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Everywhere Cas looked, he saw pink.
“What is this?” He touched a streamer experimentally.
“Hearts,” Sam explained. They didn't look like hearts. “Tomorrow is Valentine's Day.”
“Of course... hearts to commemorate the martyrdom of Saint Valentinus, who was stoned and beheaded for performing Christian marriages in pagan Rome.
“Um... right. And we give flowers and chocolate to people we love...”
“I see.”
“Great. Now do you think you could help me—oh. God dammit.” Cas was gone.
~
Castiel waited until Sam was away doing one or other of those many things humans do, leaving Dean alone in their hotel room.
“Whoa—! Cas! I, uh, I wasn't expecting to see you. I was actually just about to go, uh—you know—Valentine's Day and all...” a lopsided grin. Cas tilted his head. “Yeah, never mind. Did you need something?”
“I brought you some gifts,” Cas said quickly.
“You—”
“Sam told me I should give these things to people I love on this day.” He held them out: Swiss chocolate, fresh-cut African orchids. Dean started.
“Oh. ...Okay, no, Cas, this is... no, this is crap you do for, like, your girlfriend, okay?”
“These gifts are only for women?”
“No—well, yes, actually, but... they're more like something you get for your, uh, 'significant other'.”
“You are the most significant other in my life,” Cas said without hesitation.
“Okay, but—wait, really?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, that's, uh, that's a little weird, Cas.”
“I'm sorry, Dean.”
“Yeah, well...”
“But it's true.” Dean stared. Cas stared back. Dean was not about to get into a staring contest with Cas.
“Okay. Cas. I'm not going to explain love to you, alright?” Cas narrowed his eyes—as if a human could presume to explain love to an angel. “But, just to be clear, I was talking about romantic love—”
“Yes.”
“—and that girly kind of... what?”
“Yes.”
“You're saying you—”
“Yes.” Dean rubbed his temples.
“Why are you saying this, Cas?”
“Is that not what one does, Dean? When one...” Cas said frustratedly. “I... I gave everything for you, and you... reciprocated... I thought...”
“Stop.” Dean didn't want to talk about it. But this really needed to be sorted out, stat. “Look, Cas, nothing against you but, uh, male vessel aside, I don't really do... love, okay?”
“You love Sam.”
“Cas, that's... that's a little different, man—”
“You loved Lisa, didn't you?” Dean gave a mirthless laugh.
“Yeah, and look how well that turned out.”
“Because you were concerned for her safety? You have never hesitated to ask me to risk my life for you before.”
“I'm sorry, Cas, but—” A fluttering of wings and Cas was inches before Dean's face, leaning in, kissing his forehead with dry, chapped lips.
“You are forgiven.”
“Dude! What the hell!” Dean jumped back, alarmed.
“It was a blessing—”
“No! I don't care! You don't just go around... kissing other men!” Cas bristled in irritation.
“I will understand,” he said at length, “if you do not return my love,” (he looked unprepared, however, to believe it), “but I will not let your homophobia stand as an excuse.” Dean blanched.
“I'm not homophobic, Cas, I'm straight...!”
“Human sexuality is not so rigid, Dean.”
“Oh! Great. The virgin angel is lecturing me on human sexuality—you don't see the irony in that?”
Cas opened his mouth to form a heated rejoinder, but the click of a lock cut him off before he had cleared the first syllable. Both heads snapped to the door.
“This conversation is not over.” Cas warned, and was gone.
~
Dean had fully intended to have sex with at least one woman that Valentine's Day, possibly as many as three if he was lucky—but then Sam swooped in with a sudden lead on their case, and by the time they had finished tracking down and burning a locket with a strand of hair tucked inside and dodging cops looking for the stolen keepsake, they didn't even have time to sleep before they had to hit the road, still wary of every Crown Vic they passed on the way out of Dodge. Sam sat in the passenger seat reading off a newspaper article, but Dean was having trouble paying attention. A good seven hours of straight action, and his mind kept wandering back to everything that had happened before Sam walked through the door.
“Dude. Dude! Dean, are you listening? You can't zone out, dude, you're driving.” Dean blinked, realizing with mild horror that he had actually been half asleep.
“What? Yeah, I'm listening.” There was a pregnant pause and Dean could feel the question forming.
“Dean, are you okay?”
“Yes, Sam, I'm fine!” Dean snapped before he'd even finished asking. “Just tell me where we're going.”
“Um, okay,” unsurprisingly, he didn't sound convinced. “Listen to this—” But Dean's mind was already wandering again. He pulled over onto the shoulder.
“Dean?”
“On second thought, why don't you drive. I need a nap.”
“Uh... yeah. Okay, sure.” Thankfully, he didn't press the issue.
Dean rested his head against the window and was asleep before Sam had brought the car back to highway speed.
~
It starts as a nondescript hunting dream, and unsurprisingly turns into a bar, then a strip club, and a slender brunette is wrapping herself around his body and kissing his mouth. Then something is wrong. Her lips are too dry, her face is too... scratchy. Dean pulls back from Cas in exaggerated horror, wondering in a brief moment of lucidity if the angel has invaded his dream. But then he is drawn back into the subconscious by something Cas says, unintelligible outside of the context of the dream. He kisses Dean all over, whispering more nonsense that means nothing lasting beyond the warm feeling it draws from deep within Dean's gut. He knows it should feel wrong, but it doesn't, and he can't remember why it would, so he gives in and spends the end of his dream in a tangle of limbs and dry, scratchy kisses.
~
Dean woke up 45 minutes after giving up the wheel, feeling rested and unaccountably content. He imagined this had something to do with the vague memory of strippers and alcohol. There was the suggestion of something deeper, but it was too warm and fuzzy for Dean to feel much inclined to investigate further. He took over the driving, and didn't think about Cas again.
That is, not until he and Sam were balls deep in a new case and at a dead end.
“I dunno, maybe we should call Cas?”
“Cas?” Dean echoed, feeling something uncomfortably warm and fuzzy stirring in the pit of his stomach and the back of his mind. Suddenly, the dream came flooding back. “Yeah, I dunno, Sam, no need to bother—”
“It's no bother,” came Cas's voice from behind him, and he could feel his throat constrict. Cas said nothing about their previous encounter, but watched Dean closely as he helped the brothers solve their case. After they were finally able to make the connection that had been evading them, the rest proved to be refreshingly straightforward—but Cas still did not leave them until had managed to steal another moment alone with Dean.
“I am wondering if anything has changed,” he said slowly, picking his words, “now that you have had a chance to think things over.” Dean clenched his fists in anger.
“You came to me in a dream, Cas. That's... that's cheating!” Cas's expression became surprised and hopeful, and fixed on Dean for a few seconds before he spoke.
“I have not been in your head, Dean. Recently,” he amended. “Whatever you dreamt, came from you.” He moved closer, but Dean flinched, so he left before the situation turned sour again. He was going to need some help.
~
One perk of the sudden redoubling of Dean's sexual conquests that came as a result of this sudden crisis of sexual identity was that it was easy for Cas to catch Sam alone. He was at their hotel room doing research, and Cas watched him for a few minutes before he was able to summon the courage to make his presence known. Finally, he coughed and Sam looked up, reaching reflexively for his gun but relaxing when he saw who was there.
“Cas? What are you doing here? Is everything alright?” Castiel cleared his throat again.
“I need your help.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
“You see, I have a... 'friend'.” He emphasized the word with air quotations. Sam moved his laptop aside and gave Cas a strange look.
“Okay...”
“And, well, my 'friend'... loves an individual, whom my 'friend' believes shares my 'friend's' feelings, but is restrained by learned patterns of masculinity reinforced by and complicit in the development of a lifetime of emotional constipation that compels him to seek satisfaction in nonbinding sexual escapades while fleeing from healthy but potentially painful meaningful long term romantic relationships.” Sam blinked. If he'd ever wondered whether angels needed to breathe, he could now file that under mysteries solved.
“Um...” Sam let his mouth open and close noiselessly a couple of times, then held up a finger and took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Are... are we talking about Dean?"
“We are talking about my 'friend',” Cas replied.
“Okay, you don't have to do that every time.” Sam mimicked the air quotes to demonstrate.
“Sorry.”
“That's... okay, Cas.” There was an awkward pause. “Um, so, what exactly makes you... your friend so sure this guy loves him?” There was a brief flash of anger in Cas's eyes.
“The two have been through much together and it is clear that this individual cares for my friend.”
“Right, but what if it's just, you know, a platonic kind of a love. What if he loves you— um, your friend, as a, well, a friend? Or like a brother?”
“It—it feels different. To my friend.”
“Well, while... that may be the case... your friend might want to think about whether he is projecting his own desires on... the person he loves. I would encourage your friend to talk to... this person himself and ... respect what he says... maybe... give him some space, and time to decide how he really feels...?” He tried to keep the hint of uncertainty out of his voice but was pretty sure he failed. He wondered vaguely if he should approach Dean about this, but didn't relish the prospect and, in any event, wouldn't know where to begin.
Dean saved him the trouble by barging in at that exact moment with a half empty bottle of beer in his hand. He froze when he saw Cas. The angel looked up with a sad smile.
“Dean— I was just about to—”
“What's wrong, is your brother there?” asked a giggling voice from just outside the door frame. It was feminine, but not female. Dean grinned stupidly at the unexpected occupants of his room.
“Oh, hey, guys,” he slurred giddily, gesturing to his flashy companion, who had just stepped into view. “This is Steph.”
“Hi~i,” Steph sung, wiggling his fingers in a flirty wave.
“Uh, Dean,” Sam began, mouth a tight line, “I hate to burst your bubble, but I think that might be short for Stephen.”
“Now is that any way to talk about a lady?” Steph teased. He winked one neon-pink eyelid, lips full and red as cherries in chocolate sauce settling into a playful pout.
“Yeah, you heard the lady, she can be a woman if she wants,” Dean slurred boldly, backed up by a sassy “Mm-hm.”
“Uh, right. Sorry,” Sam began again but Cas cut in.
“As pleased as I am to find you becoming more open-minded, Dean,” he said pointedly, “this man's soul is male as well as his body.” Dean stuttered and Steph giggled.
“Sorry, honey, but your new age psychic friend is right. Sometimes boys like to be pretty, too.”
“Still your forked tongue and begone, you painted whore!” Cas commanded in a tone that made the lights flicker ominously.
“Oh, hell,” said Steph in a slightly deeper, slightly less strained voice, and scuttled out the door, the frantic click of six-inch platform stilettos echoing down the hallway leaving the room in startled silence. Dean's face was red.
“What the hell was that for?” He knocked over a chair.
“He was going to wait until you passed out and steal your wallet,” Cas said curtly. “Also, I didn't like him and I wanted him to leave.”
“I'm not going to pass out!” Dean retorted indignantly, tripping over nothing has he tried to walk menacingly forward, and instead falling flat on his face onto the floor where he soon started snoring.
Cas looked miserable: hurt and angry, and mostly confused.
“I don't understand,” he said to Sam, who was lifting Dean defeatedly onto his bed. “Why would he reject me but accept the advances of the first... stranger speaking honeyed lies that bought him a drink?” He had abandoned all pretense.
“I don't know,” Sam sighed. “You saw how drunk he was. Do you know how much alcohol it takes to knock Dean out? He was already hammered when they met.”
“What should I do?”
“I can't say, Cas. He was obviously thinking hard about something that bothered him.”
They watched in silence as Dean coughed and retched in his mouth.
“Oh, dude, gross,” Sam groaned, but Cas's frown of deeply confused frustration darkened a little with concern as he stared at Dean's motionless figure.
“Do you think he could have alcohol poisoning?”
He would deserve it, Sam thought, but felt immediately guilty because it was a serious concern. He leaned over Dean's gaping and reeking mouth and his face hardened instantly.
“He's not breathing. Cas, he's not breathing!” he looked up in momentary panic and moved aside as Cas stepped forward and put his hands on Dean's chest, resting them there until he started gasping and hacking, finally clearing a puddle of vomit and mucus from his throat.
“Oh, god, Dean...” Sam muttered (embarrassed for his brother and still concerned) as he retrieved a handful of towels from the bathroom then quickly moved Dean's face away from the filth, wiping it up with a washrag before tucking a full fluffy towel under Dean's head.
Cas watched with a face steeled and emotionally spent except for a tired concern that faded when Dean began again to snore loudly. At length he spoke.
“Sam.”
“Yeah, Cas?”
“I— I'm going to leave now. I would prefer—” he looked Sam miserably in the eyes. “Please, don't call me again unless your lives are in mortal danger.” Sam nodded slowly.
“Yeah. Okay. I understand. See you, Cas.” Then he was gone.
~
Dean was surly the next day, and unnaturally annoying. He slept till ten in the morning then stood in the shower for forty-five minutes before walking silently to the next door gas station and buying a twelve pack of bottled waters, which he drank one after another, throwing them out the window of the Impala as Sam tapped the wheel irritably and muttered about littering. It did not help his mood that they had been late to check out and had to pay for another night at the hotel, or that Dean made him pull over three to four times an hour for a rest stop.
As if in answer to Sam's concerns, a siren broke out behind them as the last empty water bottle fell from the back window. He cursed colorfully as he pulled onto the shoulder, digging in the glove compartment for a fake medical ID and matching driver's license so he could explain to the officer in apologetic tones that he was transporting his mentally disturbed patient to a special hospital out East.
He got some skeptical looks and only very narrowly avoided a fine by walking a quarter mile back down the highway with the policeman to pick up the empty bottle while Dean waited handcuffed to the Impala. He was quiet for a long while after they got back on the road, anger festering, lost in thought. Finally he broke the tense silence:
“We just got pulled over, Dean. For littering. You don't think we break the law enough already? You think we need to get pulled over for littering? And what about last night? Huh? You had respiratory failure, Dean! You could have died!” (“I wouldn't have died,” grumbled Dean) “Now I don't know what's going on between your and Cas...” (Dean snorted and Sam reconsidered) “No, I take that back. I know more than I want to. I would tell you to man up and talk to him, but he asked me never to call him again unless our lives were in danger.” (Dean actually looked surprised at this) “So... I don't even know. Just get over yourself. Don't take this shit out on me.”
Dean mumbled something in a vaguely apologetic tone and turned to stare grumpily out the window for a long time before his head started drooping and he dropped into a much-needed nap.
~
Steph is giggling on the bed next to him. Something is very funny, and Dean starts gigging along.
“No, hold still honey, or I'll fuck it up!” Steph is coloring Dean's lips red.
“But I'm a boy,” Dean explains.
“Sometimes a boy needs to feel pretty, too,” Steph explains back. “Sometimes a boy falls in love with a boy.” Steph is gluing white feathers to Dean's eyelashes.
“Oh, yeah.” Dean doesn't understand. “But I'm not a stripper.” He says suddenly. There is a light-bulb lined mirror next to the bed, but Dean can't find himself in it.
“Oh,” Steph frowns. “Well, you'll look pretty for him. You know boys give better blowjobs than girls do because they have dicks.” Steph's voice sounds a little like Cas's. Dean finds Cas in the mirror. He is behind Dean and he puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, which burns with fluttering joy.
“Do you want me to show you?” Cas's hand runs down Dean's chest leaving a pleasant trail of hot hyper-awareness. Dean can't see either of their faces in the mirror. He tries to look at their faces, but they both look like Steph. Dean wonders if it's still gay for him to like boys if he's a girl, but then he remembers that Steph is not a girl. Cas is rubbing his crotch and he feels happy all over. He decides that he is drunk, and this makes it okay. Cas starts talking about wind energy and Dean opens his eyes in confusion, teetering briefly between dreaming and waking.
~
When he sorted out his surroundings, Dean realized first, that he had a raging hard-on, and second, that Sam was listening to NPR. These things and the lingering strangeness of his dream joined forces to make him extremely pissed. Groggily he requested another rest stop, but somehow whacking off in a dirty public restroom, biting his hand to hold down any incriminating noises, and trying not to think of Cas's chest against his back as he came, did not put him in a better mood.
He took over the driving to clear his head, and blasted AC/DC so loud that Sam endured the next couple of hours with his fingers stuffed in his ears. This was satisfying, in vindictive sort of a way.
~
Unfortunately, though, Dean's dreams didn't stop, and he was now waking up hard on a fairly regular basis, or even sticky from a wet dream. He started taking daily showers for the first time in his life, either as a pretext to get off quickly and privately, or to clean up the evidence of his nightly emissions. By the second week his sexual frustration was making it hard to concentrate, he was always irritable, and the worst part was that he saw no way to get over it. He would have like to hook up with someone, any one of the pretty girls who winked at him everywhere he went—but whenever he tried to flirt, fragments of sensory memory from recent dreams drew his attention away from his target, which only made him angry and broke the mood.
It was well into the third week before he found himself alone at night for once (Sam had never shared his zeal for booze and babes), awaking from a particularly heavy dream, panting and sweating and rutting against his mattress. He seized the rare opportunity, shoved his left hand into his pajama bottoms and thrust into it greedily, needily, fingering the palm print scar with his free hand and letting himself moan loudly, riding out the lingering excitement of the dream. Suddenly burning, he kicked off his covers, then his his pants, letting the cool night air caress his naked lower half.
“Cas,” he moaned softly, feeling himself sway precariously at the edge before diving headfirst into a mindblowing orgasm. “Cas. Cas!” For a split second he felt blissfully alleviated of a tension that had been building in him for the past three weeks. But his relief was cut short by an urgent voice just above his head.
“Dean! You called? What's wrong?” His eyes snapped open and met Cas's suddenly very wide ones, and they both stared for a few moments, frozen in shock. Dean realized that he was still half naked and clutching his dick, the evidence of his orgasm staining the ugly brown sheets of his twin bed.
“I—” Dean groped for words in a haze of fading bliss and growing panic. Cas's face turned bright red and his eyes shone with shame, anger, and terrible confusion.
“Why are you showing me this?” he shouted, hand flying to his forehead, “I don't understand!” He looked pitifully lost, painfully unequipped to even identify, much less to deal with the emotions that flickered in his dark eyes. “Are you trying to hurt me?”
“Cas!” Dean said forcefully, reaching up to touch Cas's hand. The effect of this contact was instantly calming. “Cas, I— I wasn't trying to call you. I didn't mean to call you. I'm sorry.”
“I heard you,” Cas accused, though more softly. He was gripping Dean's hand like a vice. “I heard you praying. You called me name.” Cas had calmed down considerably, his breathing level and his voice matter-of-fact but firm, as if challenging Dean to deny his accusation.
“No, Cas,” Dean said gently (if exasperatedly), sitting up on the bed, his pants still pooled around his knees. Cas stared tactlessly at his crotch. “Cas,” Dean repeated, and Cas looked up at his eyes. “I wasn't praying. I was...” (he pondered how explain this delicately to an emotionally compromised angel) “... was... thinking about you touching me while I jerked off.” (Fuck.) Cas seemed unsure of how to proceed.
“Fuck.” (He said it aloud this time). “Cas, I've been dreaming about you. A lot. Like every night. And...” he tried to plan out what he anticipated to be a long, awkward explanation, but Cas interrupted his thoughts.
“Were you dreaming about me tonight?” he asked carefully.
“Well, yeah...”
“What did I do? In the dream.” He leaned in. Oh. Dean's cock twitched very slightly, but it would be a few minutes before it would be able to do anything more.
“Um, well...” he looked away. “You were kissing me,” (Cas's head loomed closer still) “and taking off your clothes.” (Cas loosened his tie slowly) “And then um... I stuffed a wad of dollar bills in your g-string and you gave me a lap dance.” (Cas blinked in visible surprise) “And— what, you asked!”
“I... don't know that I'm comfortable with that,” Cas admitted.
“Yeah, well that makes two of us,” Dean mumbled. There was a brief silence.
“Is that all?” asked Cas.
“You... um... and you were about to blow me when I woke up.” Cas looked suddenly very nervous and was quiet for a long time, apparently thinking hard.
“Okay,” he said finally, and leant forward to kiss Dean on this lips. This time Dean (very tentatively) allowed him, (very hesitantly) kissed back, and right as the kiss was growing heated, Cas broke off and and made a trail of smaller kisses down Dean's neck and chest.
Dean felt a sudden jolt of exhilaration and nerves, his mostly recovered dick stirring once more as he tangled his hands in Cas's hair. Cas, who was trembling. Who clearly as afraid as he was aroused, though his pants were stretched so tight it was painful even to look.
“Wait,” Dean forced himself to say. Cas pulled up to look at him, terrified that Dean had changed his mind.
“What about you?” Dean ran his hand over Cas's clothed erection, eliciting a pathetic keening “Deean...” as the angel's head lulled onto his scarred shoulder.
“Dude...” Dean said, genuinely shocked, “did you just come in your pants?” Cas raised his head, looking mortified.
“I— I'm sorry...”
“No, it's... I'm, um, flattered,” Dean assured him. In fact he was incredibly aroused. Cas noticed this, and turned intently back to his task.
The relief Dean had felt when he came into his hand was nothing compared to the feeling of Cas's hot mouth swallowing him whole. Hesitant and inexpert as Cas was, the sensory overload that bubbled up out of two weeks' worth of unfulfilled sensual and presexual dreams was enough to make Dean curl his toes and pull at Cas's hair, trying not to embarrass himself by coming too fast when he didn't even have Cas's excuse.
Not hat it would have mattered. Cas, who had displayed the self mastery of a teenager, now swelled again with the stamina to match and was too far gone to care about anything but hungrily absorbing Dean's every expression both facial and vocal. Dean returned his gaze with hooded eyes, breath catching at the sight of slicked red lips sliding down his shaft, a pink but stubbled cheek swelling out to accommodate him then collapsing in as if to suck the seed from his tip.
With that image he lost control, felt Cas jerk back in surprise at the first spurt and felt sure he caught his face on the next, but now he, like Cas, was beyond caring, let wave after wave of intense pleasure crash through him as he came long and hard.
Cas watched him come, rutting desperately against the threadbare carpet where he had knelt. Dean caught his hungry look when he recovered his senses, eyes drinking in the sight of him, a spatter of come contrasting as starkly against his dark hair as did his pale skin, where one or two more streaks glistened like satin ribbons.
Dean did not have enough blood in his body to make him hard again that night, but he felt a jolt in his stomach instead, and fell forward off the bed, tackling Cas onto floor. Cas moaned loudly but otherwise managed to keep his composure this time as Dean ripped off his pants (popping the button and possibly breaking the zipper) and started sucking him off almost as sloppily as Cas had done in his place.
Cas, for his part, let his moans escalate to almost-screams so loud they heard sleepy grumbling and a couple of angry knocks on the wall: but fortunately they didn't last long. Cas arched his back and let the screams dissolve into spent little whimpers just before he came with a whine that was quiet on the surface but resonated with a staticky ring that made the lights flicker once or twice as Dean tried to swallow his ropes of bitter hot seed without choking or gagging
Finally Cas slipped from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva flecked with residual come that Dean broke with a swipe of his tongue before wiping mouth and chin with his hand. He collapsed on Cas's thigh and let sound of the angel's slowly steadying breath (punctuated by broken gasps) lull him to sleep. He felt himself being lifted as he slipped into dreams, enveloped by the soft warmth of his bed. The last thing he felt was the benediction of slick and swollen (but still slightly chapped) lips on his forehead, followed by a soft sound like the fluttering of wings.
~
Dean is looking for Cas. He keeps thinking he sees him, but always turns out to be mistaken. There is a distinct impression of urgency, a pressing need that he cannot quite pinpoint. He sees Cas again, but he is standing in a crowd of slender, dark haired men in trench coats and navy suits; they are all trying to touch him, but they are all a little too monochrome, and he can't see any of their faces clearly.
“Dean,” says a voice from behind him. The voice's hand touches him on his scarred shoulder, so that suddenly everything is brighter, the scenery has changed to an alpine meadow, and Dean is fully lucid within his dream.
“Cas,” he mouths, because this is what he was searching for: this is the real Cas. He is still flushed, bright with post coital afterglow, pink with embarrassment when he meets Dean's eyes, but remarkably happy, crackling with energy and smiling irrepressibly. Dean has never seen him so happy. He feels a sudden rush of affection.
“Dean,” Cas repeats. “I...” there is a nervousness behind his voice but it is almost entirely overshadowed by his elation. “You fell asleep before.... I wanted to to say it before you fell asleep but I was....” (he blushes deeper, which only makes him glow brighter) “...well, you know.” Realizing that he is rambling he stops to gather himself. Dean waits with a patience he is sure he can only tap in the serenity of sleep.
“I just wanted to say,” Cas says finally, “that whatever you decide about me, in the end, I will always love you. But... I will give you... space. If you want it... and... I will respect your feelings. Whatever they are.” The nervous edge has become more pronounced.
“Are you done?” Dean asks, and Cas nods. So he takes the angel's hand, runs forward to the edge of a huge boulder, and jumps, still dragging Cas behind. They fall very slowly towards a surreally still lake hundreds of feet below, catching their reflections clearly in the mirrorlike surface, which they pass through into a dusky expanse of gray. They land on a bed next to a huge, brightly lit mirror; a dream version of Steph smiles approvingly at them from the outer grayness, where a mob of eerily Cas-like figures watches them from faces that neither can clearly see. Some of them are curvy and long-legged. One of them is wearing a g-string. Cas looks around, unsettled. The half-remembered feelings and sensations of dozens of dreams swirl tangible in the air.
“This is where my mind was. Weeks. It took me three weeks of being a dumb asshole to find you, to get there.” Dean points above their heads where the meadowed face of a mountain juts up over the undisturbed surface of the lake. “I'm not a 'feelings' guy, Cas, but—so don't, don't fucking cry, Cas!” (it is Dean's eyes that are swimming) “—but I know a good thing when I see it. And I know to hold onto it, because it's not something you see very often in the Life.” Even in a dream, he can't force himself to say the L word—not yet—so he goes with “I'm never letting you go.”
Cas reaches out and touches his shoulder, lightly, but the shock of sensation jars him out of the dream. It was seven in the morning, and Sam was in the shower. Dean quickly leaned over the bed to check the ground for any incriminating evidence of the previous night, but Cas had put everything in perfect order—so perfect that the memory felt like a dream, even though the dream felt real
But nothing feels realer than the warm tingling that lingered across the hand's breadth of scar tissue between his arm and neck.
It feels like a new beginning.
It's better than morning wood.