A Hole in the World

by anneliese-michel

Dean Winchester never wanted to go home again. Going back to Lawrence meant people who knew what he was, who didn't buy into the lie. But with a tragic accident, he's back and dealing with the death of his father, the social stigma and objectification of being an out Omega, and the lingering aftermath of a long-ago crime.

17. Whole Lotta Love

You've been learning
Baby, I been learning
All that good times
Baby, I've been yearning

Way, way down inside
Honey, you need it
I'm gonna give you my love
I'm gonna give you my love

- "Whole Lotta Love," Led Zeppelin

Dean's fastidious need to hide what he is actually is the thing that saves them in the end. Castiel can feel it, the heat rolling off of Dean that seems to want to melt away the thin haze of ice on the door behind him and brand into Castiel's skin even through their clothes. He can taste it in Dean's kiss like fine liquor driving away his common sense. And by God can he tell in how Dean's reacting to him, how he's responding to Dean, but all he can smell is Irish Springs and Old Spice and Spearmint toothpaste and his own clothes, with the barest hint of the man he loves underneath all of that.

He glowers at the stock-boy and wolf-whistling cashier watching them intently from one end of the aisle until they move, before taking Dean with him, leaving his cart behind. The two college kids from Kansas University who have the gall to be between him and the door have the self-preservation to get the hell out of his way when he scowls at them for being anywhere near his mate, barely stopping himself from snarling at them. It's early morning on a Wednesday and later, when he can think clearly, he'll thank God that if this was going to happen in public it at least didn't happen at a busier time, or closer to the college or the bars. As it stands, thinking is hard enough with Dean desperately trying to hold on to his own vaunted self-control while tucked beneath the edge of Castiel's ill-fitting trenchcoat and pressed intimately against him. Castiel can feel the slow, unconscious motions that have Dean rubbing his erection against Castiel's hip. It's driving them both a little crazy, making it hard to walk.

"Car." Dean mutters into the bend of Castiel's neck, and he's adeptly managed to tug the tie free and undo the collar to get himself skin, mouthing over the bruises he's left before, scraping his teeth there warningly when Cas shakes his head. If he gets into the car with Dean like he's asking, they're not moving anywhere for hours and he doesn't plan to put on a show or be arrested for a public display. The apartment, John's home, the Roadhouse. . . none of these places feel safe now, if anyone can get their address and know Dean's going into Heat, and more than anything he wants Dean safe. That's warring heavily, however, with just wanting Dean, and the longer he waits the more base instinct is going to take over. Dean was right: Castiel has never been around an Omega in heat, and Dean alone was heady enough an experience for him without factoring in that.

Dean protests when Castiel dumps him into the back seat of the Impala, looks hopeful when the next thing he does is climb over him and shove his hand into Dean's pocket, and scowls at Cas when he immediately retreats to the front seat with the keys and the speed and surprising agility of a scalded cat. Dean's voice from the back seat is so raw that it's hard to imagine he can form words. "Called it. Knew you were a tease."

"Dean, I need five minutes. What would you be doing to abate the effects if I wasn't here?"

Dean chuckles humorlessly, low and rough, and the sound of it is enough that Castiel's swallowing heavily, trying to ignore the fact that it immediately goes to his dick. "You want me to dirty talk you? What do you think I do for three days alone in my apartment with a box full of toys?" Dean's shifting in the back seat, antsy, fabric against leather, and the audible rasp of a zipper has Castiel jerking the car back into his lane. "I want you, Cas."

There's something desperate to that statement, and more than a little broken. Dean wants Castiel, and he shouldn't want him. He should be far away from him, somewhere safe, locked away in his apartment in Sioux Falls fucking himself on a silicone knot trying to imagine the faceless bodies of porn stars. He would be waking curled into himself protectively and sweating and terrified and dump himself into a cold bath just for the shock to his system to drag himself out of his waking nightmares. Desperately trying to remember if he locked every lock in the moments he's himself, and trying not to hear Alastair's voice in his head, trying to ignore the feeling that he's being watched when he knows intellectually it's not possible. It's miserable. It's fucking awful. It's something he survives every month, nothing he's ever looked forward to.

Castiel is getting to him, though, changing him, and it's terrifying and he wants to get the hell away from that, and he wants Cas to bend him over and fuck him on the back seat right goddamn now, and he wants Cas and his stupid wide-eyed wonder at all things to do with sex that Dean has never had, and the fact that he looks at Dean that way even after knowing all of his personal bullshit. It's a confusing mess in his head and it already was before the ache hit him, left him desperate and horny as hell and empty, and reminded him that he's just a bitch after all. Only good for the one thing. And now Cas is going to realize it too.

The Impala grinds to a halt; any other day Dean would be telling Castiel off for mistreating his baby, but today he's getting a tan trench coat tossed over him like a blanket in the back seat, trying to give him a modicum of decency. "Stay there. I'm locking the doors. I will be less than three minutes."

Castiel terrifies the hell out of the desk clerk, a college-aged young man who is immediately alarmed when a credit card and ID hit the desk in front of him only seconds before Cas is leaning over it and fixing him with a stare that would convince the armies of hell to turn back rather than face him. "I need a room. King bed. Three nights. If I am not checked out in time, charge another night to the card. Do not disturb, have room service deliver every meal with one knock and no waiting. If you cannot accomplish this within the next two minutes I am dragging my mate into your lobby bathroom and it will either be very uncomfortable for all your incoming guests, or require police intervention once we are no longer tied."

xXx

Exactly two minutes later, his card and ID still in the clerk's possession, they are checked into the Oread Hotel and Castiel has Dean plastered to him again in the hall. Now he is the one half folded into the trenchcoat around his mate, hiding Dean's hand as it plunges down the front of his slacks and boxers, fingers wrapping around his cock and hot breath in his ear. He fumbles the simple card lock of the door twice before the light turns green and they spill inside, literally falling into the dark room, and he has Dean trapped beneath him on the carpet and the outspread trenchcoat that falls open around him, unzipped camo pants riding low enough on Dean's hips that he can see the wet of precum on his boxers beneath, and that's good enough for now.

He needs to taste Dean, show Dean how much it means that he's sharing this with Cas, kissing him deeply, hands sliding against his overheated skin and pushing his shirt up, and Dean's twisting on the floor beneath him, trying to get his pants off. Dean breaks the kiss to peel his own shirt off impatiently rather than wait on Cas, and Castiel steals his lips again before he can talk, smoothing his hands over Dean's body, leaning into him like he can absorb the heat in through his skin. Dean whimpers beneath him, a sound he will deny making to the grave, and Castiel breaks away just enough to let him speak. It's only then that he feels the fine tremors running through Dean's limbs, sees the wet glint of his eyes in the dim room.

"Don't make me beg, Cas. . . please don't make me beg."

He's doing this all wrong. Everything to this point has been about Castiel fighting his instincts for Dean's sake, taking things slowly, worshipping Dean and making him feel comfortable. He's been trying to do the same now, take advantage of the scent-blinding to make sure he can give that to Dean again before his control snaps. It's not what Dean needs right now, and that one quiet terrified plea breaks Castiel's heart. Because Dean's not with him, not entirely.

Castiel hauls Dean to his feet as he rises, hands clamped on Dean's hips once they're face to face. "Bed. Now." It's a command, an answer for Dean, a promise that he won't make him do that. More than that, he's not going to fuck Dean into the carpet when there is a bed not six feet away that won't leave his back raw and rug-burned, and he couples it with a light push in the right direction to get Dean moving. Castiel flicks the light on as he follows, and Dean's glad of it: there are too many people in this room, too many shadows and memories, and he wants Cas. The deadbolt locks as he's moving to follow his Alpha's orders, and he can hear the rattle of the chain lock as well, but he's tossing the ridiculous number of throw pillows off of the bed. Too hot, electric current under his skin, feels like drugs, feels like loss of control, and he needs . . .

Needy little slut. This is what you are. This is what you're good for. And even when they're using you, you're my bitch. Always will be. I'm inside that noggin of yours, Dean.

Castiel is already pantless and yanking his half-unbuttoned dress shirt over his head when he hears the quiet sob, muffled against blankets and carefully trapped behind closed lips. What he sees when he's free of the fabric stops him in his tracks, freezes his blood and leaves him momentarily speechless.

"Oh, Dean. . ."

Dean is face down on the mattress, naked now, knees braced apart and ass up at the edge of the bed, his upper body flattened downwards and arms folded behind him, grasping his wrists against his back, the perfect submissive presentation. Castiel can only imagine what had to be done to him to put him in this position in the first place, ties and cuffs and punishments, the drugs to break him and words to hurt him, 'train' him. Dean is shaking, eyes squeezed shut but lashes wet with unshed tears, lips pressed together hard enough that it whites out the color of them, tightens them into a hopeless line.

This isn't his Dean. His Dean is sarcastic and assertive and fights back even when he has no chance of winning. For all his immediate distrust of strangers, his Dean can love and trust the people who care for him so beautifully that being around his family with him is astounding. His Dean is alive, primal and sensual and commanding, or raw and emotional and protective. His Dean will slam an emotional door shut rather than risk this door being cracked open.

Castiel wants to hold Dean, tell him that he's waited decades and can wait for Dean to be free of this. Castiel wants to murder Alastair for having touched Dean, hurt him, broken him this way. The thought is damaging his remaining control. He can't do either of those things right now, and it hurts, feels as much as if his body's betraying him with its reaction to Dean like this as Dean must feel of himself. Because Dean is hurting right now, physically and emotionally, and Castiel should be able to focus on that alone, not be wading through pheromones and chemical stimuli.

Cas tucks a hand down between Dean's chest and the mattress as he steps up behind him, and he carefully pries his wrists apart and presses upwards with the other palm to have him raise himself, voice strained. "No, Dean. Not like this. . . not with me. . ."

It sounds a little more like his Dean, buried underneath all of this, when his head turns and green eyes slant sideways towards Cas through thick lashes, his hands braced beneath him now but his body still bowed. "Then fucking do it already, Cas! Please, just..."

He can't let Dean beg like that, he promised he wouldn't make him, promised he wouldn't hold back and 'tease.' The first thrust is almost violent, the hand against Dean's chest rising to yank back on his shoulder, force him backwards onto Castiel's cock in one sharp motion that sheaths him entirely and drags a moan out of each of them. Dean is searing hot and soaked enough that Castiel can feel slick against his thighs the moment he's flush against his mate, and some feral, long-denied part of Castiel needs this, the way his mate responds for him when he does it again immediately. Dean is his, Castiel won't let anyone else be in the room with them, not even Dean's ghosts.

With both hands he pull Dean upright and away from that terrible display, manhandling him as Castiel joins him on the bed, knees folded beneath him, leaving them chest to back as Castiel moves them to the center of the mattress. One hand on Dean's shoulder and one on his hip to anchor him, he pulls him back into place every time the movements threaten to separate them, short thrusts that force sharp gasps from Dean until Castiel's fully satisfied with their position.

Castiel ducks his head down, dragging his tongue along curve of Dean's shoulder to taste the salt of his skin and mouthing the bend of Dean's neck, one arm locked tightly around his mate's waist to bounce him in place on Castiel's lap for the moment, but it's still not right for him yet and Cas can tell, his next command growled into the sweat-damp dip between Dean's shoulder blades. "Show me what you want."

Hard, punishing, the pace Dean sets is immediate and brutal, and for a few moments Castiel is just another toy in Dean's box, another way to force his body to the point of exhaustion, wring an unwilling orgasm out of himself so he can trigger a fake knot and curl into a ball to wait for the next wave of Heat to force him to start again. It has all of the finesse and care of any one of Alastair's 'clients.' And then quite abruptly he's not the one controlling the ride. Castiel seems to have been holding his breath behind Dean, holding himself in, because he lets it out in an explosive exhalation that is half a moan and half Dean's name, seizes Dean's hips in a vice grip, and completely changes the rhythm—sharp thrusts and slow, dragging withdrawals that make Dean keen and whine, trapped by Castiel's iron grasp, and it's not at all what Dean asked for. Somehow, it's exactly what he needs, though. Dean's body bows sharply backwards, his head falling back onto Castiel's shoulder to bare the long line of his neck, and that seems to excite the hell out of the man behind him.

"You're beautiful. . . amazing. . ." Castiel's voice is an anchor to the present, and now that he's started he doesn't seem to be able to keep himself silent, an unending string of praise and worship and Dean's name and the sort of uninhibited moans that weren't going to endear them to the hotel for the next three days.

"Touch yourself, Dean. Come for me." His words are half a command, half a plea. He's so close, knot swelling and expanding, tying him to his mate, and it's all so much more than he's ever felt, Dean tight around him and wet, every brush of their skin sends tingling shocks through his system. He's drowning in Dean, burning up with him, grinding his knot into Dean's prostate and his hand flies to join Dean's around his cock now that Dean can't pull away, the other flattened to Dean's chest over his heart as he tucks his face against Dean's bared neck, scraping his teeth over the tender flesh. "Come."

This isn't control. But it isn't forced, pitilessly punched out of Dean coupled with spite and vicious words. He's free, he's safe, and Castiel's repeating his name and broken praise against his skin, and the pleasure of it when he finally lets go is blinding.

Tugged down to lay beside Castiel among the scattered pillows, he is spooned into the question-mark curve of the Alpha's body as Cas rocks his hips slowly, intermittently, knot pulsing to fill his mate with his seed as he presses a kiss to the bare skin he can reach without moving, and closes his eyes. Dean grabs at one of the pillows and clings to it, burying his face into cushion, but Castiel doesn't attempt to tug it away. "Shh, Dean." Castiel strokes one hand up and down Dean's chest, the other arm wrapped around him, hand wet with Dean's come and pressed low on his stomach, fingers splayed wide, unconsciously protective and possessive in ways Dean really doesn't want to think about right now. Dean doesn't want to think at all.

Nuzzling closer, stubbled chin dragging over Dean's shoulder and neck, Castiel's words are meaningless comfort to him.

This isn't the first time Dean has ended up shaking and silently overwrought in Castiel's arms after letting go of his control. But it will be the last tears he sheds over it.

xXx

"Your coat's over by the door and keeps buzzing at us." Dean's voice sounds almost normal again, but when Castiel opens his mouth to respond Dean presses back into him deliberately, rolling against Castiel's still knotted cock, tensing around him to milk another load of come and a low groan out of Castiel. Cas knows Dean's smirking, amused at his sensitivity, and though he bites his mate's freckled shoulder for teasing he's happy to have Dean back to himself even if Dean feels compelled to prove it in word and deed without addressing what happened.

"I was supposed to call your brother back. That's probably him." Cas admits, and then immediately regrets saying anything because Dean tenses against him. While that does all sorts of pleasant things to him physically, it also means trouble.

"So. Let me get this straight. You suddenly show up at the grocery store out of breath because you ran your dumb pedestrian ass there. Slam me up against a freezer and kick off a three day sex marathon. And you did it all because I wasn't there, you talked on the phone with my brother and you both decided helpless little old Omega Dean needed someone to mind him, and you promised to call him back once I was home safe and sound? Sound about right?"

Sam had almost guaranteed that Dean would hate being 'babysat.' When Castiel begins floundering for an answer that won't get him in trouble with the prickly creature in his arms, Dean stretches out across the rumpled bed, drawing a protesting and pained noise from Castiel when it pulls uncomfortably against his knot, and snatches up the hotel phone from the nightstand, jabbing numbers in by memory. They'll pay for the damn long distance fee.

"Hello?"

Sam sounds slightly out of breath, a little frantic, but it doesn't make Dean want to take pity on him right away. "You sent my boyfriend to bodyguard me, Sammy? Seriously?"

"Dean." Sam breathes him name out in relief, and then processes the accusation. Dean can just picture him in his damned over-decorated law office, repeatedly dialing Cas while pretending to do paperwork, and now shuffling around sheepishly puppy-dog eyeing at nothing because he's been caught. "Um. . . kind of? I guess. But Cas found you, and you're both okay. . . ?"

"We're going to have this out later, Sam." Dean growls, eyes narrowing, before answering his question. "Yes, Cas found me. But he can't come to the phone today, he's a little. . ." Dean is a devious sonuvabitch himself when he wants to be: he shoves his ass back against Castiel and clenches down around his knot deliberately, and while it makes him sound breathless and more than a little fucked-out, it drags one of those irrepressible, carrying moans out of Castiel that they'd probably hear down in the damn lobby, let alone over the phone. ". . .tied up right now."

"Holy shit you can't call me while you're. . ." Sam splutters, mortified and prudish.

"Dean. . ." Castiel groans, burying his overheated face against Dean's neck, red with embarrassment, and hell if that doesn't sound like a moan again.

Punishment delivered. Two completely horrified Alphas dealt with. They wouldn't even be able to look each other in the eye right away next time they met.

"I'm going to hang up now, Dean." Sam sounds disturbed. "You two have. . . fun."

"Oh, we will. Talk to you in a few days." Dean disconnects with a leer, undulating his hips slowly, ceaselessly, and he's already hard again and wanting and Cas hasn't even pulled out yet. Time to see how long he can make the Alpha's knot last while he rides it, how well he can wring him dry. Dean drops the phone to the bed, hooks his arm backwards around Cas's shoulder, twines one leg over Cas's to spread himself open, give him that tiny bit more to thrust back into, and fists himself with his other hand as Castiel's fingers knead into his stomach reflexively. "You ready for round two yet?"

"'Round One' isn't over yet." Castiel protests, strained and panting, and Dean knows the Heat's getting to him again by the involuntary little rotating thrusts Castiel's offering him, shifting the knot as much as he can.

"Guess that makes this the bonus round, huh?" He smirks cheekily, fingers knotting into Castiel's hair tightly. "C'mon, Cas. Show me you can keep up."

xXx

He pays for it later when Cas decides the best, most 'sanitary' thing to do until he's hard again, for their long-term comfort (in his professional opinion, of course) and the preservation of the bed is shove a pillow under Dean's hips to angle him, haul his bowed legs onto Cas's shoulders, and lick him clean while fingering into his come-soaked hole as if he can push his claim deeper into Dean, paint it into the walls of him, indelibly mark him as taken. It's Dean's turn to pant and moan, trying to twist and writhe in his compromised position.

It doesn't take long for Castiel to be ready again, kissing him deeply as slides gingerly back into place, until Dean bites his lower lip warningly, finding words again finally. "Kinky bastard. What, going to try and buy a plug next to keep it all in?"

Castiel raises his head, blue eyes wide in revelation as if the idea never would have occurred to him, but now that Dean mentions it. . .

"No. And don't you dare fucking stop."

xXx

For all that the sex is great. . . and it is, it's fucking fantastic, especially when compared to any other Heat Dean has suffered through in his life . . . it's the other things that Dean finds himself unexpectedly enjoying. Castiel eventually taking it upon himself to play doctor, filling the ice bucket with hot water from the tub and essentially combining a sponge-bath and deep tissue massage to ease the knots out of his legs from riding Castiel so long, and no matter how much he protested at the start of the activity Dean may be a little in love with Cas's hands now. It's nice, like this: propped up in monogrammed pillows and with Cas wrapped around him as if he intends to spend the next couple of days doing his best impersonation of an Octopus, tangling their limbs together as they're tied, living in a haze of indolent pleasure and then worn-out intimacy that gives way to passion every time Dean finds himself needing more.

The first time someone knocks on the door Dean tenses in fear, skittish as a startled animal, until Castiel wraps a towel around his waist and brings the room service lunch in from where it has been left for them in the hall, resting the tray on the foot of the bed and dragging Dean into his lap. He insists on feeding Dean, thumb dragging against Dean's lower lip, fascinated with his mouth and Dean may play it up a little until they're both thoroughly distracted again, but Cas still manages, after, to get a full meal into them both to make up for the missed dinner of the night before, and their lack of breakfast.

"You can't afford all this, man." Dean finally lets himself protest as Cas pops a grape into his mouth, a simple china plate of fruit and cheese from the tray balanced on his chest now and Dean straddling him, leaned back against Castiel's bent knees as the dark haired man reclines into the pillows, one hand on Dean's hip and the other carefully selecting food for them. "This place ain't exactly cheap, and room service isn't cheap, and you're not exactly raking in the dough any more . . ."

Castiel ducks his head, looking away. "I have excellent credit, Dean."

"Uh-huh." The skeptical answer drags a quiet sigh out of Castiel. Dean's got a point: Castiel's jobless and living off of what's left in his savings, and so tying up a couple hundred of dollars a day into a hotel and all the meals is. . . unwise. Three nights here, room and board for all meals, will be equivalent to about a month's rent and groceries at this rate. He'd still do it again without hesitation.

"Dean, I want this. With you, I want this. It was closest hotel to where we were, and. . ." Castiel shrugs, the helpless little raise and drop of his shoulders that seems stilted and faintly awkward even in intimate settings, and the motion dislodges another grape that tries to roll down the angle of his body, captured before it can drop farther than his stomach. "It's an indulgence, but it's worth it to me. And I. . ." And if everything falls apart, if Dean does leave him when this is all over. . . he'll at least have had this. Even if he gets to keep this relationship with Dean, he knows this is not an opportunity they are likely to have again. This, this willingly shared Heat and intimacy, is a first time for both of them at last and he wants to give to Dean something as far from the past experiences as he can get. He stares at the captured piece of fruit in his fingers, rather than Dean, and he knows he can't say any of that. He doesn't want to break this moment. "This way we don't have to cook? And they have extended cable." Dean rolls his eyes, unconvinced. "And they'll wash the bedding for us."

Dean's reading between the lines, hearing the subtext in the hesitations, and after a moment he carefully moves the plate off of Castiel and pushes up from his reclined position, drawing a hiss of discomfort and quiet moan from Castiel that he leans forward and kisses off of his lips. Not because his body's demanding another round of sex, not because he's trying to tease, but because he wants to. Castiel's hands rise to cup Dean's cheeks, and he returns the gesture tenderly.

Castiel's stupidly in love and for right now, for the first time since they met and everything stacked itself against them, everything is precisely as he would wish it.

xXx

Dean wakes in the middle of the night, the first night, aching and terrified and haunted—green eyes wide and blank, still caught staring at images of his nightmares until he can focus on Castiel in the sudden light of the lamp. And he can't. He can't look him in the eye. Can't have this. Can't think. Can't handle the hesitation as Castiel's hand hovers just over his skin, unsure of if he should touch him or if it would make things worse.

"I need a shower. I'll. . ." He can't find an end to that sentence and doesn't try, just stumbles gracelessly off of the bed and limps into the bathroom, turning the water as cold as it will get as he steps under the spray, arms hugged to himself and head bowed, trying to flush the heat out of his system, teeth chattering and fingernails digging into his own skin like he can scratch it out of himself. He never gets the chance.

Castiel's sudden presence behind him is surprising, the line of his body pressed to Dean as he wraps one arm around his mate to hold him close and reaches past him with the other to turn the temperature of the water and drop the plug, water filling the tub. This time he isn't hesitating, pulling Dean down with him, holding him close, rubbing circulation into his limbs. He tells Dean he loves him as clearly as he can without using the words, until Dean is back with him.

They make love in the tub and Dean curls into his chest half-asleep afterwards, until the water around them is tepid and their fingers and toes are pruned and Castiel's knot recedes. He half-carries his mate back to bed, ducked under his arm, and wraps around him again as he buries them under the soft covers.

xXx

The red light on the hotel phone is blinking, a message, and Castiel frowns at it as Dean makes use of the bathroom. It takes two tries following the instructions for him to learn that they have a package waiting in the lobby, and he squints in confusion, head cocking to the side and then knocks on the bathroom door to tell Dean he'll be stepping out momentarily. He receives what may be a response as Dean brushes his teeth using the free hotel provided toothbrush, so he steps into his old BDUs and snags Dean's t-shirt, shrugging it on quickly before padding barefoot to the lobby carrying their empty room service trays as he does.

It's a different clerk, but he's receiving looks from most of the employees he comes across.

He also smells like sex, and sex with an Omega in heat specifically. The looks aren't unexpected, nor is how people seem to keep showing up as if to get a glimpse of him. Frankly, as far as he's concerned, they should reimburse him some of the cost of staying there, because whatever couple stays in their room next will thoroughly enjoy the experience, Castiel can assure them.

The package, it turns out, is from Ellen. Ellen, who upon not being able to hail Dean on his phone apparently utilized whatever technical wizardry had given her Castiel's background to find his recent credit card purchases, determine exactly what hotel they were in and in what room, and then came by to hand-deliver the package to the clerk and ensure that Dean was in fact there with him.

She left them a duffel bag. Dean's duffel bag, to be precise. The one that until yesterday was sitting on top of the dresser in Castiel's locked apartment. Which meant that someone, likely Jo, broke into his apartment and gathered a change of clothes for both of them, basic toiletries, Dean's phone, and a round of birth control pills that Dean has apparently been using.

Never in Castiel's life experience has a gesture of genuine love and care been so utterly terrifying a demonstration that he needs to behave himself and remain in the good graces of the Harvelle women.

When he lets himself back into the hotel room, turning to deadbolt and chain lock the door behind him again, he addresses Dean standing frozen still behind him in the room. "Your family is somewhat frightening, Dean."

He doesn't get an answer in reply. Not verbally, at least.

It seems that Dean apparently is very fond of him in his old uniform pants. This time they don't make it back to the bed.

xXx

"You rug-burned my knees, jackass." Dean grouses over a lunch spent spooned together in bed, and Castiel snorts, snuggling further into the pillows beneath them, exhausted.

"You jumped me, Dean. Besides which, you'll be fine. I think I may never be able to stand again once this is over." Dean rolls his eyes and his hips, drawing another uncomfortable hiss, proving a point and getting a scowl directed at his back for it. "Whine to someone who don't have it worse."

"I had little to no practical experience to know how taxing this could be." Castiel counters, and even this is comfortable. This is practically becoming normal for them, arguments with no heat behind them, a battle of wills that they both win because they enjoy it. The beat of silence from Dean lasts a shade too long without one of his usual witty comebacks, and Cas drops a kiss onto his shoulder, tightening his arms around his mate again, one hand to his belly and one to his chest.

"It's usually a lot worse, Cas." Dean finally admits, and this time his voice is serious, quiet, and he slips his arm over Castiel's to hug him back in a way, their fingers lacing together on Dean's stomach. "It's better like this. I. . ." Dean's chewing over his thoughts, weighing how far he's willing to reveal himself. ". . .I actually like this. With you. A lot."

There's a lot more to that admission than meets the eye. Left alone the nightmares win, and together like this Dean isn't fighting what his body is asking for but working with it. More than that, though. . . Dean's confession isn't about the sex or about the memories. It's about the emotion.

Castiel smiles against Dean's skin, closes his eyes and pulls his mate closer, leaving their hands linked together.

"I do too." It's as close to an I love you as they can give each other right now. "Rest, Dean, while we can."