Archive of Our Own

Pain is the first emotion Castiel, angel of the lord, feels. He’s not sure it’s an emotion, really, but it still hits him, ugly and undignified. It's nothing, barely a scratch. The body took all the damage, and Castiel couldn’t care less about the body. The gunshots from the hunters don't slow down his determined stride. Neither does the knife stabbed in the body's fragile flesh.

Right after pain is anger, righteous and vengeful. Anger feels good, and a tight smile forms on the body' lips as he removes the blade from its chest, looking up at the man Heaven is so determined to get its hands on, Dean Winchester. Castiel doesn't know much about humans, though he's been watching over them for a long time, but he's fairly certain what fills the man's eyes as Castiel touches his friend's forehead before turning back to face him, is terror.

Castiel's anger leaves him quickly, was never nothing much to begin with. He is left with only the overbearing duty carrying him forward. He and Dean need to talk, alone. He will bring him to Heaven. His father's will shall be accomplished. Duty isn't an emotion, Castiel knows this. But regardless, it is the only one he needs.

Dean Winchester doesn’t like him. He says so a lot, lips curled in anger, and arms spayed. Dean Winchester says a lot of things. He says "son of a bitch" à bunch, carries tons of anger in his frail human body. He should be too insignificant to be so mad at such large things. It’s like an ant throwing a tantrum at the taste of the jam at the pic-nic. Castiel wonders how a man can seemingly hate so much of the world. He doesn't wonder for a long time though, has no need for these questions. Castiel must protect Dean Winchester, and so he will. The inner workings of his mind don’t matter to the lord’s soldier. 

Castiel goes into Dean Winchester's dreams, just to talk to him. Dean Winchester is disrespectful, and appears to have a gift to piss Castiel off, brings the holy fire of anger right back into the vessel's chest. 

"You should pay me some respect." He says to the weak, insignificant man, voice hoarse from feeling more intensely than he has in a century. 

"I dragged you out of hell." Castiel walks towards Dean, almost pining him into the counter, face inches away from his. He thinks he sees fear in his eyes. Maybe something else too, but it's hard to say. Human emotions are too many to name, too confusing, and either way, he's too angry to care. 

"I can throw you back in." He doesn't stay to see if his words had the expected effect on Dean Winchester, doesn't stick around to find out if he'll actually get the respect he deserves.

Doubt is the third emotion Castiel feels. It’s a nasty one, he wishes it never crawled its way into his heart. He tries to cast it out, tries to be what his father needs him to be, but it seems to keep worming away at his brain. Because the Winchesters make some good points. Because he doesn’t want humanity to be destroyed. He spent too long longingly gazing down at them from Heaven. He thinks he likes walking on the ground and looking up at the sky, and he finds he doesn't ache for his home as often as he should.

"Like", that's another new one. Castiel likes humans. He doesn't understand them at all, but he thinks he likes that the most about them. He likes their creativity and their determination.He likes how deeply they care about insignificant things. He likes Sam and Dean the most, just by virtue of actually observing them up close. He knows Uriel doesn't feel the same way, hears it in his tone of voice. Castiel isn't sure he should like humanity in the way he does, vaguely wonders if it's wrong to do so. But he doesn't worry about it too much. It's not an emotion that feels sinful , and it doesn't get in the way of his holy duty.

Doubt does though, and it doesn't leave him, the insidious traitor. The more time he spends with the Winchesters, the more little ugly questions crack into his holy shield of faith. Where is his father? What does Heaven even want with Dean Winchester? 

When Dean Winchester first calls him “Cas”, Castiel doesn’t understand he’s talking to him. But he keeps referring to him like that, and eventually, it stucks, that this Cas and him are one and the same. There’s something about the nickname, about taking away his -iel, about bringing him down to humanity’s level. It should be humiliating, infuriating, but it only feels... tender. He’s scared of how much he cares about it. His name didn't use to mean anything, was simply a denomination. He never put much thought into it. But Cas, Cas is someone else entirely. Cas rolls of the tongue. Cas is almost human. Cas is a blanket wrapped around Castiel's shoulders. Cas’ name is important, because only Cas’ friends call him that. Cas is always said with emotion. Cas is reduced to emotions, laid bare for all to see. There's a conversation with Sam to be had there too, about names and their importance, about who gives them to you. Names have power, not just for binding and evocation bur for self understanding as well. Sam and he both go by nicknames, by shortened versions of their names, that have become more comfortable then whatever their father gave them.

Jealousy is the fifth emotion Castiel feels. He doesn't realise what it is at first, only registers the strange stab in his chest, but looking back he recognises it as such. Jealousy is a sinful emotion, unfit for a soldier of God. And unlike wrath, it's never holy. It's with jealousy Castiel realises he's kind of fucked. See, other emotions, he could write off as necessary, or as strange distractions. But what use is jealousy to an angel? No, this feels painfully human, and so does the confusion that comes along with it.

Jealousy stabs into him when he sees the way Ana and Dean look at each other. And he doesn't get it, doesn't get why seeing them kiss hurts in this strange new way, but refusing to let the feeling in doesn't stop the pain. Castiel only gets it later, and understanding opens the door wide for the 6th emotion to flood the gates of his stolen heart.

Love. Of course it's love. It's almost like Castiel was destined for love. But not love like this, not love for a single little human. This kind of love  is sinful, and unwanted, so Cas tries to carve it out of his heart, but by the time he’s noticed it, the treacherous feeling dug its roots deep into him. To rip it out would be to rip his heart to shreds. So he tries and live with it, his love for Dean Winchester. He tries to live with the whole sun burning up inside his chest. He does okay, manages to keep anyone from being blinded by its light. He keeps his gaze from dragging on for too long on Dean's hands around the neck of a bottle, on Dean's lips as they curl up around a bubbling laugh.

It's too late already, when Cas realises his heart is tethered to this man. He didn’t want this, didn’t want to feel things like this but now that he’s started he can’t stop, and it’s painful and a kind of bliss at the same time. He’d never want to go back to being an unfeeling pawn, but he can’t help wondering at the strange cesspool of emotions that now fill his ever wanting heart.

Castiel always admired humanity in all its glory, from far away, marveling at the big picture. But ever since he fell, Cas came to admire it in  it’s details: Dean’s faded freckles, the wrinkles around Dean’s eyes when he smiles, the way the light shines on Dean’s hair, painting it almost golden, the stubble kissing at Dean’s jaw. Castiel might have loved humanity, but Cas fell in love with Dean Winchester, almost by accident, almost by fate.

So Cas helps the Winchesters, stays with them just a bit longer then he should. Little by little, he falls out of heaven and into the backseat of their car. He stops keeping a neat mental catalogue of his emotions, feels too many at once to be able to. Sometimes he hangs on to the specific bliss of a perfect little moment, locks it in a little room in the heart that doesn't really belong to Jimmy Novack anymore. This is humanity's biggest strength, he thinks: the ability to live day to day and find joy in the little things. Angels have too global a vision to do this. Time doesn't matter to them, so nothing really does. Mortality gives humans a fearful passion that shoves meaning into the smallest of their moves. Cas admires that. He admires it most in the Winchester's will to defy destiny and Heaven itself. He tries to cling to the similar feeling they inspire in him. But that would be without accounting for another of the first emotions he ever felt: Fear.

Fear clings to his bones as he fights his siblings, as angels he's known his whole life fall to his feet for the sake of 2 men he met 3 months ago. Fear he's not doing the right thing, fear of his father's wrath. Fear of Lucifer, of Heaven, of being hated, of the Winchesters dying in his arms, fear of his own heart and the treacherous beast biting down on it every time Dean looks at him. Fear paralyses him sometimes, and it's all he can do to hold on to his vessel and let the storm of doubt and terror wash over him.

With fear comes back the second emotion, anger. An anger that doesn't feel righteous at all anymore, just feels wrong. It isn't the cosmical anger of a being larger than life itself punishing sinners. It's the anger of a sinner, small, ugly, raw and undignified, for Castiel is now a sinner. He understands how Dean can be so mad from his small life now, because he carries the same rage within him. Anger at heaven, at his siblings, at his absent father, at Sam and Dean, and most of all at himself. 

Shame completes the pantheon of his new-found emotions. A deep seething shame that clings to the tips of his fingers whenever his heavy heart drops a beat. He's ashamed of how low he fell, ashamed of how he sticks his blade in his siblings’ chests, ashamed of all the ugly little feelings pressing around inside of him. Most of all, he's ashamed of the anger, and scared he'll blow up from all of it eventually, take everything away with it.

But there's nothing to be done about it really. The Pandora box is open, Cas feels. Pain is back too, of course, because to feel is to hurt, Cas now understands. He shoulders it. He learns from the Winchesters how to bottle it up tight, because that's what humans do with their emotions, or it’s what these two do at least, and they're the best examples Cas got. 

When Cas realises his father truly left him, is either dead or never really cared enough to stay, his new-found feelings are the worst thing he ever experienced. He wants to tear the heart out of his vessel's flesh, even though he knows that's not how emotions work, knows the blood loss wouldn't solve anything. He does know of a way to ease the pain though, learned it from the Winchesters. So he chugs a bottle. Then a second and a third and he's still not feeling anything so soon enough he's drunk the entire liquor shop and oh this feels good. This feels just fine. This feels fucking great! He laughs. It makes sense now, the way humans chase their own bliss like this. Fuck, he cant believe he never got drunk before. He laughs again. Everything is soft now, all of his ugly feelings soothed down and finally bearable. 

So it's a stumbling angel that makes his way to the Winchester’s door, and together they kill the whore of Babylon, and it's fine. It's fucking fine! He doesn't need God! He really wants to kiss Dean. He isn't sure if he said that out loud. No one is looking at him like he's a cat who brought home a dead bird so probably not. Who gives a shit anyway. He's fucking drunk! 

Later, when the hangover splits his head open, Dean throws him a bottle of pills. Cas is thankful for the pain medication, and more thankful for the compassionate words. It's interesting, how him and Dean have similar issues around their all too powerful absent father. It'd be funny too, if it didn't fuck both of them up so bad, and if Cas wasn't so hangover. Still, he downs the bottle and lets himself stare at Dean's throat for a little longer than he should.

Sometime later, Sam comes up to him, hands in his pockets. 

"Hey Cas." He starts. The angel doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this, this name they gave to him so easily, like it isn't everything.

"I know something about growing up around absent fathers. It sucks and it’s unfair, but you gotta become your own person. Gotta fly with your own wings.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Sure. It’s kind of true though.”

“I’m unsure whether I still don’t understand human humour, or if your particular brand of it is particularly unfunny” he says, squinting up at Sam, who chuckles. 

Sam and Dean emote so much, all of the time, and Castiel only catches the big ones, the large changes on their constantly fluid faces. Still, he must have said something right, because Sam’s tone seems light when he answers, a hand ammically pressed on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Ouch, burn. Still Cas, dads tend to be that way: overwhelmingly important, and then, gradually, they’re not. Eventually God won’t be the end all be all of your quest for meaning.”

Castiel looks to the ground, heart lighter, wonders if Sam knows how true his words ring to the angel's ears, how he finds meaning in many other things these days. There’s meaning in this conversation, meaning in the hand on his shoulder and in the fact they’re even there to share this moment. He wants to say so to Sam, but the man’s already walking away, and Castiel thinks maybe the moment has passed. It feels right too, to keep this revelation to himself, settled between the ribs of Jimmy Novack.

Later still, he asks Sam if he wants him to heal him. Sam furrows his brows, confusion obvious on his face. He looks all over his body, trying to find the bleeding wound Cas must be referring to. Then he appears to get it, and the tension washes away from his shoulders. 

"Oh you mean…" and he lightly taps his chest. Cas knows about the faded white scars, and he nods. He wants to offer this to Sam, because he deserves it, because he thinks they're friends now, though he wouldn't dare to say it out loud. Because he thinks thats what Sam wants.

Sam laughs, light and bubbly.

"No...no Cas it's alright. Shit though, you would have offered this to me 10, 15 years ago? I would have given anything for it. Hell, I prayed, I begged God on my hands and knees for most of my teen years... But I don't need to be healed, or saved, or whatever anymore. Not for being trans at least. I love my scars, they're a testament to how much I've grown, to the roads I've travelled. Sorry, that’s cheesy as hell."

Cas thinks of sitting in the back of an incredibly slow car when he could teleport at any given time, and he thinks he gets it. Sometimes it's not about the terrifying world-ending destination, it's all about the journey.

"And I mean, look at this fucking body." Sam flexes, and Cas understands it's a joke, so he smiles. "Who the hell could have any dysphoria when Adonis is looking back in the mirror every day." They share a laugh, and everything is right in the world for a little while.

And so, gradually, Castiel, angel of the Lord, realises he can’t stay away from Dean Winchester. And he knows he probably has other places he could be, ways he could make himself more useful. He knows this, knows he’s only good as long he’s useful. If he can’t be a weapon in his father’s hands, he’ll be one in Dean’s. It’s his purpose. Who cares if he rebelled, he’s still a soldier. He still isn’t much more than a handgun. He should be looking for his father, though that ship appears to have sailed already. He should be looking for a way to kill the devil. But Dean Winchester cracks a joke Castiel doesn’t understand as he curls his wrist over the steering wheel, so Cas stays seated at the back of the impala. His eyes drift over the back of Dean’s neck, with short hair sticking out, during the long car rides. It fills his vision, becomes his entire word. Everything is reduced to the back of Dean’s neck, and to his wrist curled around the steering wheel.

Riding a car is painfully slow, but pain is something Cas has learned to appreciate. It’s an emotion, and they’re all still so new and deep the angel marvels at them all. So, for now at least, pain is still welcome. Though there’s no emotion he admires more than the tingles in his very human, very stolen stomach he gets when Dean looks over at him, something hidden behind his eyes. Castiel could pry into them, see what Dean thinks when he glances over at his vessel. It wouldn’t be hard, Dean wouldn’t even feel it . But Castiel doesn’t, knows it would be a breach of trust. Maybe he’s a bit scared of what he’ll find behind those eyes too. 

And then, after everything, after Castiel became Cas and killed his kin, after he gave it all up for the Winchesters, Dean has to go and fuck it up. He leaves, he’s ready to sacrifice himself, give himself up to Michael, as though Cas didn’t give up everything to stop Michael from taking him. Dean leaving like that, without even sparring a goodbye, it fills Cas with more rage he’s ever felt. His stolen heart feels like a supernova. He didn’t know he could even experience emotion to this degree. It’d be an interesting phenomena to document if his neural connections weren’t taken over by a burning fire. And then it rings in his head, the only clear white thought in his hot red rage: the man’s prayer. Indicating where Dean is. He’s there in a heartbeat. 

“You pray too loud.” His voice is surprisingly calm, if hoarse. A touch and the man falls to the floor. He will not be having pleasant dreams. Cas, almost automatically, grabs Dean by the collar and drags him in a dark alley. His rage escapes him as he shoves him against the filthy wall.

“I rebelled for this?!” His voice is no longer calm. He screams into Dean’s face, burning rage escaping from his every pore. It’s too much, the anger, to be contained in his frail human vessel. So he explodes, just a bit, punches Dean right in the jaw, barely registers the blood dripping from his newly split lip against his reddened vision. 

“I gave up. Everything for you.” He ponctuates every word with a new fist to Dean’s face. He did give up everything just for him, can’t Dean see that? Of course he can’t, stupid asshole with blinders on. Another punch. “And this is what I get in return?” He grabs on more tightly to Dean’s collar. He’s mere centimeters away from his face now, his whole body pressed flush against his, against bricks that smell like piss. There’s blood on Dean’s face, and fear in his eyes. Good. He should be afraid. He should be so fucking terrified, and he should be ashamaed of what he did to Cas. Of the feelings he shoved into his heart, by merely existing. 

Cas is so fucking angry, and Dean’s lips are right there for the taking. So he takes them, barely has to move forward. It’s like gravity. It’s Cas’ first kiss and it’s not even a kiss at all. It’s a punch in the face. He’d cry about it if he wasn’t so furious. He tastes blood and it only fuels his anger. It only lasts a second too, this nasty rushed press of lips in a dirty back alley, furthest thing from holy you could get. Then Cas’ grips on Dean’s jacket tightens and he throws him away again. 

Dean looks up at him from the ground, fear and confusion in his eyes, but there’s something else too. Acceptance.

“Do it Cas, just do it.”

That’s what gets Cas to unclench his fist, to let go of some of the anger. Dean still doesn’t get it, does it? How could he think for a second that Cas could kill him, even driven by the most righteous of holy rage? The angel isn’t wired that way. He simply never could kill Dean, knows deep down in his bones that he’d die a thousand times before. So he brings two fingers to Dean’s forehead, sending him to sleep. He doesn’t know what he'll dream of, doesn’t want to think about it. A loud sigh escapes him. After anger comes sadness, and a heavy exhaustion settles over his bones. Still, he grabs the unconscious man he’s so desperately in love with by the shoulders, and zaps them over back to Bobby’s place. 

“What happened to him?” asks Sam.

“I did” Cas replies, bitter and still pretty fucking furious. He sure did happen to him uh? Though break, Dean happened to him in such a worse way. Surely the man can handle a broken nose. At least he won’t be offering himself to Michael any time soon.

The apocalypse keeps on rolling, and they have less and less time in front of them before the End. They’re all getting desperate, and Dean brings back up that maybe he should say yes. Cas’ voice is hoarse from restrained anger when he tells him to shut up. Thankfully, Sam is on his side. Cas has learned  the hard way that Dean doesn’t respect him enough to follow his commands, or maybe even to simply trust him. What he can do is ask questions though.

One night, as Sam is walking away from the car to get into the motel and Cas is about to vanish, Dean grabs him by the wrist.

“Wait.” Cas turns around, doesn’t break free from Dean’s loose grip.

“What?” He thinks he knows what this is going to be about, and he doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“Cas…” Dean stares at him, looks for something on his ever so neutral face. Cas doesn’t make it easier for him, and soon enough Dean gives up the search. 

“We need to talk.”

“About what?” Cas knows what Dean thinks they need to talk about, but fuck if he isn’t going to drag his feet screaming and kicking into this rejection. Dean lets go of his wrist, and Cas hates himself for missing the touch. Dean takes a step back, shoves his hands in his jacket’s pockets, rests against the impala. He looks to the ground, unsure. Cas wishes he would just get it out in the open already, so that he could vanish and go lick his wounds someplace quiet.

“The other day, in the alley…”

“Look Dean.” Cas is determined to keep playing dumb. “I’m sorry I beat you up, but you were going to hand yourself over to Michael, and we can’t have that. I shouldn’t have let anger get the best of me though, so I am sorry about that.” 

Dean looks up at him, brows furrowed and lips curled in slight mecontentement. 

“No...not that. Though fuck man, you can really throw a punch.” He massages his still bruised jaw, and Cas forces himself not to stare. He didn’t heal Dean, and Dean didn’t ask him to. Dean takes a deep breath, seemingly trying to force the next words out.

“In the alley Cas, what was that? When you...when you kissed me?” Well, here it is. Dean brushes his mouth with the back of his hand, almost as if conjuring the memory. Cas really, really doesn’t want to have this conversation. He could just vanish. But he knows that would only delay the inevitable, so he just sighs. A very human thing to do, sighing as one prepares to have their heart broken. 

“What do you want me to say, Dean?” He’s too tired to keep the sadness from leaking out with his words. He sprays his hands out, grabbing at nothing. 

“It happened. Then I beat the shit out of you. It’s whatever. We don’t have to talk about it.” He gets ready to leave, but Dean notices and grabs onto his shirt sleeve.

“Wait! Fuck what is it with you and always leaving in a hurry. Let’s just…” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly distressed. Cas hates seeing him like this, and hates the pressure that nestles in his lungs, hates the urge to hug the stupid little man in front of him. “Can we please just talk about this? God knows I’ll never win any communication award but for once, can we just...talk?”

“Talk then.” Dean hasn’t let go of his sleeve yet. Cas wonders if he just hasn’t noticed. 

“Why did you do it?”

“What do you want me to say Dean? Why does anyone do anything? Because I wanted to, I guess. Free will and all that.”

“So you...wanted to kiss me.” He’s still holding on to Cas’ sleeve, like it’s a lifeline and he’s drowning out at sea. Cas can’t find it in him to be compassionate, though.

“Great detective work there. Look, Dean, there’s really nothing more to say.” Cas wants to leave, wants to go find somewhere quiet to soothe his bruised heart and ego. Dean lets go of his sleeve, and he gets ready to vanish, when Dean grabs hold of his fingers instead. Cas is stuck in place, transfixed as Dean links their fingers together, palms grazing. He has no idea what’s happening, and judging by the expression on Dean’s face, neither does he. This is uncharted territory for both of them, and Cas is afraid to breathe, afraid to puncture the strange out of time bubble they seem to have walked in. 

“What if...” Dean starts, voice all small and shy, like a kid afraid he’ll get reprimanded “What if there was something more to say.”

Cas’ heart is in his throat. It isn’t his heart, and it isn’t his throat, but it still feels like it’s going to end up on the pavement, if Dean doesn’t hurry up and say what he has to say.

“Cas…” His thumb is tracing circles on the angel’s palm, and it’s insane how well their hands fit together. He looks back from their hands to Cas’ face, like he just awoke from a daydream. He snatches his hand away, but immediately winces, like he regrets it. Cas lets his hand fall against his waist. He’s not going to chase after Dean. Not right now.

“Look, I don’t know what I’m saying. I just don’t know.” Dean’s hands are ruffling through his hair now, clear panic on his face. So Cas follows one of his urges, for once. Free will and all. He sighs and takes a step closer to Dean. 

“What are you…” Dean’s words die in his throat as Cas throws his arms around him in a tight hug. Cas is new to hugs, knows he can be awkward about them, but he squeezes Dean tightly and runs his fingers in what he hopes are soothing circles on his back. Dean slowly raises his own arms and hugs him back, and it’s nice. It’s just really nice, to hold him and to be held, under the stars, next to the old family car. It’s nice. Dean’s fingers crawl up Cas’ back to bury themselves in his hair. It’s romantic almost, if you ignore everything else about their lives. 

Dean pulls away and looks into Cas’ eyes. He looks like he’s about to crumble. He looks like Heaven. Cas thinks he’s on a roll so far, so he closes his eyes and lets himself move forward. Once again, it’s like gravity. It’s like falling from heaven. Dean meets him halfway. 

Now this, this is a real kiss. Well, not really. It has the virtue of being tender at least. But Cas doesn’t actually know what to do next, and Dean is too terrified to remember how to move, so they just keep their lips stuck together for a few seconds, like a stage kiss. Still, Cas doesn’t taste blood this time, so that's something.

When he pulls back, Dean looks at him like he’s a meteor coming down to hit earth. His fingers graze Cas’ hair one last time before letting go. 

“I uh...I’m gonna go.” He squeezes Cas’ hand before dropping it back to his side. “Thank you.” Cas doesn’t know what he should take away from Dean’s shaken voice. For the first time in a while, he has no idea what he feels as the man he’s still so desperately in love with walks away. 

They kiss again. They get better at it, mouth opening and tongues meeting under the stars. It always happens at night, always near the impala. And they never talk. Apparently that night was enough communication for Dean. Cas is fine with it, doesn’t want to break whatever fragile equilibrium they've somehow stumbled into. They go farther some nights too, wandering hands undoing ties and jackets being thrown onto the hood of the impala. Dean seems to drink Cas in, and Cas can’t get enough. Falling was worth it all, if it meant getting caught in this man’s arms.

They hold hands in those moments too, fingers intertwined, so Cas thinks he understands where the lines are, and how not to cross them. So he goes to take a hold of Dean’s hand one day. They’re in public, but not pretending to be FBI agents, and no one is paying attention to them. Not even Sam is looking in their direction, walking ahead of them. But as soon as his fingers graze Dean’s, Dean snatches his hand away, like he’s been burned. The look he throws Cas is half terror, half anger. So cas learns not to try to hold Dean’s hand in public. 

Dean tells him later, with his hands buried in Cas’ hair and his teeth close to his neck, that he shouldn’t do this, that people can’t know. So Cas says alright, and learns to keep all of his affection to the night. He doesn’t want to scare Dean away. He knows he’s still only kept around as long as he’s useful. And this, well it isn’t exactly useful, but it’s still something Dean wants. And Cas wants it too, so it’s fine. It’s something at least. Cas clings to the nights. He hopes that, someday, he can truly shed Castiel. Because Castiel is useful and wanted but Cas...Cas could be loved.

So they don’t talk, whenever it happens. There are many words piling up on Cas’ tongue, and probably just as many on Dean’s, but they don’t talk. Thousands of little meaningless things could be whispered in the dark, the kind of stuff lovers say without necessarily meaning it. Or bigger things, realer things. Words of love, of worship. But they don’t talk. It’s quiet in the back of the impala, as Dean undoes his tie and presses his burning body against his. It’s quiet except for all the little sounds, as many wordless prayers. And Cas feels like he might burst out of his skin at every butterfly touch. He wonders if he could actually do that, explode. Mimic the supernova that has settled between his ribs. He wonders if he could hurt Dean like that. Explode and take it all with him.

The first time Dean takes off his shirt in front of him, throwing it on the front seat and throwing his lips back on his with a hunger, Cas is transfixed. He’s stuck in place, so Dean pulls back, a silent question in his eyes. Cas raises his hand, slowly, puts it on the handprint scar. Dean gulps, eyes stuck on his. It’s another moment stuck in time. Dean’s skin burns under his palm. And another Dean’s flesh literally burns as he pulls him out of Hell. He did this. He digs his nails in the sensitive skin around the scar. Dean winces.

“Hey Cas, you okay? Don’t go all PTSD-trippy on me now alright?” 

Dean is burning and Cas is saving and grabbing. Dean is burning. Dean will burn again.

“Cas?" There's a warm hand on his shoulder.

Cas shakes out of it, keeps his palm where it first touched Dean. The skin is still warm but it’s no longer burning. Dean is out of hell. And Cas is going to do his damned best to keep him out of it. He throws a small smile to a still confused Dean and drops down to lock their lips together. Dean is happy to not ask any more questions to instead cling to the angel on top of him.

One night, Dean prays to him, and never has a prayer felt more like a booty call. It's clear every time, why he's praying, because it always happens after the sun has set, near the impala, away from Sam, away from the world’s watchful eyes. And there's a desperation in the man's voice as he looks up to the sky, hands in his pockets. Cas entertains the idea of ignoring his prayers, of leaving him waiting and looking up to the stars, breathless and perfect.  But the leash around the angel's neck is pulled tight, and Cas comes running every time. They were shy and awkward the first few times, but it didn’t last long. They got used to each other’s bodies. (Is this his body now? What happened to Jimmy Novack then? Who is he? More importantly, who is he to Dean?). Either way, it's expert hands now that push Cas into the backseat of the impala, and too sharp teeth that leave marks he won't miracle away on the tender stolen skin.

It's one of these nights then, the kind where Dean wants to see him but won't say he loves him. He's propped up against the impala as Cas appears, a beer in hand and another one waiting on the hood. His sleeves are pulled up to his elbows and his shirt is opened up, revealing a hickey Cas remembers leaving on his calve. Cas is mad at him and he doesn't know why. Dean smiles, shy and honest, and it only makes Cas angrier. He offers him the beer, but Cas doesn't take it, only gets closer, looking away from the pit of anger in his stomach. 

"Hey, I know alcohol has pretty much no effect on you, but you're sure you don't want-" Cas doesn't let him finish, grabs him by the collar and shoves him into the car. The beer he tastes on Dean's lips is cheap and acidic. Dean moans in his mouth, letting the kiss deepen and grasping at Cas' trenchcoat with his free hand. When they separate to breathe, his voice is hoarse: 

"What, you're in some kind of hurry or something?" 

Cas' anger is back at that. His words are sharp and his voice a deep rubble. 

"Don't pretend you prayed to me for anything else." 

"Alright, jeez. Leave a guy the illusion of foreplay will ya."

Cas doesn't have time for this. It's bad enough he comes running at Dean's every beck and call, but what the fuck is this? Dean is the one who sets up the terms of their arrangements. Dean is the one who won't hold his hand in public. Dean is the one who'll only show affection like this, in the dark, all tongue and teeth. And now, now that he has everything he wants and Cas must feast on table scraps, now Dean wants to play the victim? Cas has identified the anger rolling around in his belly. It's built on pain and want, it's born from the fear Dean will never love him more than he does now, the fear that Cas will never be anything more than whatever soft body he is reduced to under the pale moonlight. 

His hands are still grabbing at Dean's shirt, and they clasp around his throat in a twitch. He could press down. He could kill this man with a single thought. It's something they've both forgotten, how powerful Castiel is. It's easy to forget sometimes, with the little moans from a body that isn't his own and the cute almost human things he does, but Castiel is a being of incredible power. He isn't human, he isn't something that can even be comprehended by Dean's mind. For a second, he wants to remind them both of that very simple fact. He presses down, fingers digging in soft skin. There's fear in Dean's eyes, fear and confusion. 

Cas is disgusted with both himself and the weak little man standing in front of him, all of a sudden. So he vanishes, leaves Dean to call after him. His pleas towards the angel are confused, then angry and entitled, before turning to begging, but Cas doesn't appear. The angel doesn't leave his side, but stays invisible. He watches as Dean yells himself hoarse to an empty sky, chugs both their beers, runs a hand through his hair and heads back to his motel room.

They don’t talk about that night, just keep meeting like everything is normal. It seems to be a definitive aspect of their relationship, this silence. Cas bottles his anger and keeps his thoughts away from it. 

One evening, Cas is riding shotgun. It’s not remarquable, as Sam is working on another case at the other side of the country. Still, Cas enjoys it. It’s quiet, it’s night and they’re in the impala, so it’s maybe a little too close to one of their more private nights for Dean’s confort, because he turns on the radio. Quiet singing fills up the air between them. Cas tunes it out, until he feels a new tension settle on Dean’s shoulders. 

So Cas, in order to understand the sudden change in atmosphere, turns his mind back to the music. It's a soft man's voice. Cas doesn't know who's, but he doesn't know many musical interpreters.

"...my hand. Take my whole life too, cause I can't help falling in love with you..." Ah. So it's a love song. That explains it. Dean throws a hand out in a frustrated gesture to turn off the radio. Cas doesn't know what possesses him for a second, but he extends his own hand and grabs Dean's wrist. Dean looks back at him, eyes wide, a deer in the headlights. Cas doesn't care if he crashes the car and he has to resuscitate Dean from a smockering impala, he never wants Dean to stop looking at him like that. If he were human, he'd commit this moment to memory forever, burn it behind his eyelids, this: Dean staring at him like he's his entire world, only lit by passing streetlights, the soft sound of rain and what he'll later learn is Elvis' tones barely louder than the sound of their heartbeats. 

A few songs later, none of them as romantically charged thankfully, Dean throws out his hand between them, like a buoy into the storming sea. Cas covers it with his own, his heart full to the brim with love. They hold hands till the car stops, not once needing to talk.

But a hand thrown over a gear box isn’t enough for Cas, not anymore. The bitterness in his vessel’s heart only grows. Because Cas sees how Dean could be, in those too little locked away moments, and the angel is selfish, he wants it all the time, all to himself. Cas wants kisses under the sun, wants interlocked fingers where everyone can see. He’s not asking for grand declarations of love, but would a smile where other people could see it really be too much to ask? 

And God still doesn’t answer. Cas doesn’t know why he keeps praying to his absent father. Maybe it’s a habit. Maybe there’s still hope, stashed somewhere in his vessel. Either way, he keeps reaching out, small words thrown into the ether. At first it was big requests, things about the apocalypse, things they needed help for. Then his prayers turned sour, when it became clear Daddy wasn’t coming home. And now he treats praying like a diary, and he dots all his “I”s with hearts, scribbles Dean’s name all over. “Oh God is this love wrong? Should I stop this all? But who are you to tell me not to love?” and the hardest question, the one he whispers the most “Will he love me back?” It’s pathetic, like a kid tearing out petals from a flower, but Cas can’t stop it. 

It’s not healthy, this arrangement they have going on. Cas knows it the day it starts, knows he won’t be satisfied for ever with it.. So it’s no surprise, not really, when he blows up. It’s another liquor shop that ends up gushing through his veins, and here he is standing in front of Dean, stumbling and still holding a half empty whiskey bottle. He appears in their motel room, shakes a confused Dean awake. 

“You and I need to talk.'' His voice is rough and deep, heavy with alcohol. Dean throws a panicked look over to Sam, then back to Cas. Cas who’s centimeters away from his face, clearly drunk as a skunk. Dean’s good at putting 2 and 2 together under situations of stress, and fear immediately deforms his features. He throws himself out of bed, drags the angel towards the door, angrily whispering to him.

“Cas, what the fuck are you doing here?” He opens the door as quietly as he can and shoves them both out of the room, right as Cas yells out

“Oh what, I don’t get to come unless you ask me to?”

“Jesus don’t be so loud, you’ll wake Sam up.” Dean is still dragging him away from the room. And it’s still all about not waking Sam up, all about not being seen, not making a scene. Cas is so fucking sick of it. He shouts now, anger coloring his every word.

“Why don’t you want Sam to wake up?” 

“What are you playing at, Cas? You know why. How much did you drink?”

“Enough. And no, actually I don’t know why. What the fuck are you so afraid of, Dean? You really think your bi trans blood sucking freak of a brother is going to, what, call you a fag? Disown you? Punch you in your stupid fucking face? For what?”

“Cas…”

“No no, for what exactly Dean? For the kissing? For the fucking? For the hand holding? Oh no, nevermind, you don’t do that one!” He’s screaming now, and he didn’t mean to reveal so much, to show himself so raw, but he guesses that’s the point of the alcohol.

Dean looks like a beat up puppy for a second, and Cas is ready to let go of his rage to hug this poor lost man. But only for a second, before a scowl deforms Dean’s angelic features.

“Can’t fucking do this sober.” He grabs the bottle from Cas’ loose hold and chugs it all down. Cas stares at the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down his throat, vision blurring. Dean throws the bottle to the ground. Cas is busy contemplating the glass shatters shining under the electric sign’s light, when Dean’s hands cradle his face and shoves his lips on his. Cas opens his mouth under his, lets their tongues meet. For a moment, he wants to let go, wants to let Dean have this, let himself have it, but his anger rises back in his throat, burns like the alcohol did. So he shoves Dean away in the middle of a frankly obscene moan, wipes his mouth like he wants to erase the memory of the kiss, the memory of every kiss, maybe. 

 He’s so fucking sick of it all, and he yells it out to Dean in the parking lot of this shady motel, heart so heavy he thinks it could sink through his ribs and splatter on the concrete. Because after all this time, after all he’s given to this man, he’s still a dirty little secret to be kept under wraps. “Yes'' mutters the mean little Dean running around in his mind. “You can hold my hand and wash my feet like a bootleg Mary Magdalene and fuck me till i scream but only when no one’s looking, only when we’re sure it wont be seen.” He’s sick of Dean’s issues, sick of his feelings being played with, sick of having feelings at all, like some disgusting humain. He wishes he could kiss it all goodbye, leave them in the dirt to fight amongst themselves, but he can’t. He just can’t. He rebelled and fell, all to hold a scared man’s hand in the dark. And now he’s stuck, feet dragging on the dirt to stay close to the same scared man who won’t take his hand in the light.

He doesn’t know which part he yells out loud and which one he only thinks. The alcohol blurs everything together. Dean looks repetent and scared and lonely all at once, and Cas’ voice is only a whisper when he tells him he only wants to be held. The anger leaks out of him, and only leaves sadness and a strange longing for sleep. Dean approaches him like he’s a wild animal, and slowly wraps his arms around his shoulders. Cas lets himself fall into the taller man, just like he fell from Heaven. Dean rubs circles into his back and Cas can’t find the strength to hug him back, so his arms remain to his sides, limp and useless. It’s incredible, he thinks, how well their bodies still fit, even like this. Dean’s voice is soft in his ear, and everything Cas craves. 

“I’m sorry Cas, I really am. I care about you, you might be the person I care about the most in this whole stupid world. I’m just...I’m just fucked up Cas.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Cas’ cheeks are wet. How strange, that Castiel, angel of the lord, feels enough that he can be driven to tears by one lonely man. Dean’s thumb is patting his cheek awkwardly, trying to dry his tears. 

“I’ll tell Sam, about us. I promise. You can hold my hand Cas. I’m sorry I’m like this. I  care so much about you. I need you Cas. I…”

Dean kisses his forehead, and Cas takes it as the “I love you” he can’t quite say yet.

They end up sleeping in the car, because Cas doesn’t want to leave and Dean has enough presence of mind to not ask him to. It’s cramped, wasn’t designed for two grown men to hold each other through the night, and Cas doesn’t actually sleep, just stares at Dean. He keeps staring even when the lights shut down and it gets too dark to see anything. They kept their clothes too, stayed all buttoned up, and somehow this feels as, maybe even more, intimate as all the dirty yet holy fucks on those same seats. Dean’s breath is warm against his neck. His heavy weight against him, pinning him to the leather seats, is a comfort. Cas feels so close to humanity that night, the cloud of alcohol blurring everything together, a warm man he loves so much he gave up everything for him wrapped around him, on the backseat of an old cherished car. He lets himself hope, as Dean snores against his ear, that Cas can live, that humanity will let him in and Dean will hold on to his hand. He hopes the “iel” can simply be buried underneath his ribs, not forgotten but not used either. Not quite him anymore.

When morning comes, Dean cracks a smile, before cracking his bones as he stretches into the limited space. His “morning” is all slow and small, feels guilty, feels like he’s saying more than just this word. Cas isn’t sure where they’re standing, is afraid of making a wrong move and breaking the ice beneath their feet. He said his piece last night, he thinks. The alcohol still kind of blurs his memory into a pleasant mush. But he still thinks the ball is in Dean’s court, Cas heart’s in his hands. 

Dean brings Cas’ knuckles to his lips, barely lays a kiss on them, almost absently. He looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Cas supposes he sort of does. 

“I’m gonna…” Dean starts “I’m gonna tell Sam. About us. About uh, about me, I guess.” He looks through the rear windshield, teeth worrying at his bottom lips. His voice is even quieter when he continues “Sorry I didn’t do it sooner. I know it was shitty to you, I just…” A shrug. Dean looks back at him, seems to lose his words in whatever he sees on Cas’ face. Cas leans in, kisses his forehead. This is a good morning, he thinks. This might be the loveliest morning in a while, Dean and him cramped together in ruffled clothes on leather back seats, stinking of alcohol, the rising light painting Dean’s cheekbones golden. And Dean ready to hold his hand under his brother’s (kind and understanding of course, what else could it be) eye. Apparently, getting drunk and throwing a tantrum in the middle of a parking lot works. Who would have thought? Cas makes a note of it, though he’s pretty sure it was a one time fluke.

They step out of the car and Dean stretches again

“I can’t believe I’m getting old enough that sleeping in a car actually hurts in the morning." He shakes himself like a wet dog. "Also it’s fucking freezing. Come on.” He grabs Cas’ wrist and quickly heads towards the motel. 

“Let’s get the whole terrifying coming out ordeal over with already.”

Sam is putting on his boots when they get in, doesn’t look up when he says: 

“Hey, Dean. Where d'you sleep?” A quick glance up. “Oh hi Cas.” Dean is still holding on to Cas’ wrist, with an iron grip, and he doesn’t answer, teeth gritted, so Cas waves his free hand to not be rude. Sam catches on the weird tension that walked in the room with Dean, and glances to his hand clutching the angel’s wrist. 

"...What's up?”

Dean’s grip on his wrist somehow gets tighter, so Cas shakes himself free and links their fingers together instead. Sam’s eyebrows pop up on his forehead, but quickly go down, back to a mask of polite expectation. Dean grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and throws himself into the freezing water.

“Sam. Me. Cas. We’re a thing. Also. I think I'm. Gay.” He barks the confession out, almost collapses after, eyes closed like he's expecting a sword of a Damocles to slice his neck. Cas holds on tight to him, biting down on the wide smile that wants to fill his face.

“Oh yeah.” Sam’s voice is relaxed. “Thanks for telling me. I’m happy for you guys!”

Dean’s face falls flat. “That’s it?”

“Well yeah. I kinda...knew about it already?”

“What?”

“Well, you weren’t exactly subtle. The car smelled of sex every other week. I didn’t mention it cause it seemed rude but come on dude, you could have bought an air freshener. And you stopped going to strip clubs, or flirting at bars, or even looking at girls… I know we’re fighting the apocalypse and all, but that was still a pretty clear tell.``

“Ah.”

“Yeah, I didn’t say anything cause I know you’re emotionally constipated enough to die yet another time if I ever confronted you on it but like. I knew. Happy for you!”

“Ah.”

“Dean are you okay? Are you dying on me?”

“Ah.”

Cas can’t keep the grin off of his face now, pride filling up his heart. 

“His vital functions are fine.”

Sam laughs, and Cas wants to laugh back, because he did mean it as a joke. Because this feels human, loving, and all kinds of rights. 

“I can tell you his heart rate is too fast, but probably not enough to lead to an heart attack.”

“Oh my god shut up.” Dean barks out, and Cas laughs, bright and bubbly. He squeezes Dean’s hand too, in support, and that only seems to fluster him even more. Dean buries his head in Cas’ shoulder, and the angel’s heart feels so light he thinks it might fly away. Sam smiles, looking genuinely happy for and proud of them.

“Well Dean, if we survive the apocalypse and everything, I can’t wait to be your best man.”

“Don’t start!” Dean throws a finger in his brother’s direction, face red. But it’s  clear even to Cas, who still doesn’t register all of their expressions, that the anger is faked, that everything between them is joyous and light. And sure, Lucifer is still raising hell, and they might all die in a few weeks, but Cas can’t help but feeling like it’ll all be alright.

So, the world is ending. And it’s all on their 3 sets of shoulders. Real big responsibility. But one friday night, where they don’t have any leads, where they’re sick of it all, they decide to say fuck it and drive up to a bar. Turns out it’s a karaoke bar. Dean is way too happy about it. Alcohol still doesn’t really do anything to Cas, but he likes to fit in, likes to play at being human. Plus, some of the cocktails with funny colours taste really good. He’s planning to try them all a few times.Dean is sitting at the counter next to him, nursing a beer, looking at him with his head propped on his hand. Cas feels a pleasing warmth settle in his stomach, is unsure how much of it is due to the cocktails and how much is due to Dean’s tipsy smile and the glances he keeps throwing to his lips. Cas sort of really wants to lean over and kiss him right here and there, but maybe that’s still too soon. He doesn’t want to ask too much, to break whatever unsaid rules still lay between them. So he keeps himself tight into his stolen skin, downs his pink cocktail.

Dean shakes himself out of his reverie then:

“You know what? We’re getting shots.” He throws a hand out to the bartender, orders their drinks. “And I’m keeping up with you.”

“Dean, you know I require gallons and gallons of alcohol to actually feel any of its effects right?”

“Yeah well. Years of alcoholism haven’t failed me yet.”

They start drinking together. Dean keeps up at first, and they slam the small drinks on the counter in harmony. But Cas doesn’t slow his rhythm and Dean starts falling behind. 

“Fuck, how do you...how do you even do that?” he says, head on his arms on the counter, surrounded by dozens of empty glasses. He’s looking up at Cas with a stupid smile on, a blush spreading on his cheeks, and even the bit of drool on his chin can’t mak him unnapealing to Cas’ eyes.

“Need I remind you that I am an angel of the Lord, Dean?”

“Yeah, you’re my angel alright.” Dean throws an arm in his direction, probably to give him some sort of manly pat on the back, but he misses by about 20 cms, and seems confused as to what his hand is doing up in the air. Cas couldn’t be more endeared to him. Following his instincts rather than his fear of whatever rules still hang in the air, he ruffles his hand through Dean’s hair, quickly. Dean hums in satisfaction. He snaps back up then, slamming his palms on the counter.

“I wanna sing! Cas!” He points a finger in the vague direction of Cas. “It’s a karaoke bar for fuck sake. I’m singing!” He barely stumbles when he gets off the stool and walks over to a bored teenage girl taking care of the song requests. Cas orders another of the fruity cocktails, feeling pleasantly tipsy himself. Someone taps on his shoulder then. He turns around to see Sam looking pretty far gone as well, some guy’s arms wrapped around his waist.

“Hey Cas, you tell Dean I’m going, alright? I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Have fun. Please get a motel instead of fucking in the car again, will you? Love ya.” He’s gone before Cas even has the time to reply. And then the bored teenager is talking in a mic : “And now, Dean is gonna sing us…” She sighs. “Save a horse, ride a cowboy. Take it away, big boy.”

Dean sounds absolutely awful. It’s incredible. He simply doesn’t hit a single note right. But he’s staring right at Cas and he’s doing, what is that, a cowboy dance? Dean Winchester is doing a silly little cowboy dance while staring right at him and he’s smiling so wide that Cas can’t help but smile back. He’s so endeared by this stupid little man he could run up to the stage and kiss him right now. But they’re in public, and he knows the rules, so he just smiles at him. But Dean gets off the stage then, tripping on his feet and still yelling out a barely intelligible chorus as he walks over to Cas. 

And suddenly the angel is dragged off of his stool and into Dean’s arms, pulled in a drunken dance. One hand is clumsily grabbing at his own, the other clutching at his trenchcoat, barely holding on to the mic, like Dean’s afraid Cas is going to slip through his fingers, as if Cas could ever leave him. Dean is somehow even more out of tune than before, and he’s smiling too much at Cas to even get half the words out. Cas can’t keep his joy down, can’t help the bubbly laugh that comes out as he follows Dean’s shaky footsteps. The teenage girl who probably doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this bullshit yells out: 

“Hey, let go of the mic if you’re just gonna dance with your boyfriend.” Cas is sober enough to reply in his deadpan way “I’m not his boyfriend” because he isn’t, because he knows sober Dean doesn’t like the idea of them being seen like that. But at the same time, Dean yells out a slurred “Fuck off!”, grabs Cas’ face in his hands and sloppily makes out with him in the middle of the bar. 

Then they get kicked out, because Dean dropped the mic and stepped on it. They stumble into the dark alley behind the bar, Dean still singing, practically falling into Cas with how hard he’s leaning against him. It crosses the angel’s mind, for a second, how similar this place looks to the one of their first kiss. The thought has a bitter taste, so he casts it out, focuses on carrying Dean from point A to point B. He isn’t sure where point B is yet, but he’s sure they’ll figure it out as they go. A funny thought comes to mind then. He likes the sound of it, so it rolls off his tongue before he can think about it further.

“So. Am I your boyfriend?” 

Dean laughs, bright and bubbly.

“Fuck Cas, the world is ending. Be my god damn husband!”

“Are you proposing, Dean Winchester?”

“Yes!” They’ve stopped walking, and Dean throws an arm in the air, before falling into Cas even more. This takes the angel by surprise, and they both stumble into a nearby wall.

“Wait...No. I’m drunk, I don’t even have a proper ring, and if I get on my knees now I won't get up...This is a piss poor wedding proposal. Jesus fuck. Let me get back to you on that.”

“Sure. I can wait a little longer.”

“Yeah, what the hell. It’s not like the world is ending in a week.”

“Castiel Winchester though...Has a nice ring to it. Rolls of the tongue”

“Oh my god I’m so in love with you.” Dean’s lips are on Cas’ in a sloppy kiss before he has time to process the confession. 

“I love you too, idiot.” Cas murmurs between messy kisses, and Dean’s bright laugh flies up into the sky.

Dean keeps saying he loves Cas. He says it many times. He whispers it against the angel’s knuckles as they lay on the hood of the impala at night. He hums it as he wakes up next to him in a bed actually big enough for the two of them. He says it in broad daylight, apropos of nothing, over coffee, or when he throws a look at him through the rearview mirror. He says it so many times that "I love you" starts rolling off Dean Winchester's tongue as easily as Cas' name. And yet, it’s always a surprise. Always hits Cas like thunder. Sets his insides to mush every time. It's a constant reminder that he is loved, that he deserves it all. That falling was worth it. The apocalypse is well on its way. They may all die soon, but Cas holds on to Dean’s hand, and feels a love like no angel has ever felt fill his heart. So let it all come. Cas is ready to let it all wash over him. Cas is ready to die, but he’s much more ready to live. And isn’t that novel?