips, on cheeks, on necks.
Envy is a new feeling, and as he glares at a woman tucking her girlfriends hair behind her ear before kissing her on the nose, he thinks he could do without it.
He counts himself lucky that his angelic nature still allows him some modicum of self control. Were he human, he expects he'd be having a far more difficult time holding back.
The next day, he expects it to fade into memory, but the feeling only grows. It's an itch unscratched, a nagging plea for now, now, now, and he can't address it, can't seem to stop it. Somehow, each text message he recieves from Dean does nothing but make it worse.
By mid-morning he feels as though he's going to combust, and then, a little after noon, something changes. He still feels the want, but on top of it is the feeling of prayer, Dean's soul curling through the ether to weave into his grace.
It's not a prayer of words, but the subconscious kind, and Dean's soul is a nervous, stuttering thing unlike Castiel has felt since they found eachother in Red Cloud. Something is wrong, something is bothering him, but whatever it is he isn't talking about it. Castiel shouldn't be surprised.
He wants to ask what it is, what happened, but he knows from past experience that trying to force anything out of Dean is the best way to make him avoid the topic with even greater assiduity than before.
So he ignores it. Replies to every message, attempts humor and succeeds more than once. Dean sends him a photograph of the red-haired woman from the pictures on his phone—Charlie, he learns—dramatically sneaking up behind Sam with a gleam in her eye and a pair of hair clippers in her hand, and shortly after, another, considerably blurry photo of Sam chasing her through the bunker.
Through it all, he feels the current of Dean's soul pushing and pulling at his grace in a strange dance of fear and longing; feels his own longing push right back.
At around seven in the evening he lands in a busy cinema in Washington midway through the coming attractions, and realizes with sudden clarity that he has a loophole. The fact that he didn't think of it sooner is appalling. His phone is in his hand without a moments delay, and the dial tone echoes to the high ceiling only once before Dean picks up.
"Cas?"
"Are you doing anything right now?"
"Nope, just finished dinner. Why?"
"If there were a way to resume what we were doing in the cinema—"
"Yes."
Dean's voice is eager, and Castiel feels his face splitting into a smile at the sound of it, warmth pooling low in his stomach.
"Where are you?" Dean asks, "is it far?"
"Seattle."
"The Impala's good, Cas, but she ain't that good."
"I had no idea," Castiel says dryly, and Dean huffs through the phone, "are you at home?"
"You said it was too dangerous for you to come here."
"I know."
"Then how—"
"Go to bed."
"Uh..."
There's a surge in Dean's soul, the fear dissipating briefly to be overwhelmed by want. Castiel feels it from miles away, pressing at his grace. He smiles.
"It wouldn't be the first time I've visited your dreams, Dean."
"My—you're... wait. Do you mean—"
There's the sound of shuffling, footsteps and a closing door, before Dean speaks again in a loud whisper.
"Are you seriously going to drop into my head just to kiss me?"
"That's the general idea, yes. Though I don't think of it as just."
On the other end of the line, Dean clears his throat.
"Won't... I mean, if you're in my head, won't that mean you're here? They could find you, couldn't they?"
"I will remain here. I'll merely be temporarily projecting my concsiousness into yours."
"That's pretty kinky, Cas."
"Go to sleep, Dean."
Dean laughs.
"Yeah, well, that's gonna take a while."
"Why?" he asks with a frown, sounding a little more whiny and complaintive than he'd anticipated, and he almost hears Dean's eye roll.
"What d'you mean, why? You got me thinkin' about Lawrence, and now I'm all..." Dean trails off.
"Aroused?" Castiel supplies.
A woman sitting in the next seat looks over at him with a pinched expression as Dean huffs out a pitiful laugh.
"You make it sound so formal."
"I almost said concupiscent," Castiel tells him with a smirk.
"Jesus."
"Or if you'd prefer I was crude," he adds, lowering his voice to avoid the ire of the woman beside him, "I believe horny is the colloquial term."
"God, stop," Dean half groans, before cutting himself off with a laugh, "where are you even getting this crap?"
"My understanding of linguistics is not a new development, Dean. Just because I'd generally sooner say fornicate than fuck doesn't mean I'm unaware of the words existence."
"Talking like that really isn't helping the situation, Cas."
"You are, then?"
"Obviously," Dean says, voice colored with something that makes Castiel bite down on the inside of his cheek, and after a pause hesitantly adds; "are you?"
"Since Lawrence."
There's a brief pause, and when Dean speaks again he's completely serious.
"I'm going to sleep now."
"See you soon."
It takes four hours, seventeen minutes and thirty-six seconds for Dean to fall asleep, and Castiel has just settled into a seat near the back of a busy Perth cinema when he feels the shift in Dean's soul, feels it slipping down, tumbling into the ether, and he lets himself go.
He finds Dean in a clearing, tall grass swaying as high as his waist in the warm sun, and he's walking fast toward the treeline, anxiously looking around as if he's lost something.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean turns on his heel, and it seems to take a few seconds for him to realize, to remember that this is a dream. When he does, Castiel sees it in the way his face shifts.
"I was looking for you," Dean says, gesturing around, "forgot it was a dream, but I was looking anyway."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Dean's mouth ticks up at one side as he walks toward him, skimming fingertips through the seeds.
"Did I take long?" Dean asks, "felt like I was lying there for hours."
"It's a little after eleven. You fell asleep less than a second ago."
"Hate to break it to you, Cas, but I think your internal clock is busted."
"Time doesn't work the same in dreams. Out there it's been a tenth of a second since you lost consciousness."
Coming to a stop a few feet in front of him, Dean's brows raise.
"Really?"
Castiel nods, and turns his head to listen to the sound of running water nearby. Reaching out, he takes hold of Dean's hand, ignoring the embarrassed expression on his face and pulling him toward the source.
"You taking me to makeout point, Cas?"
Castiel has no idea if makeout point is a real place, but he can guess it's function. He looks levelly at Dean, still walking, and squeezes his hand.
"Yes."
It does the trick; Dean's wisecracking grin is immediately replaced by a kind of stunned wonder, lips parting around a silent oh, and Castiel smirks.
The water isn't far, though whether it's because it was like that before or because Dean wanted to get there faster, Castiel can't be sure. They step into the treeline, then back out, and at once the sun is setting.
A stream curves through the trees, leading to a cascading fall, and below in the valley thousands of lights blink on in the dusk. When he glances over at Dean, Castiel sees his ears have turned red, a deep blush creeping down his neck, and he can't help but stop walking, pulling Dean toward him as he turns to press his lips to that warm skin.
"I guess my subconscious is a romantic idiot," Dean whispers into his hair, and Castiel smiles against him, pressing a kiss to the line of his jaw before pulling back to look at him.
"It's nice," he says, relishing the way Dean ducks his head, "and surely you realize it's not just your subconscious. I'm fairly certain you've always been a romantic."
"Shuddup," Dean mutters, but he's grinning, and Castiel catches his hand again as they walk along the stream to settle at the end, looking out over the valley.
The air smells of summer, of warm earth and fresh water, and sitting side by side on soft grass at the waters edge, Castiel looks down at their still linked hands. Their fingers are woven together, warm, and Castiel runs his thumb over Dean's the way he'd wanted to earlier. Something in the gesture makes Dean look back at him, blinking slow, lazily, and his free hand moves to Castiel's face, stroking below his ear as he leans in to kiss him again.
The sound Dean makes, a soft exhalation, makes Castiel's limbs weak and heavy, and he all but drags him down as he falls back. Looking up at Dean, braced over him on one elbow, almost a silhouette against the swirling gold and pink of the sky, Castiel is more aware of the heart in his chest than he's ever been.
When Dean leans down, each pulse pumps hard, and it carries the love he feels through his veins, to his hands, his lips, his fingertips. He presses it into Dean's skin with fervor.
Dean pulls at his hand, letting it settle at his hip as Castiel leans upward, then slides his own hands under Castiel's coat to skim over his waist, around his back to pull him closer. Soon, Castiel is kneeling over him, trailing fingers through his hair as he pushes him down, one leg hooked between Dean's thighs as he moves on instinct. The first roll of his hips takes them both by surprise; the second, even more. The low current of pleasure rolls through him like ripples on a lake, out and out and out from the center, and with his eyes closed he lets out a quiet, involuntary moan against Dean's open mouth.
He does it again, and Dean's hands close over his shoulders, pushing him back, up, away.
"Wait, wait, " Dean breathes, voice thick, thumbs rubbing soft through Castiel's coat, "just... fuck. I can't believe I'm saying this, but... we should... I don't—this isn't real, Cas. I want it to be real."
"You want to stop?"
"No. This," Dean says, leaning up to kiss him soft, "is okay. More than okay. But anything else, I think... I don't want it to be a dream. I want it to—"
Somewhere far away, an insistent thump, thump, thump is echoing, and Dean turns his face toward it in confusion.
"What's that noise?"
"You're waking," Castiel tells him, turning his face back, "just let me—one more."
Castiel kisses him deep, pressing him down in the grass as the world around them flickers and fades. He doesn't stop until the last possible moment, and then he sucks in a deep breath, fully within his vessel, his conciousness and his grace whole again in the cinema in Perth.
He looks around at the people still watching the film intently, none the wiser that the man in the tan coat had been on another plane of existence for the past fifty-two seconds. He's glad that none of them noticed the vacant look in his eyes. It would have been awkward to explain once he returned, and he'd rather not make a habit of disappearing while large crowds are watching him. It would make staying off the radar considerably more difficult, for one thing.
Letting out a contented sigh, he rolls his neck, still feeling the phantom touch of Dean's hands on him, and he flies to Brussels, to Quebec, to Hong Kong. When he lands in a theater in Queens fourteen seconds later, he smells blood before his wings have even settled.
It's everywhere, soaked into thick maroon carpet, running down the glass window of the projector room. The beam slices through it, casting a terrible sunset haze over the screen where a twenty-foot couple kiss in black and white.
In the front row there's a man and woman in their fifties, dressed in their Sunday best; he's hunched forward and bleeding into the popcorn. She's staring blankly up at the screen, mouth slack, eyes empty but for the love scene reflected.
This happened while he was with Dean, he realizes. Castiel's stomach turns. The tablet pulses hot.
When he looks away, eyes scanning over the other victims—thirty-four of them, he counts—he sees Esper and Ion standing on the stairs.
Castiel flexes his wings to fly, but they're ready. Within a millisecond, he feels the cold press of Ion's blade at his throat, and the tablet shudders, shaking at his core.
"Don't bother," Esper says, stepping down to his level, "you'll never—"
Before he can finish, Castiel takes hold of Ion's wrist, twisting the blade out of his grip, and in one swift movement he turns to bring the blade down to bury in his brothers side. Ion's eyes light up as he falls, wings scorching, the acrid smell of burnt feathers mingling with blood.
Castiel pushes down the guilt threatening to resurface. This isn't like the other times, he tells himself.
Pulling the blade free, he turns back to face Esper, backing away up the stairs.
"You killed these people?" he asks, stepping forward, and Esper raises his hands in prostration.
"Brother—"
"Why?"
Esper's eyes flicker over the bodies, splayed in the theater seats, before coming back to settle on Castiel. He lifts his chin in defiance.
"We did what we had to do."
"They were innocents, Esper."
"And they will be rewarded in Heaven for their sacrifice," a sharp voice cuts through the theater, "which is more than I can say for you."
Naomi's heels make a wet, tacky sound as she walks across the blood-drenched carpet, watching Castiel with an expression that seems to suggest she's won. The tablet is burning, and as Naomi advances, he braces for the fight that's coming and decides that if this is indeed is last night on Earth, he's happy he spent it with Dean.