A/N: This chapter includes dark images, angst, mentions of suicide, illness, violence, and some sex, not necessarily in that order. More notes at the end.
Castiel dreams—of a dock. He sits at the very edge, bare feet dangling in the clear green water; small silver fish dart around his toes. He tips his face towards the sun and sighs in contentment, fanning his wings wide to catch the rays. The light refracts into a multitude of colors, prisms of radiant energy, reflected and reflecting. Kaleidoscopic patters of luminosity and life cascade over the water and the sky. He is infinitely and intricately connected with the universe.
Castiel is completely at peace here—sensing the distant murmurs of his siblings, feeling tangentially connected to the Host, to the earth, to the cosmos. Then, suddenly, he becomes aware of a presence much closer. He blinks his eyes open in surprise and turns back to the shoreline where a child is running towards him. Her tousled dark hair and white tunic flap in the breeze, sandals slapping against the dock; she smiles, green eyes luminescent as she careens towards him. What draws Castiel's attention most is the girl's resplendent grace, vibrant and glowing—manifest in wings that catch the air, flapping and fanning in excitement as she runs.
Castiel's wings are made of fire and ice and fury and purpose. They are beyond human comprehension, an expression of the divine. Yet grace has a signature, for not all angels appear the same. Anna's grace was the burnished heat of a blazing fire; warm and consuming, passion and wrath and earnestness; Uriel's the force of a winter wind; icy, biting, and sharp, directed in its path and intent on its purpose. Castiel's grace or his wings have been described as something akin to a storm at sea, tossing waves and skies in green and purple, thunder and lightning and a humbling sense of awe at the complexity of the universe. This child's grace, her wings, is bright, dappled summer sunlight, streaming through leaves; gold and green; light and shade, the combination of earth and sky, rooting and reaching.
Her grace reaches for Castiel, even as she sprints, just as her arms do—and, without conscious effort, Castiel is on his feet scooping this bundle of life and energy into his arms. Her arms clasp around his neck, her legs wrap around his waist, and her wings, her glorious wings, press against his chest and further, holding fast to his true form. Castiel embraces her, holds her in a human hug, even as his wings envelop her completely, gently brushing against hers. The caress is pure and unadulterated love—the sensation steals the very air form his chest as it ripples through him, rocking him to his very core—overwhelming in its effortlessness.
She nuzzles into his shoulder and then pulls back enough that he can see a missing tooth in her grin and a spark of familiar mischief in her twinkling eyes.
"Pãe," she says, "Vamos."
He sets her down and she takes his hand, leading him along with a skip to her step—chattering in a steady stream, in English, Enochian, Italian, Swedish, and Swahili—wings flaring and fanning as she speaks. Castiel can't help but brush his wings against hers, affection in every touch. The contact is sweet, and he can sense her joyous excitement. When he traces a finger against one of her secondary feathers, made of pure sunlight, she squirms and giggles as if ticklish, and Castiel smiles—his own elation radiating through this child's grace and back in a feedback loop of happiness.
Her hand is warm in his as she leads him up wooded path to a house that Castiel knows well, with a figure waiting on the porch that he knows even better.
Dean grins bright and unaffected when he catches sight of them.
"What took you so long?" He shoots Castiel a wink as he kneels down to accept an exuberant hug from the girl, who has relinquished Cas and turned to Dean with a cry of "Daddy." The warmth that he loses at the contact blooms anew in his chest when he watches the two interact.
"Hey, baby," Dean kisses the top of her head. Castiel sees her wings wrap tight to Dean, and the unfettered affection shining in her grace. Dean's soul glows with the same sentiment—it is the gleam that his soul takes on when he embraces or speaks of Sam, but ever stronger here, multiplied infinitesimally—The resemblance between Dean's soul and the girl's grace is uncanny, as stark at their identical smiles, and it is that moment that Castiel realizes (or remembers?) that this child is their child—his and Dean's, and he is flummoxed by the awareness.
"Why don't you go and see if your sister's up, squirt?" He suggests, placing the girl on the ground and ruffling her hair playfully. She races inside, and Dean watches her for a moment, soft smile playing across his mouth, before turning to Castiel with a look that renders the angel completely speechless.
Dean comes closer, invading Castiel's personal space in a way that would have been considered extremely prohibitive in the past, but must no longer fall into that category, because the movement has the ease of comfort and familiarity. He rests one hand on Castiel's hip, while the other cradles his jaw, and, with a small smile that is for Castiel alone, Dean leans forward and presses their lips together.
It is brief and gentle, the barest touch of their mouths, but the love that radiates between them—history, devotion, possessiveness, pride, trust—the feelings spiral out of Dean's soul in a wave that makes Castiel's grace flare like a supernova.
Dean must feel that sensation on some level because he gins into Castiel's mouth and nips softly at his lower lip before pulling back and resting his forehead against Castiel's—I love you, it seems to profess.
Castiel hears their daughter call them, and Dean rolls his eyes as if to say, "Duty calls," before winking with the promise of later. He turns towards her voice and jogs up the front steps of the house.
"C'mon, Cas," he beckons.
Castiel gladly moves to follow—eager to rejoin his mate, for surely Dean is nothing else (how could Castiel have ever forgotten such a thing?), and their children, these beautiful fledglings, but, even as he steps towards the house, the house seems to step backward, become more distant.
"Dean," Castiel calls.
"C'mon, Cas," Dean chides, voice muffled by the walls.
Castiel begins to feel something akin to panic. He needs to reach his family—he must—they aren't too far. He can hear them—the young girl speaking excitedly, Dean laughing, an infant's gurgling cry, Dean's soothing hum, a younger voice singing in accompaniment, a baby's respondent giggle,—surely they must be close. But the house is dissolving—he can feel the warmth of soul and grace dim, growing fainter.
"Dean!" he shouts, urgently, desperately, but there is no reply. Castiel is lost and alone in consuming darkness.
"Dean!" Castiel wakes, dazed and disoriented, with a feeling of desolation in his chest, an empty, aching wound. He puts his hand against his rapidly beating heart from which the sensation seems to originate.
Dean, the real Dean, is hovering close by, hand ghosting across Cas' forehead, no doubt roused from fitful slumber by Castiel's cries.
"Cas?" he says, and Castiel gets the impression that he's been invoking his name for quite some time, in an attempt to gain recognition and awareness.
"Dean?" Castiel squints at his form in the darkness, shying away from his touch, though he wants, more than anything else, to lean into it.
"You were shouting," he says by way of explanation, trying to hide something—disappointment, frustration—as he gives Castiel the space that he needs but doesn't want. Why must this all be so confusing?
There are tears on Castiel's face, which he does not realize until Dean hands him a cloth with which to wipe them away. For all the world, Dean looks as if he'd like nothing more than to do it for him, but he struggles to maintain his distance and composure, hands fisted and arms crossed.
With Dena sitting so close, but still too far, the memory of his touch, the brush of lips to lips, of soul to grace haunts Castiel. Sensations that he will never know in the waking world—along with the healing joy of a child's love—their child's. Castiel should not want this, has no right to want this, hates the human proclivity for longing for the unattainable, a consuming and overwhelming desire for something unreachable that he did not even know he possessed.
He does not tell Dean what he dreamt of, but he recognizes the feeling in his chest as bereavement, nostalgia, saudade—an ache for something lost that never was and never can be. He curses the torment of his condition, curses his own mind for seeking to undo him, and he does not sleep again that night, preoccupied by impossibilities, curled into himself and away from Dean in the darkness.
Castiel dreams—of death. Of Dean's of Sam's; of Gabriel's and Bobby's; of Anna's and Uriel's. He dreams of all the deaths that he's witnessed while stationed on Earth. Sometimes he is the observer in these dreams, but sometimes, instead, he is the one dying…
He is a woman fleeing the ash raining over Pompeii, tripping and falling, even as the volcanic heat clogs his lungs and incinerates his body. He is a young soldier on the field of Waterloo, bayonet lodged in his ribs, the young Englishmen he had slain, lies face down in the mud beside him, choking on blood, while Castiel wishes for oblivion, fingers clutching his spilled guts weakly. He dies of dysentery on a slave ship in the Atlantic passage, rot, and feces and death thick in his nose—wails of despair on his lips and in his ears. He is a small child, clinging to his mother's dress weakly as he struggles to breathe; pneumonia claims him as her tears fall on his face. He dies of AIDS, ostracized from society, abandoned by his partner, in pain in a hospital room, utterly alone. He dies in car accident, scraped and raw, his sister in the passenger seat, begging him to hold on just a little longer; the ambulance is on its way, she is crying, and Castiel feels such regret for leaving her. He dies in battles, his brothers in arms by his side. He dies in wars, raped and abandoned. He is struck by lightning, and dies of dehydration in a ship wreck. Castiel dies in every way imaginable.
He had wondered when he fell how it was that a human brain would process all that he had witnessed, all that he had seen, and he thinks, every time he recovers from these nightmares that this is how. His mind reconciles angelic memories with human perception and the result is agonizing; draining, scarring. It leaves him wrecked, sobbing, aching, and regretful for his own lack of intercession.
Castiel overhears Sam and Dean arguing about possible medications to help him get through the night because he is exhausted and so are they. But he rejects that plan. He does not want to dull this pain. He can't. Sam agrees somewhat begrudgingly. Dean jerks his chin sharply with something like sorrow and relief in his eyes.
Castiel dreams—of hell. The Righteous Man awaits him. Castiel has fought legions of the damned, has lost brothers and sisters in their siege of this accursed and unholy place.
Castiel has sustained injuries, though thankfully none are fatal, and their ache is dull in the face of his anticipation, the truth of his purpose. For the task has fallen to him, amongst all the angels of the Host, to save this soul from perdition, and here he is at last, in the very bowels of the inferno, his mission almost completed.
The cavern walls gleam dark and wet. The stench of blood and decay rests cloyingly in the air. The clash of blades; the heavenly host and the demons of hell locked in combat, echoes behind him as he makes his way forward. He's so close.
He can hear the screams of a soul in agony, and Castiel becomes aware, with vicious certainty who wields the blade. He rounds the corner…
Castiel knows, on some level, how this story plays out. He's done it before. He will enter the chamber and the blackness that covers the Righteous Man will cringe away from Castiel's holy grace. The brilliant light of Dean's soul will reach towards the angel, seeking warmth and shelter, forgiveness and benediction. His implement of torture will drop from his bloodied fingers and he will fall to his knees before Castiel's divinity—in fear and supplication. Castiel will take Dean's soul, battered, and beaten, but Dean once again, into his grace, will hold him tightly, lovingly, in the very heart of himself, and cleanse him with healing light, wiping away the tarnish of hell to allow his natural glory to shine free. Sheltering him thusly, cradling him within a protective luminosity, Castiel will take him from the cursed place, onwards to his deliverance, to a body that Castiel will remake and a destiny long foretold. Castiel will do this, even as Dean's soul clings to Castiel, and Castiel's grace wraps him close with something akin to awe and affection.
He knows how this story goes because he has lived it, but…that is not what happens…
Castiel enters the chamber, and Dean turns, but…this is not Dean. There is a demented grin plastered on his face, the leer of a soul twisted almost beyond recognition. His eyes flash black, dangerous, greedy, devoid of all kindness or feeling, filled instead with cruelty and eager at prospect of inflicting pain.
"Dean," Castiel proclaims, voice echoing dully in the cavern.
"Well, well," Dean hisses; tone sharper than Castiel has ever heard it, malicious, cold, and slightly deranged. Tilting his head wickedly to the side, he abandons the still screaming soul, weeping pitifully on the rack, ignoring its pain in the pursuit of fresh amusement and torment.
"Little birdy fell from the sky," he cants in a macabre parody of a voice that has soothed Castiel's aches and fears. Now that voice is keen with dark expectancy, knife flashing between his clawed, gory fingers, anticipation to slice and dice and maim.
Castiel is suddenly afraid. He backs away from the feral creature before him, the demonic eyes bright and void; his stomach roils in protest at the wrongness of this image.
"Poor little birdy," Dean hums, circling him predatorily, intent on the kill, but, first, before death, Castiel will know pain, that much is certain; he will know pain and fear and agony; he will beg for death before it is through, and Dean will laugh and refuse him, and begin all over again, until Castiel goes mad with it. Castiel realizes beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is disconnected from the Host, cut off from Heaven—he is alone save for Dean, a Dean who is not Dean, not Castiel's Dean.
"You've fallen far from the nest, little birdy," Dean leers; he has Castiel backed into a corner. It's as if he can smell fear and rejoices in the aroma; the weeping woman moans piteously behind them. Dean twists a hand, and she screams and then chokes on her own blood, gagging and raw; Dean sneers all the more brightly; he has ripped out her tongue; Castiel's skin erupts in chills that sweep through him, his hair stands on end, "and now you can't fly."
"Dean," Castiel's voice trembles, catching on the bile rising in his throat. Dean circles closer and closer, licking his lips with a forked tongue, fire, and blood reflecting in obsidian eyes and the blade he carries.
He chuckles darkly, spitefully, and sobers with a smile cold as ice, "Dean's gone, little birdy," he mocks, "Long gone…You came too late. It's just you and me, now," he is in Castiel's personal space, languid as a snake about to strike. Castiel is tense and withholding, this is not as it should be. Dean strokes Castiel's face gently with one hand, but the gesture is devoid of affection, made only to confuse and torture Castiel, "Wanna play, little birdy?"
Dean would never hurt him, he thinks even as he struggles to get away, but this creature is not Dean. Dean is lost as the blackness swallows what's left of his soul.
As Dean makes his first cut, Castiel screams in anguish, and Dean laughs in triumphant pleasure
He wakes screaming, grasping his sheets tightly, as if to rend them in two. Dean and Sam come barging into his room not a moment later and Castiel recoils in nascent terror from Dean, pressing his back to the wall and hissing in agony. Dean looks as wounded as Castiel feels. Sam takes immediate stock of the situation and forces Dean out of the room amid voracious protests. They have a hushed argument that Castiel is not meant to hear but is privy to none the less.
"Go back to bed."
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Dean…"
"Fuck you if you think I'm gonna ditch him."
Sighs. "Then go downstairs and wait for us there. Make some tea or something."
"I'm not fucking Mary Poppins, Sam!"
"No, but Cas is freaked out and you're making him more freaked out, so give us a minute or two for him to calm down."
Dean glares fiercely at his brother, his eyes thankfully a human green; he shoots a more compassionate almost longing look at Castiel before reluctantly leaving.
It is Sam who sits with him that night. And, strangely, it is Sam in whom Castiel confides his nightmare. It is Sam who listens kindly and carefully, who reassures him that, however much it might not feel like it, it was just a dream. Nightmares are meant to feel tangible, they are meant to prey on our deepest fears, but they are not real. Castiel thinks this might be what it is like to have a true brother.
When they amble down the stairs some minutes later, Castiel clutching the railing for support, Dean is waiting in the grey pre-dawn light with mugs of tea for all three of them and worry writ large on his face.
His soul shines in the concern on his face and the urgency of his fingers, the leg that jogs impatiently where he sits, and Castiel is reassured, relieved. He wants to wrap Dean in his arms and bury his face against his neck and just breathe there; the urge is overwhelming and all consuming, but he solemnly accepts his tea instead.
"Everything okay?" Dean's voice is raw, his eyes wide with empathy and concern.
"Yes," Castiel replies.
"Good, tea," Sam remarks.
"Shut up."
Castiel dreams—most often of falling. He relives his fall in brutal detail. Wings incinerating, grace ripping through newly made flesh. A moment of pure creation and cataclysmic destruction with Castiel—everything he is, everything he was, everything he is becoming—at the epicenter of the blast.
It is pain beyond knowing and Castiel, in between angel and human, has no voice to scream, though he tries, oh, how he tries. That which has always been Castiel, his true self, it burns the flesh meant to encase his new soul. He is destroying himself, transforming, birth and death and infinite agonies ricocheting through him.
The setting of this dream varies, but the pain doesn't. More often than not, he is flying, peaceful and serene, when he remembers his fall, and it is recreated anew. A perilous plummet from the heavens, a death-defying distance to the earth, he careens downward even as he burns. He often hears Dean or Sam calling for him; or, rather, knowing in the heart of him that they need his help, that he must save them, but he cannot even save himself, and he realizes that he will never reach them in time. It is his last rational thought before he is consumed with pain.
His wings—the manifestation of his grace, even when taking a vessel—these are what hurt the most. The memory and rightness of them, and then the horrible wrongness as they are cleaved from him, aflame and igniting his skin, his soul, even as he plunges.
The pain does not leave when he wakes, gasping for air, screaming until he is hoarse, and, on those nights, he does not shy from Dean, but, rather, reaches for him, grasping his arm enough to bruise, grounding himself. His back aches and phantasmagorical appendages burn and there is no way to sooth the physical and psychosomatic injuries. So Dean will brush his hand against Castiel's forehead and sing softly in the darkness until he is calm enough to breathe again. Until the memory fades softly to the background of his mind, delayed in its encompassing pursuit of his undoing. He watches Dean's repeated motion, listens to his voice crack over the words, slightly off key, but there is kindness in the gesture, affection, and Castiel allows it to lull him back to sleep.
Castiel dreams—of Bobby Singer's house. It is dark and eerily silent. He narrows his eyes at the gloom and the quiet—ominous, odd, for Bobby's home is always full of sound—the cadence of roughened voices, the incessant ringing of phones, the flipping of pages, the clang of metal tools, the revving of engines, and creaking of old wood. But in the darkness there is nothing and all is still.
A soft glow emanates from the study, and Castiel walks closer, following the source. He hesitates and then pushes open the doors. There are candles perched precariously on stacks of books, tomes of lore. Castiel blinks at them in consternation.
A shadowy figure sits at the desk, hunched over, breathing in great shaky gasps.
"Hello?" Castiel calls.
The figure looks up, eyes hooded, defeated, gleaming dully in the scant light. There are bruises and scrapes across his face; lank hair falls over his forehead and frames gaunt emaciated cheeks, but even so Castiel recognizes him.
"Sam?" Castiel is appalled, agape, "What happened?"
Sam sighs, heavily, the saddest mockery of a smile upon his mouth, at that small motion, his lips crack and begin to bleed, "Life," he says, his voice utterly beaten, resigned, "Death."
Castiel is aware (in the way that you are in dreams of two contradictory, even paradoxical, things existing simultaneously and accepting them, though in the waking world you would be puzzled but such a juxtaposition) that he is looking at Sam's soul even as he looks at Sam's physical self; that the two things are the same and inseparable. Sam flickers, the barest life left in him, wounded beyond repair. His soul is scarred; the wounds weeping, infected, angry and inflamed; rotting, Sam whose soul has always been so bright.
"Sam let me help you," Castiel reaches for the healing energy of his grace, to find it absent. He has fallen, "No," he struggles, "No, I must help you." He is strongly aware of the fact that the fate that has befallen Sam is entirely his fault and responsibility.
Sam shakes his head wearily, "You can't," he replies, sadness and resignation in his expression and his voice.
"No, I have to," Castiel insists, still struggling to find something that he can use to heal Sam's mangled soul.
Sam rises and limps closer to Castiel, one leg dragging uselessly, he offers him a knife, hilt held outwards, "You can help me," he replies, "by ending it."
"No," utter refusal, he cannot kill Sam Winchester. He won't.
"You have to, Cas, I'm dead already."
"We'll find a way to save you," Castiel promises.
Sam laughs the sound is cracked from disuse, broken beyond repair; such sorrow in it. Tears stand in his eyes, "There is no we, Castiel. Dean is gone. So is Bobby."
"No," Castiel refuses to believe what his gut knows to be true, viciously rebelling against the onslaught of pain in his heart.
"It's just you and me, Cas, and I'm too far gone," Sam insists, "You have to end it."
"Sam, I can't," Castiel pleads; he can't lose his brother, the only family left remaining to him, his only friend.
Sam inclines his head, hair falling over his eyes, further obscuring his features with shadows and shade, "It's okay, Cas," he whispers, "I understand."
Castiel has a moment of relief before Sam takes the knife and plunges it into his own chest.
"No!" Castiel screams, even as Sam tilts back his face in a fit of spiritual ecstasy as his soul burns, blazes, and Sam screams.
"NO!" Castiel bellows falling back from the force of the flames, shielding his eyes from the fire and lightening, the light of a dying star, as Sam is reduced to nothing.
Castiel wakes panting, tears leaking from his eyes. Dean is with him, and Castiel is so thankful because he thought that surely he was dead. He has a grip on Dean's t-shirt, and, as Dean tries to make head or tails of Castiel's jumbled words (they are not in English), he calls for Sam.
When the younger Winchester comes in, sleep tousled but wide eyed and alert, Castiel feels a wave of gratifying relief and, if he were standing, he's sure he would fall to his knees in sheer gratitude.
It takes a while to sort out what had upset him so much, when Sam is safely back in bed, Castiel whispers the dream to Dean, looking at his palms throughout his halting narration.
Dean places a consoling hand on Castiel's shoulder—the gesture makes Castiel shiver and spark—"I have those dreams, too," he confides, voice almost a whisper, "Not that exactly, but you, Sammy, my parents…the details change but the song remains the same, you know?"
He doesn't exactly.
"Maybe you don't," Dean half smiles, "Nightmares suck, but they're just dreams, Cas, they're not real. I know they feel like they are, but, this is real—" he squeezes Castiel's shoulder, catches his eye, "—I'm real. Sammy's okay; I'm okay; you're okay. Okay?"
"Is it customary to say 'okay' so much in the wake of a bad dream?" Castiel asks, and Dean replies with a grin, and a short laugh, just as he had hoped he would.
"I guess so," he sighs and sits back, scoots infinitesimally closer—never close enough—"You want me to stay?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll stay."
"Thank you, Dean."
"No problem."
They both sleep better like that.
Castiel dreams—of flesh. He is in a motel room; it is the latter days of the apocalypse. Castiel's power is reduced, but not gone. He is frustrated and forsaken and he is profoundly tired. He is waiting for Dean and Sam to return. Waiting but not patiently. Something unnamable is crawling up his chest, riddling his grace—anxiety—a voice provides for him—you're experiencing anxiety. He has no patience for determining how it came to pass that he is experiencing such a banal expression of human emotion.
Dean comes into the room on the heels of a spring storm; clothes wet, face drawn, covered liberally in mud and blood. He looks surprised to see Castiel, stopping in his tracks before shaking his head and proceeding to sit down across from the angel.
He shucks off his boots, "Fucking tsunami out there," he mutters, struggling with the laces.
Castiel doesn't reply.
"What're you doin' here, Cas?" He asks once he's removed his shoes (with a grunt) and socks (with a groan).
Castiel tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. What a foolish question? Why else would Castiel be in this transient human dwelling if not to see Dean?
Dean narrows his eyes right back.
Castiel rolls his. He is eternally unsure how it came to pass that the Righteous Man and his brother could be so intelligent and yet so oblivious.
"Waiting. For you." He replies seriously, as if there could be no other reason.
"Huh," Dean licks his lips. For some reason, Castiel's eyes are drawn to Dean's tongue; follow its movement before settling on the swell of Dean's mouth. His hair is damp, as is his face. There is more stubble lining his cheeks and chin than is his custom. There is a streak of blood across his forehead, not his own, so Dean had likely wiped sweat off of brow absentmindedly during the hunt.
Dean catches the direction of Castiel's stare and smirks, causing heat to coil low in Castiel's stomach. Odd.
"Where is Sam?" Castiel asks to distract himself from this strange reaction.
Dean considers Castiel with a slowly broadening grin, clearly catching on to something that Castiel is missing, "Getting smashed."
Castiel frowns, "Sam?"
"I hooked him up," Dean replies, proud. He intervened for Sam to enjoy an evening of frivolity and sexual intercourse with a suitable partner.
"Oh."
Castiel sits in silence, twiddling with the edge of his coat, unsure why he feels so uncomfortable. Dean watches Castiel for a moment more, and his gaze is penetrative, discerning, he cocks his head and Castiel, of all things, squirms under the scrutiny. Dean seems to arrive at some sort of decision because he smiles, slightly predatory and he gets to his feet.
"I guess it's just you and me, huh?" he asks, but Castiel knows that it's not a question. The phrase catches at something unreachable in his memory, but the tone is different, lilting, and husky.
He walks to his duffle and digs through the top layer, rooting for clothing. Castiel is distracted by the curve of Dean's spine, the shadows on his face, the swell of his hips and the strength of his legs. Castiel is distracted and the feeling grows, pulsating in his stomach spreading to his groin. His skin prickles and burns, too tight—arousal—again a voice supplies—you are aroused. Oh. Oh…Castiel averts his gaze, hunches his shoulders, and feels burning heat in his cheeks.
Dean stands again, shrugs out of his coat, and slowly unbuttons his flannel shirt. Much more slowly than he usually would. Castiel is preoccupied with the motion. Dean catches him watching and smirks, slow and broad. He waggles his eye brows. Castiel insides jump, his cock twitches.
"Like what you see, Cas?" Dean grins.
Castiel feels as though he's been caught at an indiscretion, but something stirs within him, he is an angel of heaven, a warrior of god; he shall not be shamed, "Yes."
Dean blinks, startled, but only for an instant, because then he smiles more broadly still, and his eyes gleam, "Good."
He walks closer to Castiel, and Castiel rises to meet him. He does not know how this should go, he has seen the myriad patterns of human copulation across time and space, but, this, this is different. This is Dean. This is he and Dean. Castiel's heart leaps in his borrowed chest; his grace ripples and resonates in anticipation. Be not afraid, Castiel.
Dean gets right up into Castiel's space, a dare on his lips, and a challenge in his stance, nervousness gleams in his soul as does want and need. Profound need. Castiel interprets it as an invitation, and he takes the final step into Dean's space, surprised by his own audacity, his own boldness, his own naked need, raw and burning. Need for Dean Winchester. How had he never noticed before?
Castiel crashes his mouth against Dean's, one hand reaching for the base of his neck, the other snaking under his shirt, against the chilled, rain damp skin, the muscles leap under his touch. And if Dean is startled, it lasts only a moment before he kisses back, guiding Castiel's mouth to a better fit, hand against his shoulder, and another on his low back, pulling him closer, slotting their hips together. Dean is hard against him and Castiel gasps. Dean chuckles, deep and throaty, sucks Castiel's lower lip between his teeth, and Castiel growls, primal, human. The strength that he uses to throw Dean down onto the bed is anything but. Dean looks up, propped on his elbows, expectant, hungry. Castiel removes Dean's shirt, fights the urge to rip it away. Kissing Dean's neck, his chest, damp with rain, salty with sweat. Dean sighs and groans, tilting his head back, exposing his throat for Castiel's tongue and teeth.
"Damn, Cas," he growls when Castiel moves lower, taking his nipple between his teeth, swirling his navel with his tongue, and kissing every inch of skin in between the two points, tracing a map that only he can follow. Hands ghost over Dean's ribs, his hip bones. His tattoo, his scars, the body that Castiel recreated; he fashioned these cells, he shaped this flesh, but he has never explored it in this way. Castiel hovers on the line between reverent and primitive, marking the expanse as his own.
Deans hips buck, his fingers rest on Castiel's hair, mussing it as his soul sparks and kindles.
"Hey," Dean's voice is rough, coarse, "Not that I don't, ah—" he gasps as Cas sucks a mark into his hipbone, "fuck, Cas,—don't appreciate the attention, but we're a little uneven here."
Castiel looks up, tilts his head. Dean's smile is bright, his eyes dark, so beautifully human, "C'mere," he chuckles, and Castiel goes.
They kneel before one another on the bed; Dean's gaze flickers to Castiel' lips and then to his eyes, staring straight at him. Castiel's grace leaps, his heart pounds, he takes a sharp breath, a fiery heat races across his skin. Dean gives him a smile like a hazy sunrise and he places a hand on Castiel's cheek, brushing a thumb against Castiel's lower lip, before he leans in and kisses Castiel more slowly than he had before and Castiel responds eagerly, tracing Dean's tongue with his own; slick and wet and warm. He tastes whiskey. Dean hums into him in encouragement and Castiel responds in kind.
Dean shoves off his trenchcoat, whips off his tie, and undoes the buttons of Castiel's shirt with dexterity that is somewhat amazing. Dean's hands are on his bare skin and the touch flashes across him, through him, heat, and tingling intensity over his skin, deep into his grace.
"I like—" Dean whispers, as he presses his mouth to Castiel's jaw, marking his neck with tongue and teeth, "—that no one—" he sucks at the pulse at the base of Castiel's throat, and Castiel tips his head back in something like ecstasy, "—has ever touched you like this."
Castiel's hand comes of its own volition to rest upon his mark on Dean's shoulder, the mark of grace and soul joined together, and Dean's whole body shivers, "No one," he declares, his human voice so much deeper than he's ever heard it, "will ever touch you as I have."
"No one," Dean agrees, solemnly.
When Castiel's wings flare from his back, Dean does not recoil; he beholds their glory in awe.
"Fucking beautiful, Cas," he declares, "Fucking awesome."
He runs a hesitant finger through the feathers made of light and energy, made of lighting and storm tossed seas, of grace and purpose and divinity, and Castiel's whole body arches into the touch, his grace teeters on the edge of explosion at the caress of Dean's hand, of the brush of his soul. Castiel's wings flare, and Dean, smirking, repeats the motion, until Castiel again places his hand on Dean's shoulder.
"Holy fuck," Dean cries, he feels it two, the joining of soul and grace, the electricity of their physical and metaphysical forms, "Cas, fuck me."
Castiel pushes Dean back into the mattress, wings flared wide over the two of them, kissing and pressing. Castiel unbuttons Dean's jeans, and Dean lifts his hips so that Castiel can pull them away, until it is just Dean lying on the bed. Castiel losses his breath for a moment, forgets that he doesn't need it in the first place entirely.
"You are beautiful," he states.
Dean's blush spreads across his chest up his neck into his cheeks, his cock is hot, heavy and hard against his stomach, his hips twitching, "Jesus, Cas, you can't just say—"
But Castiel takes Dean in hand and cuts off the rest of his admonishment. He sets a rhythm, Dean moaning and breathy. Castiel whispers into his skin, endearments, encouragements, promises, in languages older than time. Dean's hips pump, he bites his lip, clutches Castiel's shoulder and the bed sheets, trying to keep from coming undone too soon. Castiel smiles at the sight; Dean disheveled, Dean falling apart in the most beautiful way.
Castiel places his hand over his handprint and whispers, "Dean," and the hunter gasps, spilling hot and wet over Castiel's hand. Castiel continues to pump his fist, working Dean through his orgasm, holding him as he whimpers and softens, Castiel's name on his lips the entire time.
Dean is sweaty and dazed, eyes hazy and awed; he lies back for a moment, chest heaving, as Castiel presses a kiss to his shoulder, marveling at how wondrous this is. Dean looks at Castiel as if he is the sun, "Holy shit, Cas," his voice is ragged, and he leans forward to catch Castiel mouth.
The arousal flares through Castiel again, and something akin to a whimper escapes his throat. He can feel Dean's smile. Castiel wants, and Castiel has never wanted, has never allowed himself to want, not like this, never like this (and he cannot even begin to marvel at the unprecedented ache through his body and his mind and his heart). Castiel wants Dean's hands on his body; he wants Dean's mouth on his skin, now. He wants Dean, feels that if he cannot have him, he will die, combust, burn away to nothing.
He hisses at the feel of Dean's teeth tugging on his earlobe, the scratch of his stubble against his abdomen, his throaty chuckles, and praises as the heat builds between them.
"Dean," Castiel pleads, prays, promises, "Dean."
"I gotcha, Castiel," Dean never calls him Castiel, and the sound of his full name on his lips sends a rocking wave through him, enough that he hits his head against the headboard.
Dean teases at the waist band of Castiel's pants, calloused fingertips rough against the skin of his hipbones and Castiel's muscles flex and jolt. His hips jerk upward. Friction, he needs friction, God, he needs.
Dean undoes Castiel's fly, strips him of his slacks and boxers, and Castiel is fully naked on his back, with Dean kneeling over him, "Jesus, Cas," he says admiration, wonder on his face.
Castiel's cock is flush against his stomach, leaking and hard.
"Dean," Castiel, angel of the lord, begs.
"Let me take care of you, Castiel," he growls.
"Dean, I—" Castiel begins but then loses all sense of everything because Dean's mouth is on his cock, hot and wet and Castiel is overwhelmed by the sensations. Dean looks up at him through lowered lashes, as he works his mouth over Castiel, his hands teasing at Castiel's balls. Castiel knows that if Dean could, he'd be smirking in triumph.
"Dean—" Castiel begs, and Dean releases his mouth, taking Cas in hand so that he can move to kiss him, the taste of Castiel on his tongue. Castiel is so close, he can feel it. God. Is this what it's like?
"It's a perk," Dean says as if reading his mind, twisting his hand in a way that makes Castiel's body jackknife off the bed, "God, Cas, I love you," Dean whispers into Castiel's neck.
"Dean, I—"
Castiel wakes, a lash of rain against his window and a distant crash in a stormy night, shaking him from his dream. He's hot and sweaty. His sheets and blankets have been flung wide and tangled. He's panting, the feel of Dean's mouth lingering over his skin—a phantom memory. Castiel is still hard, aching, leaking.
For a moment, in the darkness, with the pounding of rain against the window, Castiel hates everything. He recognizes the sensation as abhorrence. He hates his mind for teasing him. He hates himself for wanting Dean's hands and mouth and soul. He hates his body for its raw, naked need; not just food and water, not only sleep, now, this. He might cry with frustration. Feels the burning in his eyes that presages tears, hates that he is becoming acquainted with that sensation. He knows what he needs and he hates that he needs at all.
He has the presence of mind to be thankful that Dean isn't here to witness this, for, how could Castiel explain what he had been dreaming about? He also has the presence of mind to regret that Dean is not here as he was in Castiel's dream; to wish for Dean's hands and Dean's mouth and Dean's words. You don't have him, a voice whispers, and with that Castiel reaches his own hand down, pushes his pajamas out of the way, and takes himself in hand. He works himself and as he does so he imagines Dean's smirk, Dean's laugh. He remembers Dean falling apart under his fingers, Dean's palms against Castiel's wings. He thinks of sweat dampened skin, and a rain washed face, and eyes blown wide with lust. He imagines Dean's mouth against his jaw and his calloused thumb running over his slit and Castiel jerks upwards into his fist.
"Dean," he growls, low and fierce, an invocation, "Dean."
"Love you, Cas," he remembers, Dean's voice beckoning him onward, giving Castiel what he most wanted and with that Castiel comes, shuddering, hot and messy, wet ropes of come striping his belly and his chest. He works himself through his orgasm and there are tears of frustration in his eyes, while he lies there afterwards. The rain keeps on falling and Castiel breathes heavily and wonders why he was given the ability to want if only to be eternally frustrated and condemned by his own desires. It is a cruel fate. A fitting one, he supposes, for a rebellious angel.
A/N
Sorry this is so late, everyone! Real life got in the way of writing for a week. This chapter is different, but I felt like it needed to happen, so, let's all together now, have a resounding, "OMG POOR CAS," moment.
A few notes: Castiel dreams of Dean dying, a lot. Like a hell of a lot. Not being able to save him is one of his greatest nightmares, but I did not write that here. The setting for the Sam nightmare was taken from the episode at the end of Season Six when Sam reclaimed his soul after his wall broke. I am going to be travelling for two weeks, so the next chapter will be posted probably by August 3 (the day after my b-day incidentally). The next chapter is so fucking fluffy that it's absolutely ridiculous, but you've earned it.
Finally, THANK YOU, for reading and reviewing and following this story. You are all amazing and I would absolutely love to hear what you think of this chapter. *hugs*