AN: Yeah uh, note the rating change. If this ain't your thing, you might wanna skip the end of this chapter. There will probably be a bit more of these two idiots getting over years of sexual tension before they actually work out their problems. Because these are two men that are not well-adjusted enough to talk *before* having sex. *sigh*
This actually turned into a lot more of an existential crisis/self-doubt thing for Cas than I had intended. Whoops? But I think he kinda needs to go through it to figure out some things. Did not anticipate this chapter being so long tbh. Oh well!
Everything freezes. There's nothing but Dean's lips against his, Dean's hand coming up to curl in the hairs at the nap of his neck, Dean's scent when he manages to breathe in. His body is floating in a whirl of Dean, Dean, Dean.
He suspects it's what heaven feels like.
His brain short circuits for a bit until he has to pull away just to give himself a chance to think again. "What are you doing?" he gasps, his voice husky.
"Kissing you," Dean says as though it really is that simple (a lie, they both know it). He leans in again, capturing Cas' lips before his mind is able to catch up to what's going on. His own can't help but move against Dean's eagerly. "Mmm, love kissing you," Dean whispers before nibbling on Cas' lower lip.
Cas finally snaps out of whatever spell he's been under since Dean first claimed his lips. When Dean tries to move in again, he puts his hand on his chest to gently keep him away. "Dean," and damn it if his voice quivers a bit. "Stop. Please-"
Hearing the urgency behind it, Dean pulls back a little more. Not far enough to stop their breaths from mingling, but enough that Cas' head starts to clear.
"You okay?"
He closes his eyes because he needs to block out the other man at least a little, needs to not have everything around him be Dean. He's drowning in his taste, his scent, the heat radiating off his skin... he'd never come back out again if he had to look into those green eyes. "Not really." Even though he knows it must hurt Dean to hear it, he says it because it's the truth.
Immediately, Dean's gone, presence no longer overwhelming all his senses. "Sorry," he stutters. "Guess I was misreading this whole thing-"
"No. You aren't... misreading anything."
A pause. Less embarrassed but still concerned, "Too much?"
"Yes."
With Dean's retreat, Cas finally opens his eyes again. Dean's looking at him like he's a skittish animal about to bolt, which, yeah, maybe isn't so far from the truth. The silence is an offer - a sign that he is in charge, whether it be talking about whatever just happened, more of it, or quietly ignoring the whole thing. He tries not to focus on Dean's lips as he weighs out each option.
"You aren't misreading things," he repeats. Because he needs Dean to understand that much. This isn't a rejection or a lack of interest. It's just... one more thing on a pile of other things he still hasn't sorted out. He is by no means opposed to exploring whatever it is Dean is offering, but right now he simply lacks the capacity to process everything that's going on.
"But... you're not ready for-" he gestures between the two of them, "whatever this is."
He manages a deep sigh before a sad, "Yes."
Dean just shrugs. If he's disappointed, he hides it well. "Alright so... slow down?"
Words are a little beyond him at the moment, so he nods. Yes, he can manage that. Just as relief is starting to flow through him, Dean invades his space once more. He freezes in something between surprise and delight as his is pushed off his forehead and Dean places a small peck on his temple.
He stands up and must notice either the tension in his body or the way his eyes have gone wide in surprise. "Dude," he says with a gentle pat on the shoulder. "You're thinking too hard. C'mon, let's go put on a bad movie and make fun of it."
Cas tries to hide a smile the rest of the night. Sitting on the worn couch next to Dean - close enough that their thighs occasionally rub together but not so close that he can truly feel his heat - arguing over which decade has the worst action movies and occasionally allowing Dean to sneak in a chaste kiss to his cheek or the back of his hand... Well, it's the happiest he can ever remember being.
They live in a strange sort of limbo after that. So many questions rise up that Cas ends up voicing none of them. But there is a constant wonder of, How long? Why now?
He's sure Dean would answer them, but that would require actually talking. There's enough irony that he is the one avoiding a talk about "feelings" whereas Dean is suddenly quite open. What exactly did he miss in the last twenty two years?
The casual, slightly more than platonic touches continue. Nothing too much. A hand lingering on his shoulder. Dean mussing his hair in the morning. Playful shoving matches over who gets the shower first. And maybe the occasional brush of Dean's lips against Cas'.
Staying together in the house with this new, strange energy building between them grinds on Cas' nerves. After a few days of lounging about the house with the mood between them so tense he can feel it like a physical itch, he needs a distraction.
So he throws himself into hunting. This emotional turmoil isn't the type of thing he's had a lot of in his life as Thomas (or even, really, as Castiel). He lacks the coping mechanisms to deal with an identity crisis, is too terrified to confide completely in either Dean or his sister, so he finds hunt after hunt.
Not that Dean seems to mind. He follows Cas' lead, even if that lead takes them through six states in five days. No case is too small to escape their notice. Even the salt and burns that are so straight forward they barely qualify as a pit stop. And perhaps these cases don't offer the diversion he needs from his jumbled head space, at least they offer something for him and Dean to discuss.
Because he cannot have that conversation right now. He knows how Castiel feels about Dean Winchester. God (despite his apparent lack of interest in Heaven, Hell and Earth alike) knows how much he loves that man. The lengths he would go for him.
And by now he knows how Thomas feels. It's an echo of Castiel's desires, grown over the course of decades from a fuzzy feeling in the back of his head that he couldn't quite place to a very identifiable connection. Admiration, respect, lust.
No, it's not anything on his end that has him hesitate when he sees Dean lick his lips or look at him just a beat too long. It's Dean's motives that have him terrified. What does he want from this? Is this something from before, something he's known and carried with him for years? Or did he only notice the depths of his affection for Cas once he had disappeared? Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Will it be a permanent change in their relationship, or something Dean will soon get his fill of and then go back to how things were?
Castiel wants answers to all of these questions and, right now, none of them.
Not that it stops him from playing out every possible scenario in his head. On an endless loop he imagines all the things could say, all the pleasant and horrible ways things could go. All the ways he could lose Dean-
"Dude," Dean cuts into his thoughts, obviously exasperated. "What are you dong?"
It takes him a minute to realize he's taken an exit off of 70. "Going to Fayette? I read about a haunting and I thought we could-"
"Oh my god," Dean rubs both hands over his face in frustration. "I knew I shouldn't let you drive."
He takes a deep breath before letting it out. That's the only warning to the rant he's about to give. "Cas, Thomas, whoever's trying to work me into an early grave with this one... I am closing in on 60. I cannot spend days in a car living out of motel rooms anymore. Hell, I bitched about it when I was 30 but, I mean, I dealt with it. You've been driving me from one end of the country to the other for the last week. My back is killing me. My feet are killing me. My knees are killing me. There are very few parts of my body not trying to kill me right now. We are reasonably within a couple hours of home. For the love of god, please, please turn this car around and take me to Lawrence."
Okay, so maybe Dean has noticed his avoidance through hunting. And maybe he's supportive of the "going slow" part of whatever's going on right now, but he clearly overestimated Dean's tolerance for bs cases.
And he kinda gets it. His legs are stiff and the motel beds aren't doing his back any favors. Another night or two and his body would probably be begging for the comforts of his own room. So, yeah, he understands where Dean's coming from. Yet the idea of being back in the house with tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, it makes his hands go clammy and stomach drop.
One more day. Just one more and then he can deal with it again. "Dean," he goes for scolding and is proud that his voice doesn't sound too strained. "There is a haunting in Fayette."
"It'll keep another couple days, man. Not like the ghost is going anywhere."
"People are getting hurt."
Actually indignant, Dean huffs, "Are you tryin' to guilt me into taking on this case?"
"Aren't you the one trying to guilt me into taking you home?"
Dean's jaw drops for a second before snapping shut. "Fine," he grumbles, but there's no bite behind it. "But I get first dibs on beds and as soon as this case is done we are driving straight back home, no pit stops. Capiche?"
"I capiche."
It's too late when they pull into town to do anything other than check in at the nearest motel and hit up a diner. They sit too close to each other in the booth, Dean's arm around Cas' shoulders. He even lets Cas steal half of his dessert right off his plate. Their waitress seems to think they're a couple, saying how cute they look together. Dean thanks her with a wink and a smile. Cas just blushes.
And it's a weird kind of torture. Because this is exactly what he wants. To have Dean and hunt with him, share pie in bland dinners and just... be themselves. Part of him thinks that all of this is a possible future. If he just takes that final step, he can have it.
Of course there's that other part of him that can't help but think this is temporary. Like every piece of happiness he's ever had, whether as Castiel or Thomas, it was just a way to pass the time from one state of misery and anxiety to the next. So he just sits here on the fence, wondering which side he'll end up falling from.
After much deliberation, Dean picks the bed closest to the door. Cas doesn't know why, nor does he care. They seem identical, but if it makes Dean happy to pick the "better" bed, then whatever.
When he wakes up, he realizes the difference. Dean's bed isn't so much the one closer to the door so much as it's the one closer to the bathroom. Great, looks like he's getting the second shower today.
Dean greats him cheerfully with a "Mornin'!" and a slap on the back when he comes out of the shower. Cas just grumbles a reply, trying to ignore the fact that Dean came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, his hair still wet and a complete spiky mess. Avoiding eye contact (and starring at that damn towel), he just grabs some clothes and makes a beeline for the bathroom.
Mercifully, Dean has saved at least a bit of hot water for him. He gets about two minutes of actual heat before it settles into lukewarm. Not great, but certainly manageable. What's more annoying is the partial erection he woke up with that jumped to full mast when he saw Dean in towel. Imagining how they would hug his hipbones, expose the slight pudge of his belly and the freckled, tan expanse of his chest... How the water dripping down the small of his back might taste...
The damn shower goes from lukewarm to frigid without any warning. Cas yelps and jumps out of the spray, all hopes of finishing that mastubatory fantasy flying out the window. He gingerly manages to wash off the remaining soap suds and rinse out the shampoo, somehow avoiding the freezing water as much as possible.
Ugh, this day was going to suck.
Simple salt and burn. By the books. A paradigm of an easy hunt.
At least, that's what the plan was. He's been at this long enough that he should know better. That even a regular old haunting can turn dangerous if you're not careful.
And he's not careful. Maybe his head's not in the game right now, too busy trying to figure out the "Dean Problem." Or it could be the left over tension from his interrupted jack off session in the shower. Something's off, and in the end it doesn't really matter what caused it.
What matters is the sheer force used to hurl him across the room, through a window and out into the courtyard of some turn of the century house turned historic landmark. Well, fuck.
Dean's in the backyard digging up the body and trying to light it up, so he's on his own. And he's not even surprised to see he lost his iron crowbar on his impromptu tour into the garden. Salt's in his duffle, and he's guessing that right about now that's safely sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala because he has no fucking foresight today, obviously.
Glass is everywhere and he tries to crawl away. His knees hurt so they're probably bruised and bloody and god, he does not look forward to picking out glass shards. There's just enough time for him to hope his jeans are thick enough to have caught most of it before he's in the air again. His ears ring as he hits the pavement, though thankfully he's at least been thrown clear of the broken window.
This ghost, the former owner of this home some hundred years back, has definitely gotten control of some corporeal abilities. Why he bothers acknowledging that with a cold, dead spirit's hand blocking his windpipe, well, it must be the lack of oxygen.
He's been in life or death situations before. They say that your life flashes before your eyes, but all he can manage to think is, "What will my mother think when they say her son asphyxiated to death in some historical brothel he broke into in the middle of the night?"
When the ghost goes up in flames, Cas barely notices. Sure, he slumps to the ground and gasps for air. Stars dance in front of his eyes and he doesn't really register the fact that he's still alive until he's vaguely aware of someone shouting his name.
Dean's kneeling next to him, fussing over him in a way that makes him think that he really needs to stop nearly dying in front of him.
"Cas!"
Oh right, Dean's been talking this whole time. "Hmm?"
"Answer me! You okay?"
With a concentrated effort, he stands up. "Yeah, just a little worse for wear."
He only just regains his balance before he's slammed against the wall again. Dean is almost as predatory as the ghost before him. When Dean kisses him, so aggressive and demanding he can't breathe again, it's at least for much more pleasant reasons.
"Don't you. Ever. Do that. Again." Each word punctuated with a kiss. "You do not. Get to. Die on me. Anymore."
Cas just whimpers in response. If Dean keeps this up, he'd do anything Dean asked. This seems like an easy enough concession. "Yes," he gasps out when Dean moves from his lips to the line of his jaw, then down to his neck. "Okay."
This is actually happening. Unless he died and his little slice of heaven is just all the ways Dean can drive him wild. (Though he's long suspected that might actually be the case.)
He'd almost forgotten about his earlier injuries until Dean presses in a little more firmly, the pressure making him grunt as pain bursts through his ribs. Dean pulls back in concern, but Cas pulls him back in. "Don't you dare stop, Winchester."
When Dean slides his leg between Cas', this time he groans in appreciation. "Dean," he whispers.
"It's okay, baby, I got you." Then his lips are claimed again and there's no more talking, no more thinking.
He shifts a bit and suddenly he can feel Dean's erection pressed into his thigh and fuck it just about ruins him. His hips jerk in response, and Dean must notice Cas is as far gone because he grins against his lips and moves his hands to Cas' waist. Holding him in place, though mindful of the bruised areas, as he thrusts against him once. Liking the way Cas moans, he does it again.
Again and again, trying different angles and pressure. Eventually he finds the right combination when they both gasp together, Cas' hips immediately moving to try and repeat the movement. Dean's fingers dig in a little - a warning - and hold Cas in place while he takes over again, rutting against him.
At some point they give up on kissing, too focused on the steady roll of Dean's hips. Cas' head falls back and he pants, Dean's forehead resting on the wall by his right ear. His breathing doesn't sound much better.
"You gonna come for me, sweetheart?"
The noise he makes in response should probably be embarrassing.
"Say it, wanna hear you say it-"
"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, Dean, please- Want to come for you-"
"Oh, fuck." He loses their careful rhythm for a moment and then it's back, far more urgent and a bit sloppier.
Cas reaches around to grasp roughly at Dean's back, trying to find leverage to grind back and then he's coming in his pants like a fucking teenager. He whimpers a bit, choking on Dean's name and only really managing to sound completely and pathetically undone.
He's still riding out the high of his orgasm when he feels Dean's hips stutter to a stop. The older man allows himself to collapse on him for a second before he pulls back and leans his weight the wall instead. "Sorry," he mutters, fingers gently rubbing along his hips, just shy of the bruises no doubt blossoming under his shirt.
"'s okay."
They catch their breath eventually. Dean's trying his best to not smile. He almost succeeds until he shifts slightly and a grimace takes over. "Ugh, I need to change."
"Me too."
"Yeah." He laughs this little chuckle that Cas wouldn't even be able to hear if they weren't so close. "Let's, uh, head back to the motel and clean up."
So they do. And maybe they ride back in silence, but when Dean leaves his hand palm up on the leather between them, Cas accepts the invitation.