![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ethiaTitle: and even if love were not what I wanted
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ethia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: 5.01, to be on the safe side
Warnings: second person POV; schmoop
Word Count: 4.084
Summary: Six times Dean wanted to kiss Castiel (and one time he did).
Notes: Title taken from Even If Love by Bonnie Prince Billy.
(6)
You’ve all made it back in one piece, and Bobby’s been generous with the beer (not that he would ream your hide for liberating another two bottles from the fridge, but still). Cas didn’t take so much as a swig, but he followed you out onto the porch where the day’s heat feels less blistering than the stuffiness inside. The short hair at the nape of his neck is starting to curl with sweat and you realize that, angel or not, he must be just as hot as you.
“Here,” you say, offering him your bottle, its neck slick and cold with condensation. He half-dips his head towards you, glancing up at you from underneath thick, heavy lashes.
“I shouldn’t,” he says, taking the bottle from you anyway.
“It’s just beer, Cas,” you say, “I don’t think it’s very high up on the list of things you get kicked out of heaven for.”
You think you see his lips twitch at that, or maybe he’s just wondering if he’ll hate the taste as much as that of liquorice. Before you’ve decided which is more likely he’s already lifted the bottle to his lips and, half-closed eyes on yours, he’s dipping his head back a little to take a long swig. A few drops of water slide past his fingers; you watch him blink as the cool moisture hits his chin, then runs down the length of his neck in slim, wet trails. You feel inspired by the sight, and have already begun to raise one of your hands before you notice what you’re doing. Cas seems oblivious, caught up in savoring his first taste of beer. You let your hand sink back to your side, curling your fingers briefly against the rough denim of your jeans.
“Well?” you say, and if your voice sounds a little rough it’s because you’re parched, and not because Cas is looking at you with dark eyes, his mouth all wet and glistening and looking more inviting than you ever thought possible. You try to swallow around the sudden dryness in your mouth.
“Thank you,” Cas says, licking his lips as though chasing the last remnants of this new and unfamiliar taste. “I think I needed this.”
He passes the bottle back to you and you quickly look down, suddenly grateful for the distraction. There’s a new sort of heat unfolding in your chest, and it has little to do with the white-hot glare of the late afternoon sun.
“There’s more in the fridge,” you offer, a bit more gruffly than you intended. Cas gives a minute shake of his head, his eyes so intent that you wonder what’s on his mind. He settles in next to you, resting his arms on the wooden railing, standing almost close enough for your shoulders to touch.
“I don’t think Bobby would approve,” he says, and this time his lips are twitching. You lightly bump his shoulder with your own, feeling lighter than you have in a long while.
“I’ll handle that,” you say, then raise the bottle to your lips, curious if the taste will be any different than before.
*
(5)
It happens on the drive back to the motel, and it’s nothing to write home about (or mention to Sam, God forbid). If it is anything at all, then maybe you’re high on adrenaline, and tired as all fuck at the same time.
Pouring rain is turning the night black, swallowing up the headlights’ glare, rendering them next to useless. Your attention should be on the road, but you keep sneaking glances at the passenger seat, where Cas is riding shotgun.
“Cas?”
“Yes, Dean?”
He hasn’t spoken in almost half an hour; he sounds tired, and when you throw another brief glance his way you see the same stony expression he’s worn since you got into the car. His face gleams wetly in the sparse light, and you’re almost sure there’s nothing but rain on his skin.
“You all right, buddy?”
He gives a terse nod; your gaze drops to his lap where his hands are clenching briefly.
“Fuck,” you say under your breath, your own fingers curling tightly around the wheel in sympathy. You pull over at the next opportunity, kill the engine and sit listening to the sound of the rain hitting your car like a rush of bullets, one after another, never ceasing, never abating. When you turn to face him, he still hasn’t moved.
“Look,” you say, “I know it’s bad, having to do this kind of thing.” Killing one of your own, you don’t say, because you don’t think it’s what Cas needs to hear right now.
“There was no other way,” he says, and he does look at you now, his eyes dark, a fine sheen of moisture underneath. He looks lost, and out of place, and, worst of all, he looks like he knows it. You wish there was something you could say to make it better, to somehow ease his pain, but you can’t think of a single thing. He’s killed an angel tonight, one of his brothers (for you, and the thought makes your heart clench tigthly in your chest) and what comfort could you possibly offer?
You settle for gripping his shoulder tightly, squeezing until he half-turns into your touch. He lets his head drop back against the seat, eyes still on you. There’s something in the angle of his face toward yours, in the way he half opens his mouth that makes your heart speed up until you feel your pulse throb in your throat.
“I,” you say, and your hand on his shoulder is no longer resting, it’s gently kneading away the tension you feel thrumming against your fingers, “I’m sorry you had to do this.”
His eyes slip close for a moment, and your breath is catching in your throat; you’ve never seen him look so open, so vulnerable. As much as you want to, you can’t promise he won’t have to do it again; it would be a lie, and he deserves better from you. He gives another small nod, and you let your hand fall away, before you can start to pull him toward you, closing that last bit of distance between him and you.
“We should get back,” you murmur, your fingers clamped securely around the steering wheel, your eyes on the blackness surrounding you.
“Yes,” he says, and you can feel his gaze on you, and if your heart is still stuttering it’s nothing but leftover adrenaline from a hunt gone all wrong.
*
(4)
There’s so much blood that you have no idea where to begin (much like you didn’t when faced with the long, ugly gash in Sam’s chest). You look at yourself in the mirror, careful to keep your eyes on your face. Your skin is pale, and there’s a sheen of sweat on your forehead that has nothing to do with being too hot.
“Fuck, Sammy,” you whisper, gripping the edge of the sink with slippery hands. “Fuck.”
Your chest feels much too tight for you to draw in enough air; you gasp in short, hurtful breaths. You reach for the tap with a shaking hand, your fingers slipping uselessly on the smooth metal.
“Dean.”
The suddenness of that low voice next to you makes you jump; you almost lose your balance, but Cas steps around you, steadying you with one arm around your shoulder and his chest to your back.
“Let me,” he says, his breath warm against the side of your face as he reaches past you to turn on the water. You look up to meet his gaze in the mirror, but his eyes are on his hands as they reach for yours, pulling them under the warm spray.
“What, no more angel mojo tonight?” you ask, and your voice is just as shaky as your hands.
“Is this unpleasant?” he asks back, his fingers rubbing at yours with unerring, gentle pressure. It’s anything but; it’s soothing and distracting both at the same time, and you can feel your breath even out under his gentle ministrations.
“No,” you murmur, shaking your head, letting your gaze drop to his hands on yours. He’s working with a quiet grace (much like he did when it became clear that your stitches weren’t enough to stem the flow of blood from Sam’s wound). Unlike before, he takes his time now, gently rubbing the last traces of blood from your fingers. You let out a long breath when he uses his thumb to draw broad, soothing circles across your palm. Your eyes drift shut, and for a moment your world’s reduced to just this: the feel of his fingers entangled with yours, the warmth of the water flowing over your skin, the solid warmth of Cas engulfing you from behind, the quiet thudthud of his heartbeat against your back.
It’s only when you hear the rusty creaking of the tap that you open your eyes again, blinking against the harsh glare of the neon light. The blood’s gone, but so is the unbearable tension in your chest. You feel calmer, almost at peace, and it finally sinks in that Sam will live, that although today was a close call you’ll get to keep him by your side, for now. You look up, seeking Cas’ gaze in the mirror.
“Thank you,” you say, and although he doesn’t smile his expression softens into a quiet sort of radiance that takes your breath away.
“Always,” he says, and when he steps away to get you a towel you feel his sudden absence sharply, wondering how you could ever think he was standing too close.
*
(3)
You don’t remember much of the night, but some parts you can recall with alarming clarity.
Like the part where you got so drunk you could barely stand, and feeling so good about it that you placed your arm around Cas’ shoulders, alternately imparting advice about women and laughing at his wide-eyed expression when you got to the racier bits.
Then there’s the part where one of the waitresses got it into her pretty little head to try and flirt with Cas; you remember that one well. It seemed funny enough at first, watching Cas squirm under her attention. You started to tease him then - must be those dark eyes of yours, or maybe she’s drawn to your mouth, Cas, those full lips just begging to be kissed - and when he blushed you felt an answering heat rising in your cheeks, matching the slow, deep burning in the pit of your stomach. You watched as his mouth - those full, luscious lips - pulled into a thin line (you thought it was anger, then, but you’re not so sure now) and his eyes slipped away from you, coming to rest on that waitress, thoughtful, appraising.
You remember the stab you felt at that, the red-hot flare of resentment, and the intensity of your reaction scared you so much that it made you rise from your half-crouched perch on the bar stool with a swiftness that made you stumble backwards.
He was there to catch you (as always), moving so quickly you barely had time to brace yourself for the fall before you felt his hands on your arms, taking your weight with unnatural ease. You remember him pulling you toward him, back onto your feet; remember suddenly being so close to him you could feel his breath on your face, all hot and rushed.
What you remember more than anything else is the want you felt right then, sharp and intense and burning inside you: like nothing would be easier than closing the distance and touching your lips to his, branding him with your heat.
You can still recall the way his hands felt on your arms, suspended between pushing and pulling, like maybe he was waiting for you to make your decision.
The next part is where things are getting hazy; all you know for sure is that Sam was somehow suddenly there, giving you a look, making you step away from Cas so fast you almost lost your balance again. Your memory fades out on that guarded, closed-off look on Castiel’s face, and you wonder what it will take to make you forget just how much you wanted him then to want you back.
*
(2)
You’ve gone without sleep for almost three days now, and Sam’s on your back about getting some fucking rest, man, before you land us in a ditch in the middle of nowhere.
He’s probably already asleep in the room next door; you wish you could say the same for yourself. Downstairs, you can hear Bobby rummaging around in the living room. You think about joining him; you hate research to the point where the pure dullness of it might actually help you fall asleep.
It’s when you’ve warmed up to the idea enough to start getting out of bed when you feel the mattress shift to the right. Your heart jumps into your throat, and you barely manage to keep yourself from reaching for the hunting knife under your pillow.
“Cas,” you hiss, frowning at his dark shape perched on the edge of the bed, “I’m too young to die from a heart attack, you know.”
You can barely make out his expression in the darkness of the room, but you’re pretty sure it’s not very apologetic. As he shifts his weight to turn toward you, you let out a long breath, scooting over to make some room. He stretches out next to you and, with his face much closer now, you can see the curiosity there.
“Why are you still awake, Dean?” he says, and you can feel the low rumble of his voice resonate deep down in your bones.
“Did Sam send you? You playing Sandman on his orders?”
“He is worried about you.” His gaze dips to your chest for a moment, then back up to your eyes. “As am I.”
“Because I’m such a fragile flower.”
You can feel the heat of him next to you, even with the cover and layers of clothing separating you. His weight makes the mattress curve underneath him, creating the slightest of pulls, like his own personal well of gravity. You roll over slightly to face him, giving in to the silent invitation.
“You need to sleep,” he says, his voice no more than a soft lull. “I can help you with that.”
So this is where you’re heading; you wait for him to raise his hand and touch his fingers to your forehead. He doesn’t make a move, dark, patient eyes on yours, and you realize he’s waiting for permission.
“No weird dreams, okay?” you murmur, ears straining for another sound than the quiet in and out of his breathing. There is none, and you allow yourself to relax. “If you give me weird dreams, I’ll make you ride with Sam in the backseat, and he will talk to you for hours. About boring stuff. For hours.”
As threats go, it’s not the worst you’ve ever come up with, so you’re not too surprised to see Cas’ face soften into that almost-smile of his.
“I will… bear that in mind.”
He leans toward you then, bringing his face so close to yours that all you’d have to do is lift your head just a little to make your mouths meet, to find out if his lips are as soft as they look. The thought sends your heart racing; if Cas notices, he doesn’t show it. You force yourself to lie still as the tips of his fingers graze the side of your face, brushing toward your temple ever so softly.
“Dream well, Dean,” he whispers, and then darkness rushes in, laced with the heat of Castiel’s body hovering over your own.
*
(1)
You didn’t notice the pain so much at first; now that the shock is starting to wear off, you can feel it draining the strength from your body with every step you take. It doesn’t help that your feet are slipping in the mud, or that the rain leaves Cas’ coat so slippery you can barely hold on.
“We’re almost there,” he says above the howling of the wind and the patter of the rain. You try to nod in response, cursing yourself for not letting Cas zap you back to the motel like he wanted to. Goddamn stubborn pride, you think, struggling onward, clinging to Castiel’s side with what little strength you’ve got left. There could be people watching, faces peeking out at the weather from behind tattered curtains, and the last thing you need is the cops turning up because someone saw two men disappear from a parking lot in the middle of a thunderstorm.
You somehow make it across the length of the lot without falling down (you’re pretty sure Cas is taking more of your weight than you do by now) and you almost moan with relief when you’re no more than two steps away from your room.
“Wait,” you say, starting to fumble for your keys with fingers that are warm and slick with blood. He lets you struggle for as long as it takes, and you curl into the warmth of his body, grateful for his quiet support. When you look up at him, your vision starts to blur; you place the keys in his hand with trembling fingers.
“Dean,” Cas says, sounding alarmed. His grip around you tightens, and you’re not entirely sure your feet are still touching the ground. He pulls you close, one arm reaching out to open the door. You turn your face toward him, seeking out his warmth, and when your lips brush against his neck it feels like the most natural thing in the world. You allow your mouth to linger on his skin; as you breathe in, your nose is filled with the scent of him, and you realize it smells familiar, that it’s been with you for some time now, only never this intense.
“Dean,” Cas says again, infinitely more softly now, his voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it before, and then suddenly another pair of hands pulls you away from him and into the room you share with Sam.
“God, Cas, what happened to him?” you hear Sam ask, and you’re struggling to stay awake, but you’re going under anyway, wondering if you’ll ever find out what Castiel’s skin tastes like without being diluted by rain.
*
0
Shaving’s been a bitch ever since you took that hit to your side; the pull of your muscles as you lift your arm is painful, and you hiss under your breath with every stroke of the razor.
“Dean.”
“Huh?” You make, casting a quick glance at where Cas is perching on the edge of the tub, watching you. He’s frowning, and since he’s shrugged out of his coat for once you can see the tension pulling his shoulders taut underneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
“I could help,” he offers, jerking his chin toward the razor in your hand.
“Nah,” you say, your attention slipping back to the task at hand, “I need the practice. Which you lack, by the way, so thanks all the same.”
You manage to finish the job without nicking yourself; Cas’ eyes never leave your face in the mirror, as though he expects you to drop dead any minute now. You’re pretty sure you won’t - apart from the pain in your side you feel better rested and healthier than you have in weeks. His presence in the tiny bathroom should make you feel crowded; instead you find yourself enjoying his quiet company.
“Nice,” you say as you contemplate your effort in the mirror.
“Yes,” Cas says from behind you, and you barely jump at his sudden change of position, almost used to his quiet, unobtrusive ways by now. He steps around you, waiting by the door to let you pass. He does that a lot: letting you take point so that he can follow; whether out of some sense of protection or for another reason, you’re not entirely sure. It’s one of many mysteries about him you’ve yet to unravel.
Like so often, his attention is focused on you; likewise, you keep glancing at his still form resting against the wall while you put away your things. His eyes are half-closed, his hands hanging at his sides. You smile to yourself at the sight he presents: his dark hair mussed from sleep (or whatever it is he does when he rests at night), his tie dangling loosely around his neck, because he rarely remembers to fasten it. It’s a familiar sight by now, him being so close, so relaxed around you. You feel a fondness well up inside you, a warmth that swells in your chest until you have to look away, or step closer. It’s a choice you’ve never really given any thought to before today; you’ve always looked away before the urge to move toward him became too overwhelming.
Today, with the warmth of the early morning sun bringing a faint blush to his skin, you don’t think you want to look away any longer.
“Hey,” you murmur as you step in front of him, still an arm’s length away from him. His stance doesn’t change; he looks just as open, just as inviting as he did a moment ago.
“Dean,” he says, and you grin at that, at how many meanings he manages to put into the single syllable of your name. Like hey, and you’re welcome and it’s nice having you this close to me. That latter is a guess, and a hopeful one at that, but you’re about to give him every opportunity to evade you, if he wants to.
You move in slowly, letting your gaze take in every detail of his face: the way his eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the edges, the sweep of his lashes as he blinks in the sun, the dark shade of stubble on his cheeks, the wide and luscious curve of his lips. His breath catches a little in his throat as you stop in front of him, your chest almost touching his. You wait for him to move but he doesn’t, so you gently raise a hand to his shoulder, leaving the way to the door unblocked, in case he chooses to bolt.
“Cas,” you murmur, your fingers skimming over the fabric of his shirt down to his collarbone and along its length to the hollow of his throat. His shirt falls open there, leaving his skin bare to the touch. You brush your thumb lightly over the sensitive skin there; encouraged by another catch in his breath, you look up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, darker than you’ve ever seen them, and shining with wonder. Your own breath hitches in your throat and you lean closer, suddenly hungry for the heat radiating off his skin. You press your lips lightly to the hollow of his throat, lingering only for the briefest of moments before you choose another spot, a little higher and more to the side. You find his pulse there, pounding hard and fast against the heat of your mouth. Cas makes a noise then, a soft gasp that ends on a whimper and is followed by his hands curling in the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer to him.
You follow eagerly, kissing a line up his throat, letting your lips fall open so you can get a taste of him. When you reach the line of his jaw, you carefully nip at the skin, drawing a throaty gasp from Cas.
“Dean,” he says, low and fierce and eager, and the sound of his voice makes you push closer, letting him feel your weight against him. You bring your hands up to his face, angling his mouth toward yours, holding him still for a moment.
“Hey,” you murmur again, “hey,” and his breath sweeps hotly over your lips, making you tremble with the need to finally close that last bit of distance.
“Please,” he says and you nod, your nose brushing against his, and then your mouths are touching, and you will forever remember this first kiss, all heat and impatience and learning how to fit against each other, and you’ll wonder what on earth took you so long.
Fin.
Author:
ethiaRating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: 5.01, to be on the safe side
Warnings: second person POV; schmoop
Word Count: 4.084
Summary: Six times Dean wanted to kiss Castiel (and one time he did).
Notes: Title taken from Even If Love by Bonnie Prince Billy.
(6)
You’ve all made it back in one piece, and Bobby’s been generous with the beer (not that he would ream your hide for liberating another two bottles from the fridge, but still). Cas didn’t take so much as a swig, but he followed you out onto the porch where the day’s heat feels less blistering than the stuffiness inside. The short hair at the nape of his neck is starting to curl with sweat and you realize that, angel or not, he must be just as hot as you.
“Here,” you say, offering him your bottle, its neck slick and cold with condensation. He half-dips his head towards you, glancing up at you from underneath thick, heavy lashes.
“I shouldn’t,” he says, taking the bottle from you anyway.
“It’s just beer, Cas,” you say, “I don’t think it’s very high up on the list of things you get kicked out of heaven for.”
You think you see his lips twitch at that, or maybe he’s just wondering if he’ll hate the taste as much as that of liquorice. Before you’ve decided which is more likely he’s already lifted the bottle to his lips and, half-closed eyes on yours, he’s dipping his head back a little to take a long swig. A few drops of water slide past his fingers; you watch him blink as the cool moisture hits his chin, then runs down the length of his neck in slim, wet trails. You feel inspired by the sight, and have already begun to raise one of your hands before you notice what you’re doing. Cas seems oblivious, caught up in savoring his first taste of beer. You let your hand sink back to your side, curling your fingers briefly against the rough denim of your jeans.
“Well?” you say, and if your voice sounds a little rough it’s because you’re parched, and not because Cas is looking at you with dark eyes, his mouth all wet and glistening and looking more inviting than you ever thought possible. You try to swallow around the sudden dryness in your mouth.
“Thank you,” Cas says, licking his lips as though chasing the last remnants of this new and unfamiliar taste. “I think I needed this.”
He passes the bottle back to you and you quickly look down, suddenly grateful for the distraction. There’s a new sort of heat unfolding in your chest, and it has little to do with the white-hot glare of the late afternoon sun.
“There’s more in the fridge,” you offer, a bit more gruffly than you intended. Cas gives a minute shake of his head, his eyes so intent that you wonder what’s on his mind. He settles in next to you, resting his arms on the wooden railing, standing almost close enough for your shoulders to touch.
“I don’t think Bobby would approve,” he says, and this time his lips are twitching. You lightly bump his shoulder with your own, feeling lighter than you have in a long while.
“I’ll handle that,” you say, then raise the bottle to your lips, curious if the taste will be any different than before.
*
(5)
It happens on the drive back to the motel, and it’s nothing to write home about (or mention to Sam, God forbid). If it is anything at all, then maybe you’re high on adrenaline, and tired as all fuck at the same time.
Pouring rain is turning the night black, swallowing up the headlights’ glare, rendering them next to useless. Your attention should be on the road, but you keep sneaking glances at the passenger seat, where Cas is riding shotgun.
“Cas?”
“Yes, Dean?”
He hasn’t spoken in almost half an hour; he sounds tired, and when you throw another brief glance his way you see the same stony expression he’s worn since you got into the car. His face gleams wetly in the sparse light, and you’re almost sure there’s nothing but rain on his skin.
“You all right, buddy?”
He gives a terse nod; your gaze drops to his lap where his hands are clenching briefly.
“Fuck,” you say under your breath, your own fingers curling tightly around the wheel in sympathy. You pull over at the next opportunity, kill the engine and sit listening to the sound of the rain hitting your car like a rush of bullets, one after another, never ceasing, never abating. When you turn to face him, he still hasn’t moved.
“Look,” you say, “I know it’s bad, having to do this kind of thing.” Killing one of your own, you don’t say, because you don’t think it’s what Cas needs to hear right now.
“There was no other way,” he says, and he does look at you now, his eyes dark, a fine sheen of moisture underneath. He looks lost, and out of place, and, worst of all, he looks like he knows it. You wish there was something you could say to make it better, to somehow ease his pain, but you can’t think of a single thing. He’s killed an angel tonight, one of his brothers (for you, and the thought makes your heart clench tigthly in your chest) and what comfort could you possibly offer?
You settle for gripping his shoulder tightly, squeezing until he half-turns into your touch. He lets his head drop back against the seat, eyes still on you. There’s something in the angle of his face toward yours, in the way he half opens his mouth that makes your heart speed up until you feel your pulse throb in your throat.
“I,” you say, and your hand on his shoulder is no longer resting, it’s gently kneading away the tension you feel thrumming against your fingers, “I’m sorry you had to do this.”
His eyes slip close for a moment, and your breath is catching in your throat; you’ve never seen him look so open, so vulnerable. As much as you want to, you can’t promise he won’t have to do it again; it would be a lie, and he deserves better from you. He gives another small nod, and you let your hand fall away, before you can start to pull him toward you, closing that last bit of distance between him and you.
“We should get back,” you murmur, your fingers clamped securely around the steering wheel, your eyes on the blackness surrounding you.
“Yes,” he says, and you can feel his gaze on you, and if your heart is still stuttering it’s nothing but leftover adrenaline from a hunt gone all wrong.
*
(4)
There’s so much blood that you have no idea where to begin (much like you didn’t when faced with the long, ugly gash in Sam’s chest). You look at yourself in the mirror, careful to keep your eyes on your face. Your skin is pale, and there’s a sheen of sweat on your forehead that has nothing to do with being too hot.
“Fuck, Sammy,” you whisper, gripping the edge of the sink with slippery hands. “Fuck.”
Your chest feels much too tight for you to draw in enough air; you gasp in short, hurtful breaths. You reach for the tap with a shaking hand, your fingers slipping uselessly on the smooth metal.
“Dean.”
The suddenness of that low voice next to you makes you jump; you almost lose your balance, but Cas steps around you, steadying you with one arm around your shoulder and his chest to your back.
“Let me,” he says, his breath warm against the side of your face as he reaches past you to turn on the water. You look up to meet his gaze in the mirror, but his eyes are on his hands as they reach for yours, pulling them under the warm spray.
“What, no more angel mojo tonight?” you ask, and your voice is just as shaky as your hands.
“Is this unpleasant?” he asks back, his fingers rubbing at yours with unerring, gentle pressure. It’s anything but; it’s soothing and distracting both at the same time, and you can feel your breath even out under his gentle ministrations.
“No,” you murmur, shaking your head, letting your gaze drop to his hands on yours. He’s working with a quiet grace (much like he did when it became clear that your stitches weren’t enough to stem the flow of blood from Sam’s wound). Unlike before, he takes his time now, gently rubbing the last traces of blood from your fingers. You let out a long breath when he uses his thumb to draw broad, soothing circles across your palm. Your eyes drift shut, and for a moment your world’s reduced to just this: the feel of his fingers entangled with yours, the warmth of the water flowing over your skin, the solid warmth of Cas engulfing you from behind, the quiet thudthud of his heartbeat against your back.
It’s only when you hear the rusty creaking of the tap that you open your eyes again, blinking against the harsh glare of the neon light. The blood’s gone, but so is the unbearable tension in your chest. You feel calmer, almost at peace, and it finally sinks in that Sam will live, that although today was a close call you’ll get to keep him by your side, for now. You look up, seeking Cas’ gaze in the mirror.
“Thank you,” you say, and although he doesn’t smile his expression softens into a quiet sort of radiance that takes your breath away.
“Always,” he says, and when he steps away to get you a towel you feel his sudden absence sharply, wondering how you could ever think he was standing too close.
*
(3)
You don’t remember much of the night, but some parts you can recall with alarming clarity.
Like the part where you got so drunk you could barely stand, and feeling so good about it that you placed your arm around Cas’ shoulders, alternately imparting advice about women and laughing at his wide-eyed expression when you got to the racier bits.
Then there’s the part where one of the waitresses got it into her pretty little head to try and flirt with Cas; you remember that one well. It seemed funny enough at first, watching Cas squirm under her attention. You started to tease him then - must be those dark eyes of yours, or maybe she’s drawn to your mouth, Cas, those full lips just begging to be kissed - and when he blushed you felt an answering heat rising in your cheeks, matching the slow, deep burning in the pit of your stomach. You watched as his mouth - those full, luscious lips - pulled into a thin line (you thought it was anger, then, but you’re not so sure now) and his eyes slipped away from you, coming to rest on that waitress, thoughtful, appraising.
You remember the stab you felt at that, the red-hot flare of resentment, and the intensity of your reaction scared you so much that it made you rise from your half-crouched perch on the bar stool with a swiftness that made you stumble backwards.
He was there to catch you (as always), moving so quickly you barely had time to brace yourself for the fall before you felt his hands on your arms, taking your weight with unnatural ease. You remember him pulling you toward him, back onto your feet; remember suddenly being so close to him you could feel his breath on your face, all hot and rushed.
What you remember more than anything else is the want you felt right then, sharp and intense and burning inside you: like nothing would be easier than closing the distance and touching your lips to his, branding him with your heat.
You can still recall the way his hands felt on your arms, suspended between pushing and pulling, like maybe he was waiting for you to make your decision.
The next part is where things are getting hazy; all you know for sure is that Sam was somehow suddenly there, giving you a look, making you step away from Cas so fast you almost lost your balance again. Your memory fades out on that guarded, closed-off look on Castiel’s face, and you wonder what it will take to make you forget just how much you wanted him then to want you back.
*
(2)
You’ve gone without sleep for almost three days now, and Sam’s on your back about getting some fucking rest, man, before you land us in a ditch in the middle of nowhere.
He’s probably already asleep in the room next door; you wish you could say the same for yourself. Downstairs, you can hear Bobby rummaging around in the living room. You think about joining him; you hate research to the point where the pure dullness of it might actually help you fall asleep.
It’s when you’ve warmed up to the idea enough to start getting out of bed when you feel the mattress shift to the right. Your heart jumps into your throat, and you barely manage to keep yourself from reaching for the hunting knife under your pillow.
“Cas,” you hiss, frowning at his dark shape perched on the edge of the bed, “I’m too young to die from a heart attack, you know.”
You can barely make out his expression in the darkness of the room, but you’re pretty sure it’s not very apologetic. As he shifts his weight to turn toward you, you let out a long breath, scooting over to make some room. He stretches out next to you and, with his face much closer now, you can see the curiosity there.
“Why are you still awake, Dean?” he says, and you can feel the low rumble of his voice resonate deep down in your bones.
“Did Sam send you? You playing Sandman on his orders?”
“He is worried about you.” His gaze dips to your chest for a moment, then back up to your eyes. “As am I.”
“Because I’m such a fragile flower.”
You can feel the heat of him next to you, even with the cover and layers of clothing separating you. His weight makes the mattress curve underneath him, creating the slightest of pulls, like his own personal well of gravity. You roll over slightly to face him, giving in to the silent invitation.
“You need to sleep,” he says, his voice no more than a soft lull. “I can help you with that.”
So this is where you’re heading; you wait for him to raise his hand and touch his fingers to your forehead. He doesn’t make a move, dark, patient eyes on yours, and you realize he’s waiting for permission.
“No weird dreams, okay?” you murmur, ears straining for another sound than the quiet in and out of his breathing. There is none, and you allow yourself to relax. “If you give me weird dreams, I’ll make you ride with Sam in the backseat, and he will talk to you for hours. About boring stuff. For hours.”
As threats go, it’s not the worst you’ve ever come up with, so you’re not too surprised to see Cas’ face soften into that almost-smile of his.
“I will… bear that in mind.”
He leans toward you then, bringing his face so close to yours that all you’d have to do is lift your head just a little to make your mouths meet, to find out if his lips are as soft as they look. The thought sends your heart racing; if Cas notices, he doesn’t show it. You force yourself to lie still as the tips of his fingers graze the side of your face, brushing toward your temple ever so softly.
“Dream well, Dean,” he whispers, and then darkness rushes in, laced with the heat of Castiel’s body hovering over your own.
*
(1)
You didn’t notice the pain so much at first; now that the shock is starting to wear off, you can feel it draining the strength from your body with every step you take. It doesn’t help that your feet are slipping in the mud, or that the rain leaves Cas’ coat so slippery you can barely hold on.
“We’re almost there,” he says above the howling of the wind and the patter of the rain. You try to nod in response, cursing yourself for not letting Cas zap you back to the motel like he wanted to. Goddamn stubborn pride, you think, struggling onward, clinging to Castiel’s side with what little strength you’ve got left. There could be people watching, faces peeking out at the weather from behind tattered curtains, and the last thing you need is the cops turning up because someone saw two men disappear from a parking lot in the middle of a thunderstorm.
You somehow make it across the length of the lot without falling down (you’re pretty sure Cas is taking more of your weight than you do by now) and you almost moan with relief when you’re no more than two steps away from your room.
“Wait,” you say, starting to fumble for your keys with fingers that are warm and slick with blood. He lets you struggle for as long as it takes, and you curl into the warmth of his body, grateful for his quiet support. When you look up at him, your vision starts to blur; you place the keys in his hand with trembling fingers.
“Dean,” Cas says, sounding alarmed. His grip around you tightens, and you’re not entirely sure your feet are still touching the ground. He pulls you close, one arm reaching out to open the door. You turn your face toward him, seeking out his warmth, and when your lips brush against his neck it feels like the most natural thing in the world. You allow your mouth to linger on his skin; as you breathe in, your nose is filled with the scent of him, and you realize it smells familiar, that it’s been with you for some time now, only never this intense.
“Dean,” Cas says again, infinitely more softly now, his voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it before, and then suddenly another pair of hands pulls you away from him and into the room you share with Sam.
“God, Cas, what happened to him?” you hear Sam ask, and you’re struggling to stay awake, but you’re going under anyway, wondering if you’ll ever find out what Castiel’s skin tastes like without being diluted by rain.
*
0
Shaving’s been a bitch ever since you took that hit to your side; the pull of your muscles as you lift your arm is painful, and you hiss under your breath with every stroke of the razor.
“Dean.”
“Huh?” You make, casting a quick glance at where Cas is perching on the edge of the tub, watching you. He’s frowning, and since he’s shrugged out of his coat for once you can see the tension pulling his shoulders taut underneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
“I could help,” he offers, jerking his chin toward the razor in your hand.
“Nah,” you say, your attention slipping back to the task at hand, “I need the practice. Which you lack, by the way, so thanks all the same.”
You manage to finish the job without nicking yourself; Cas’ eyes never leave your face in the mirror, as though he expects you to drop dead any minute now. You’re pretty sure you won’t - apart from the pain in your side you feel better rested and healthier than you have in weeks. His presence in the tiny bathroom should make you feel crowded; instead you find yourself enjoying his quiet company.
“Nice,” you say as you contemplate your effort in the mirror.
“Yes,” Cas says from behind you, and you barely jump at his sudden change of position, almost used to his quiet, unobtrusive ways by now. He steps around you, waiting by the door to let you pass. He does that a lot: letting you take point so that he can follow; whether out of some sense of protection or for another reason, you’re not entirely sure. It’s one of many mysteries about him you’ve yet to unravel.
Like so often, his attention is focused on you; likewise, you keep glancing at his still form resting against the wall while you put away your things. His eyes are half-closed, his hands hanging at his sides. You smile to yourself at the sight he presents: his dark hair mussed from sleep (or whatever it is he does when he rests at night), his tie dangling loosely around his neck, because he rarely remembers to fasten it. It’s a familiar sight by now, him being so close, so relaxed around you. You feel a fondness well up inside you, a warmth that swells in your chest until you have to look away, or step closer. It’s a choice you’ve never really given any thought to before today; you’ve always looked away before the urge to move toward him became too overwhelming.
Today, with the warmth of the early morning sun bringing a faint blush to his skin, you don’t think you want to look away any longer.
“Hey,” you murmur as you step in front of him, still an arm’s length away from him. His stance doesn’t change; he looks just as open, just as inviting as he did a moment ago.
“Dean,” he says, and you grin at that, at how many meanings he manages to put into the single syllable of your name. Like hey, and you’re welcome and it’s nice having you this close to me. That latter is a guess, and a hopeful one at that, but you’re about to give him every opportunity to evade you, if he wants to.
You move in slowly, letting your gaze take in every detail of his face: the way his eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the edges, the sweep of his lashes as he blinks in the sun, the dark shade of stubble on his cheeks, the wide and luscious curve of his lips. His breath catches a little in his throat as you stop in front of him, your chest almost touching his. You wait for him to move but he doesn’t, so you gently raise a hand to his shoulder, leaving the way to the door unblocked, in case he chooses to bolt.
“Cas,” you murmur, your fingers skimming over the fabric of his shirt down to his collarbone and along its length to the hollow of his throat. His shirt falls open there, leaving his skin bare to the touch. You brush your thumb lightly over the sensitive skin there; encouraged by another catch in his breath, you look up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, darker than you’ve ever seen them, and shining with wonder. Your own breath hitches in your throat and you lean closer, suddenly hungry for the heat radiating off his skin. You press your lips lightly to the hollow of his throat, lingering only for the briefest of moments before you choose another spot, a little higher and more to the side. You find his pulse there, pounding hard and fast against the heat of your mouth. Cas makes a noise then, a soft gasp that ends on a whimper and is followed by his hands curling in the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer to him.
You follow eagerly, kissing a line up his throat, letting your lips fall open so you can get a taste of him. When you reach the line of his jaw, you carefully nip at the skin, drawing a throaty gasp from Cas.
“Dean,” he says, low and fierce and eager, and the sound of his voice makes you push closer, letting him feel your weight against him. You bring your hands up to his face, angling his mouth toward yours, holding him still for a moment.
“Hey,” you murmur again, “hey,” and his breath sweeps hotly over your lips, making you tremble with the need to finally close that last bit of distance.
“Please,” he says and you nod, your nose brushing against his, and then your mouths are touching, and you will forever remember this first kiss, all heat and impatience and learning how to fit against each other, and you’ll wonder what on earth took you so long.
Fin.
