You see the world through your cynical eyes
You're a troubled young man I can tell
You've got it all in the palm of your hand
But your hand's wet with sweat and your head needs a rest
- "Fooling Yourself (The Angry Young Man)," Styx
Three hours and twenty-five minutes.
Three hours and twenty-five minutes after drinking himself to unconsciousness, Dean startles awake; breathing raggedly, the sheets twisted around his legs and his hand looking for a knife he hasn't kept under his pillow since he met Cas. It's not unusual, this moment of blind panic and defensiveness upon waking from his nightmares, but it's not common any more. It takes too long to drain away, for the knot in his gut to ease and the weight of Castiel against his back to be comforting, the arm tossed negligently over his stomach to feel anchoring rather than confining, and for the slow buzz of Castiel's quiet snoring to be familiar.
His eyes feel like they're full of sand, his skin is clammy with cold sweat, and his boyfriend the living space heater is glued against his back as the window air condition unit rattles and hums trying to keep up. He feels disgusting, and only part of that is the perspiration, the Jack Daniels he can feel trying to bleed its way out of his pores. The illuminated numbers of the clock seem to float in the air, mocking him with the knowledge that he's gotten just enough sleep to feel awake, even knowing he's going to be miserable later in the day because of it.
Pulling himself away from Cas without waking him at least a little rarely works; it's like Cas is waiting for him to bolt again, even now. Or like he's trying to be some kind of living alarm system. When he untangles their legs, Castiel's arm tightens around his midriff, fingers flexing as he presses them into the skin of Dean's stomach, and after being the scruffy bearded guy for long enough the drag of his chin and cheek against the nape of Dean's neck prickles now. In a better mood and state of mind, Dean would appreciate the slow shift of Castiel's muscles behind him, the cat-like rolling stretch that starts at his shoulders and travels down them, that fits their hips together tighter until it travels to the toes the Alpha curls as he rubs his feet against each other. Right now Dean just wants to get away. He hushes the grumbled, sleep-slurred protest behind him as he peels Cas's arm away from him.
"Need a shower, Cas. Go back to sleep."
Turning his head he can just barely make out the baleful look that Cas manages to awkwardly arrange his features into with as little work as possible, the single cracked open eye, lips pressed to a displeased line at this interruption to the sleeping arrangement he was perfectly content with until Dean decided to move. Guy's had even less sleep than Dean, though; he definitely crashed first of the three of them, so Dean rebuffs the equally incoherent offer to join him in the shower. "No sense in both of us being miserable. Sleep."
Cas grumbles, and every movement from him now makes him look as if his limbs weight a ton—he drops his heavy arm down as Dean finally wins free of it entirely, fingers clenching, and drags Dean's pillow to his chest, burying his face into it, his body curling protectively around a space the pillow doesn't sufficiently fill. But his eyes slide closed again, nose and jaw hidden by the cushion in his arms, and Dean takes it as a sign that he can escape now.
He runs the water as hot as he can stand it, scraping his skin clean with fragrant soap and rough hands, a towel shoved against the crack of the door to keep the sound of singing loose pipes and running water from bothering his giant little brother sprawled on the sofa bed in the living room. He doesn't let himself think; he stares at stained grout-lines instead, at rivulets of soapy water running along his skin, and then at the light of the bare bulbs that frame the bathroom mirror.
If he thinks, he's going to think about all this stupid trial shit. About the fact that he's off the hook and Cas is dangling on the line over a nasty-ass tank full of sharks, and he's not even the one that can reel him back in. He's just the jackass that stuck him in that situation in the first place. When the door opens, he hears the tell-tale squeak of the hinges and the hush of fabric on the tile as the towel is shoved back into place. Cas doesn't try to join him beneath the spray. Dean can see him in silhouette through the curtain as he approaches the formica countertop instead, moving slowly.
He doesn't need a frikkin' babysitter to take a shower. He doesn't want Cas awake, making him talk about the goddamn nightmares, he wants away from them. He wants to sleep, and failing that he just wants to be able to breathe without two overbearing Alphas flanking him like he's not able to take care of himself even in a tiny fucking apartment he's known his whole life. Slapping the water off, Dean pulls the curtain back to glare at Cas and blinks in surprise, the defensive words dying before he can voice them.
"You need to drink it before the headache." Castiel explains softly, setting a glass of juice and a small plate of slightly burnt toast with honey down on the countertop, a pill beside it on the chipped circle of ceramic. "Or it won't work as well."
It's his 'hangover cure' that Dean had teased him about on the first morning they woke up together, after Castiel's breakdown at the church; Cas didn't just remember, he dragged himself out of bed in the middle of the night and put it together for Dean. Cas's tired eyes are too sympathetic, and part of Dean wants to tell him that he doesn't need to be coddled, but mostly. . . shit, he's standing naked and dripping in the bathtub staring blankly at Cas, trying to figure out why the hell he puts up with this crap from Dean, looking for some answer that doesn't tie back to pheromones and 'mates' and bullshit biology that Dean hates.
Something's eating at Cas. Dean might not know what it is, but he's got a pretty good grasp already for Castiel's moods and expressions; whether it's the trial, or the reminder of the profession that this fiasco is costing him, or some new worry about Dean himself, Dean can tell he's got something on his mind. He knows the crease between Cas's brows, and the downward twist of his lips. But he also looks at Dean like a man in love and whatever the reason for it, chemicals or some kind of masochistic personality that keeps him here with a bitchy drunk broken Omega: Dean is torn between wanting to shake that besotted look out of his eyes or praying to Cas's God that he can live up to it.
As if he can't quite help himself in the small space, Cas reaches over and pushes the wet hair plastered to Dean's forehead away from his brow with a fingertip before taking half a step back. "I'm going back to sleep, I just wanted . . ."
Whatever he wanted, he's getting hauled bodily up against Dean, his knees hitting the top of the cheap plastic tub, and water trickling down his back from Dean's wet limbs wound around him. Some not insignificant part of Dean likes this; he likes catching Cas off-guard, surprising him. He likes that momentary hitch where Cas is completely off-balance, where he's not even kissing back yet because his mind hasn't caught up with the situation. When Dean is definitively the one in the lead. He likes being the one to make Cas melt into it, the reminder that he's the only one that ever has.
Cas is the Alpha, but maybe Dean's the possessive bastard of the two of them after all. His teeth nip at Cas's lower lip, his wet fingers tangle into Castiel's hair, dirtying the kiss, making it rougher, more demanding. Castiel surges into it, fingers pressing into his waist yanking him closer with a squeak of bare feet against the tub floor and another hollow thud of Castiel's legs against the side of the tub. It'd be just their fucking luck if they broke their necks making out between the slippery tub and tile, and Castiel seems to have the same thought at the sound and their precarious positions. Breaking their kiss, he rests his forehead against Dean's, eyes closed, and gusts a silent, self-mocking laugh at how very easily he lets himself be drawn in. His mind has been whirring with the implications of his earlier talk with Sam, but Dean's thumb absently stroking the hollow behind his ear, wet fingers massaged into his scalp, the humid dizzying air in bathroom and the heat of Dean against his lips, and he forgets it all.
"Drink your juice, Dean. Eat your toast. Take your medicine. I'm going back to bed." Sweeping his hand up the smooth line of Dean's back, arms wound around him, he drops a light kiss to Dean's lips, turning the hold into a brief embrace before forcing himself back again, locking eyes with his mate. "I would like it if you joined me; I don't want either of us to be 'miserable' tomorrow."
Dean's lips twist wryly, and he reaches blindly for the towel hanging to the left without breaking his gaze away from Cas, and how it is that they fall into these staring contests he doesn't know. "I don't think I'm going to be able to get back to sleep, Cas, and you're wiped."
For a guy that can look so damned innocent at times, virginal and priestly, Cas can smolder pretty fucking well when he wants to, eyes dark and promising, that body heat Dean had been cursing only half an hour ago making his hands like a brand as they slowly drag along his wet skin; Dean's not sure how the water there hasn't burned away already, evaporated with the touch and the scorching path of his eyes they blatantly traverse Dean's naked body while Cas slowly steps back. "I am not that tired."
Whatever his promises, by the time Dean towels his hair off, forces himself to eat the bread and drink down the juice, creeps into the kitchen to put it all away again without waking Sam, and makes it back into the bedroom, Castiel is Mister Comatose again. Snoring gently, one arm beneath Dean's pillow and his other hand reaches into the empty space on the mattress where Dean should be. Rolling his eyes, he slips into bed and carefully beneath that arm, unsurprised when it tightens around him and pulls him right back against Cas, nearly nose-to-nose as Castiel slots his knee between Dean's.
"Called it. Knew you were a fucking tease." Dean snorts, amused.
Cas mumbles something that might be an apology as he falls back into his octopus limb routine again, seeming to acquire several more and ensnare Dean with them, but it's comfortable and affectionate and Dean pets his hand down Cas's spine, soothing him back into a deeper sleep. "Just make it up to me later."
Despite himself, he lets himself be lulled back to a dreamless sleep by Castiel's even breath and warmth.
xXx
Dean never thought he'd be a morning person. Cas is pretty thoroughly changing that, though.
Dawn has just begun to creep into the room through the threadbare curtain that covers the top half of the window, fluttering in the artificial breeze off the window air conditioning, but Dean's definitely waking up: it could have something to do with the lazy open-mouthed kisses against the bend of his neck, the faint smile he can feel curl against his skin when he stretches beneath the good morning kisses and then immediately snatches Cas by the wrists and uses their tangled limbs to flip them, pinning Cas to the bed, cursing Cas's insistence that they wear pajamas even in bed while his brother's visiting.
(It's easier to think of it as a visit and to ignore the implications in the hour before they leave the bedroom).
Morning sex has been practically their hallmark since they fell into this together, and today is a damn good day for it. Slow, sleepy and intimate, Castiel worshiping Dean with lips and tongue and hands; it's the picture of domesticity and Dean doesn't quite care anymore once Cas is watching him through heavy-lidded eyes as they're tied together. It isn't about winding each other up, it's about relaxing, about ignoring the mess of the lives. Whatever had been plaguing him last night seems to have burned away in the light of day. They still didn't get quite enough sleep, but it's worth it once Castiel is sated and pleased with himself for coaxing a second orgasm out of Dean, hips rocking slowly as he nuzzles his chin into Dean's shoulder, his mate nearly draped over him like a blanket.
"Show off." Castiel chortles at the accusation and shrugs, indolent and lazy as sex ever makes him, the most relaxed he ever is, propped in the mess of their pillows, hands loose at his side until Dean rolls his hips teasingly, drawing another guttural groan from the Alpha and hands to his hips to keep him from teasing. "You told me to make it up to you."
"Figure you did that with the hangover thing." Dean braces his hands into the pillows beneath Cas and sits himself up again, testing the receding knot, ignoring Castiel's hissed complaint as he slips free and flops onto his back beside Cas on the pillows, their heads turned to look at each other, so close that Castiel can feel the words breathed across his skin. "But the sex is good too."
Dean is beautiful. Masculine jaw and body or not, 'handsome' isn't accurate enough to describe the dark sweep of his lashes, the curve of kiss-bruised lips, the spray of freckles across cheeks flushed with exertion and the elegant curve of his neck. Castiel has never been romantically attracted to anyone and now that Dean is part of his life, even after being introduced to sexuality, he can't imagine being with anyone else: he is utterly entranced by Dean. As he stares those lips curl into a smug smirk . . . Dean knows the effect he has on Castiel. How can he not? But he's drinking in Cas's expression, his broad palm running down the curve of his lover's jaw, thumb coming to rest in the dimple of his chin that seems to be made for that. "You're staring again."
"There is very little in this world that I wouldn't do for you, Dean." Castiel murmurs, too serious for the previous banter, and in the ensuing eye contact his expression changes slowly, his hand coming up to cup Dean's face in return. "And you can tell me anything."
The guarded look, the haunted look, creeps into Dean's eyes for just before a liar's smirk paints his face, breaking the moment and pushing out of bed to clean himself up. "Good. Then I have something to tell you. I'm starving. What you can 'do' for me is help me make breakfast. C'mon. Up and at 'em, Cas."
This isn't the time. Castiel's head hits the pillow again, his arm flung over his eyes, and he reminds himself to be patient. They have known each other so little a time, compared to the rest of their lives they'll have together.
He lets it go, and catches his pajamas when Dean tosses them to him, following on his lover's heels towards the kitchen.
xXx
"Damnit, Cas!" Dean is snickering his profanities when Sam finally joins them in the kitchen, frowning silently at the scene before him. Being back at the only home he ever really had in his childhood is far from conducive to a good night's sleep. When he was fourteen years old he outgrew the twin sized mattress and ended up taking over the sofa bed from Dean without realizing that his brother considered that a deal that let him have a door between himself and the rest of the place when he wanted alone-time with his magazines, and allowed him to escape the bar in the middle of his back. That crossbar is even more uncomfortable after years of getting used to thick mattresses and Jess tucked in against his side. Not having his mate nearby is throwing him off.
But it's the couple in front of him that ruined his sleep.
The final conversation he had last night was confessing that he genuinely believes that Dean murdered Alastair. Castiel hadn't responded, not really. When he slipped back into the garage and up the stairs, Sam had to worry if he'd just shot his brother's happiness to hell because he couldn't keep his mouth shut about family secrets. Five years he's held on to that one, and he spilled it to a guy who's been in his brother's life a month.
He waited up for the sounds of arguing, ready to intervene, laptop on his knee as he researched the opposition. . . and eventually he'd fallen asleep still waiting, woken briefly in the middle of the night and then at an obscene hour of the morning by proof that Cas. . . apparently didn't blink at what he'd learned.
He'd gone for a jog along the river. He didn't need concert-hall tickets for his brother's love life.
If Sam had found out Jess was a killer, even as much as he loves her, it would give him pause: he'd have to know, he'd have to hear it from her and it might completely screw up their relationship. If anything Castiel is more relaxed now than he was last night, and clearly well rested. Nose wrinkled in distaste, he's busy carefully trying to pick eggshells out of a pan without singeing his fingertips, though he pauses to flick yolk off of his fingers at Dean, the two of them too close to miss. "You jostled me, Dean. That doesn't count."
"Dude, I barely touched you and you friggin' crushed an egg into the pan. I'm not eating crunchy eggs again, Cas." Dean pushes Castiel's arm out of the way and rescues the pan, tipping the half-congealed and shell-laden mess into the sink, and he's smirking as he teases. "Go make toast or something. Just try not to burn it this time."
"A shoulder-check does not qualify as 'barely touching me,'" Cas grumbles, splaying his hand along Dean's hip as he steps behind him and tilts to reach past him for the bread without moving from his spot, just for the excuse to touch him, chest to Dean's back, chin on his shoulder. This entire scene has an air of familiarity to it already, too many massacred meals for such a short span of time. Its clear Dean isn't trying to teach him so much as he is enjoying good-humored mocking of the Alpha, though Cas clearly bickers back, and all of it sounds more like foreplay than actual arguing, which is a whole other insight into Dean's sex life that Sam could do without. "And if you hadn't gotten drunk I wouldn't have had to make toast in the middle of the night. In the dark, so as not to not wake your brother."
"Oh, you woke me." Sam doesn't want to be caught watching them, so he shuffles into the kitchen the rest of the way and leans against the refrigerator as he rubs a hand towel to the back of his neck to soak up sweat. "Last night and again this morning." Castiel freezes in place, caught half folded around Dean. He plunks his forehead against Dean's shoulder and sighs, flushing, immediately catching the implication of Sam's words. Dean, for his part, drops a teaspoon of butter into the pan and sets it on the stove to melt, flashing a quick grin at his brother that is entirely unlike his attitude yesterday.
"Morning, Sammy. Grab anything to drink you want other than the orange juice, pull up a chair, and remember that you're not allowed to bitch that I didn't put my sex life on hold just because yours has to be." Sam can see through Dean's cheer and teasing to his deliberate choice to change the mood from the melancholy of the day before, and from the way Cas tightens his grip on Dean for a moment, turning it into a momentary embrace and dropping a kiss against the nape of Dean's neck before moving on to toast bread, he can too.
Dean he gets. Cas, he has no idea what to make of his decision to sweep everything under the rug. For now, he shoves it aside for his brother's sake and he side-steps the topic of Dean's sex life, opening the refrigerator. "Why am I avoiding the orange juice, exactly?"
"Because Cas dosed it." Dean's matter of fact, cracking eggs into the pan adeptly.
"I didn't dose it. There's nothing narcotic in the orange juice." Castiel corrects him quickly, as if worried that Sam is going to get the impression that he's putting crack into Kool-Aide next. Sam stares at him, one hand on the open door of the refrigerator and an eyebrow raised questioningly. "It's mostly over-the-counter." And, as if realizing this makes him sound no more sane. "For hangovers."
"Along with toast and honey, which is why the entire kitchen still smells like burned bread." Dean smirks, shrugging as he scrambles their breakfast with a fork, throwing in cheese. "It's chalky and has a funny aftertaste, and the whole bread and honey thing is weird but whatever, it works. Don't try to ask him why, he gets into this whole neurology and physiology thing until your eyes glaze over. Get yourself apple juice or start some damn coffee."
Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, a low rumbled warning in his voice. "The fructose helps convert waste acetaldehyde, the byproduct of alcohol, into acetic acid and then metabolizes into carbon dioxide. Potassium and sodium in the bread aid in that process. That part is chemistry, not neurology. The vitamins and additives in the orange juice are where neurology comes into play, but we have a guest over and it would be inappropriate explaining it in the manner I would most like to. . . " Dean claps a hand over Cas's mouth, and then points at the toaster, winking.
"You're burning the bread again, 'genius.'"
Castiel curses softly as he fights with the antiquated toaster again to make it release the sliced bread, and Sam realizes he really, really doesn't want to know where that was going and why his brother's looking a little pink because of it. "Oh-kay. I think I'm just going to have another water. I've got to go pick up someone from the airport after breakfast; technically she's my assistant but she's. . . uh. She's different. You're going to like her. Then I'm going to sit down with Cas and we're going to talk bringing in character witnesses, because there's a few people I have in mind from what I've put together, who've already agreed and done video depositions."
Cas looks more then a little concerned about dragging anyone from the past he left behind into this. Dean is less than pleased at the reminder of the trial, and what it means for them all, but he squeezes Castiel's shoulder briefly in comfort before snatching the slice of toast out of his hands.
In short order he dumps a generous portion of scrambled eggs onto Sam's plate and takes the first piece of overdone toast from Cas, slapping it onto the plate as well and putting it in front of his brother as a silencing method. "Great. Okay. Let's save the legalese for this afternoon then. I want coffee before we start with the parade of friends and family, Sammy."
xXx
Sam doesn't get the chance to corner Castiel until he's tying on his shoes to go pick up Charlie. Dean scrubbing dishes clean in the kitchen and Castiel folding the sofa bed back away, the entire thing is so painfully domestic that it looks like they've been living together for years. He addresses the toe of his sneakers, but his words are lowered for Cas's ears alone.
"You didn't say anything to him. About what we talked about last night." It's not a question, and Castiel doesn't treat it as one, punching the pillows back into their proper shape and tossing them onto the couch. "I need to know if this is going to mess things up, Castiel. I need to. . ."
"Sam, stop." Castiel's breath leaves him like the air from a tire, explosive, damaging, and he raises his head to stare down the younger Winchester across the small room. "This changes nothing for me about Dean. I killed young two men after a mere six weeks of a captivity that I, personally, could have walked out of at any time. Your brother spent four months of intense physical and psychological abuse with that man as his tormentor. If he took matters into his own hands, it was justice." And God help him, if Alastair is still alive, Castiel would not hesitate to murder him if he came near Dean again.
Castiel still inherently believes, regardless of whether he killed Alastair, that Dean is a good man. His own entire ability to slog through the day to day is built around the idea that while his religion does not condone such a thing, God at least forgives. Castiel also knows that however deeply he has tried to bury it in hospital work and charity and the priesthood, he himself is very accomplished at killing. He is incapable of the level of hypocrisy it would take to seek forgiveness for himself but not grant it to Dean. He worries more about this being something else left to fester, would like to hear the truth of it from Dean to try and halve that burden with his mate.
Dean could have murdered a man, and Castiel's primary concern is the effects that would have on his subconscious more than the legality or morality of the act.
It should be a red flag, a warning to keep his brother away. Even when it comes to the trial, Castiel has never claimed innocence, he claims extenuating circumstances—a justification for violence. Sam blinks in the face of Castiel's unwavering stare, trying to digest that piece of information, but his thoughts are interrupted by the final clatter of dishes being put away and then Dean's familiar defense.
"Geeze, I thought the creepy staring was a me thing. You two having a moment or something? Want me to clear out, give you the room? I hear the Alpha on Alpha thing is kind of. . ." Castiel sighs, dropping his chin to his chest and closing his eyes, and when he opens them he turns to Dean, whose arms are folded over his chest, suspicion etched into the lines of his face. He knows the only topic the two of them would have between them, and his words sound more like an accusation than a joke.
"No. Stay. We're through here. I need a shower." The kiss as he stops before Dean on his way out of the room is tender, brief, and one-sided, Dean's mouth an angry slant that refuses to yield beneath his lips for the first time, but he isn't offended by it.
"Yeah, you do that. I'll head with Sammy to the airport, pick you up on our way back through."
He wants the chance to drag out of his little brother what the hell is going on.