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Human Dean had a lot of thoughts and feelings about Castiel. The most persistent of those, predictably, were guilt and shame, masking a certain yearning that scared the living shit out of the man. There was reluctant admiration as well, and a lot of anger born from the guilt. When he died and the demon took over, all those feelings went away, and Dean had barely even thought about Cas before he called him in Louisiana.
But now… it’s like a floodgate has opened.
Human Dean always made a great effort to keep his distance from Cas, believing himself to be a corrupting influence even before the Mark. It obviously hurt the angel, and it hurt Dean — not that he would ever admit it — but it was “the only way”, in his misguided opinion, to protect both of them from Dean’s destructive nature.
Demon Dean finds that he doesn’t really want to stay away anymore. But there’s the problem: now he kinda has to, since the moment Cas sees him he’s gonna drag him to the Bunker and let Sam dose him with human blood until Dean hates himself again, and that just won’t do.
Of course, if Cas is truly dying, then perhaps he won’t have the strength to drag him anywhere. If Dean does go see him, that is.
He could ask Crowley, who definitely knows what’s what about this whole mess, but who also won’t share any information without bullying Dean into some kind of deal that’s definitely gonna bite him in the ass sooner or later. He could call Cas again and ask for details, but he doesn’t want to show his hand yet.
Instead, he hunts. It is, after all, what he does best.
The carvings on his ribs still hide him from any angelic attention, which makes it incredibly easy to get the drop on a lone angel trying to live an ordinary human life in Bolte, Alabama. The poor bastard’s wings are broken, and he’s easy prey. Dean cuffs him before he even knows what’s happening, then puts a sack over the man’s head and drives to an abandoned farm just outside of town, where an old barn is conveniently available for torture.
Seeing an angel for the first time through the demon’s eyes is an unpleasant experience. Everything in Dean wants him to get as far away as possible from the radiant symphony of light and vibration crammed into a nondescript human body tied to a pole. It’s pulsing with suffocating anxiety, urging Dean to prostrate himself before it and beg for forgiveness. It also, thankfully, fills him with all-consuming hate at the same time.
It’s an electric cocktail of sensations, and great fuel for his interrogative efforts. It doesn’t take him long to learn all there is to know about stolen grace and the effects it has on an angel. It — and it truly registers as an “it” — begs him to stop, to let it go, streaks of blood running down the man’s cheeks, mixed with desperate tears. Dean leaves it crying to get a flask from the car, and finishes the cheap whiskey inside while watching the pretty sunset over the field. Then he goes back and carefully cuts the angel’s throat with the First Blade, just like the angel described — focusing on the being inside and not the vessel. Its grace, so beautiful and shining, trickles down into the flask, until there’s nothing but blood coming out of the wound.
“Please,” begs the human before him, nothing radiant or holy about him anymore. “You got what you wanted. Just… let me go, please…”
Dean raises an eyebrow. Considers it for a moment. The Mark is ravenous; it pulses in his arm, in his head, it tints the world red. He doesn’t think he could let the Blade go even if he tried, and there’s no real reason to try for this particular creature.
Better to feed the urge now, he decides.
He makes it quick. The poor bastard’s suffered enough already.
The body sags in its restraints, leaking blood onto the earthen floor with wet, splashing sounds. Dean doesn’t feel sated. He still hungers for more.
The flask is warm in his palm, like it’s been left in the sun for a while. He tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans and leaves the scene of the crime, not bothering with the corpse.
Finding Cas is not much more difficult. It was Dean who made all those fake IDs for him to use, after all. He hasn’t once changed the license plate on his ugly-ass Lincoln either, and while he drives as carefully as any suburban grandma, he also sometimes forgets to stop at red lights. Dean tracks him to a small motel on SR 66 in East Tennessee, some three hours from where Dean’s staying. Go on, laugh at Destiny, or whatnot.
He arrives at sunset in a stolen car and stakes out the motel for a bit, just to make sure that Cas is truly on his own. Crowley’s told him that he and Sam have separated to cover more ground in search of Dean, and that lately it’s mostly been Sam alone who appears on their radar. Castiel’s “not doing so well”, the demon had said with obvious satisfaction, and at the moment it didn’t even make Dean glance away from the game of pool he was playing.
He watches the angel step out of his room from his position in the parking lot. There’s barely any light to Castiel at all, nothing compared to the radiance of the angel Dean’s just offed in Alabama. He coughs into his fist, is slow to take the stairs down from the first floor, and ducks into the small shop by the reception with his shoulders slumped. Frankly, he looks pathetic. Dean doesn’t take his eyes off him when Cas exits the shop with a paper bag clutched to his chest, holding a coffee in one hand and pressing the phone to his ear with the other. Cas talks, and looks extremely tired while he’s climbing the stairs back to his room. He struggles to open the door with his hands full and almost drops his coffee before finally succeeding. Dean huffs a laugh at that. He takes a long drag of his beer.
He considers his approach while looking at the shadow moving behind the drawn curtain of room 203. He could play a little, pretend to want help, to be plagued by regrets. Drop to his knees in front of the angel, cry a few tears, clutch at him until Cas would do anything for him. Or he could straight-up attack him and tie him up, hurt him a bit, until it’s Cas who cries. He probably can cry now, with his grace nearly depleted. He probably already does, some nights, all lost and alone as he is.
Dean glances at the silver flask lying on the passenger seat. It held a lot of stuff in its lifetime: holy water, blood, liquor. It’s now full of angelic grace, the light of God himself, and Dean has killed a holy creature to get it, unsure even himself as to why.
But then, whys don’t really matter to a demon. It’s enough to just want.
The lights go out in room 203. Dean waits for another hour, slowly finishing his beer, and then he grabs the flask and gets out of the car. The Blade is, as ever, tucked into his waistband — Dean doesn’t go anywhere without it anymore. He feels like he really should leave it in the car this time, but he just… can’t.
Cas sleeps through Dean picking the lock with a credit card and a hairpin. It’s remarkable — Dean’s quiet, of course, but not soundless. He steps in and looks around, the door clicking shut behind his back. The pale light coming from outside through the thin curtains paints everything in a dreamy blue. There’s a bit of a mess: paper cups and bags and napkins left on every available surface. A collection of cut-outs, prints and maps, notes and photos is pinned to the wall opposite to the door. The ugly new raincoat is carelessly thrown over the chair near the bed; on it, a bundle of Cas’ other clothes.
The man himself is breathing evenly and softly, cocooned in a blanket like a caterpillar. It amuses Dean that he stays firmly on the left side of the bed, leaving the right one empty — the side Dean himself always prefers, though it’s unlikely the angel knows that. But then, wait, of course he does — he had been creeping on Dean a lot in the early years of their acquaintance, before the Apocalypse-that-never-was and the shitstorm that followed.
Funny to think how the tables have turned. That now it’s Cas who needs sleep and Dean who doesn’t; that it’s Dean watching the other sleep, unaware of his presence.
It’s thrilling.
Dean wakes Cas with the gentlest tap of the First Blade to the forehead — one of the few parts of him sticking out of the blanket cocoon. Cas comes to with a sharp intake of breath, eyes hazed and unfocused. He blinks owlishly a couple of times before focusing on Dean.
“Dean?” he rasps in a voice like nails on concrete. He doesn’t cough. Dean doesn’t say anything, just hovers over him. Cas frowns, seemingly confused. “Am I dreaming?”
Dean raises his eyebrows.
“Do angels even dream?” he asks with mock seriousness. Cas moves up a little in his bed; the blanket falls from his shoulders, pooling in his lap. Dean has never seen him undressed before, not once.
“Not normally,” the angel says carefully. “But I’m not a normal angel anymore.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “That ship’s long sailed for you, hasn’t it.”
“Dean,” Cas repeats, apparently waking all the way up. He clenches the edge of the blanket in his fists, draws up his knees underneath it. “I don’t think I’m dreaming. What are you doing here?”
Dean takes half a step back, gestures carelessly with the hand holding the First Blade:
“Came to see if you’re really dying. You know I can see grace now? Well, not in you, really, there’s nothing there, but in other angels.”
“Yes, demons are susceptible to the godly light,” Cas answers with his usual gravitas. His tired eyes trace the Blade’s movement in the air. “It is meant to be unpleasant.”
“It is, a bit. Good thing you haven’t got any, then. Otherwise I’d have to leave too soon.”
There’s nothing Cas can say to that, really. They both know how it must hurt him to be without grace and dying, after everything he’s done and sacrificed. Dean hungrily watches the pain flare in his eyes. He huffs a small laugh at the oppressive silence that fills the space between them and slowly moves to the chair. Sits down right on top of Cas’s discarded clothes.
While he’s moving, Cas quickly clicks on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with sickly yellow light, as if he expects Dean do disappear with the shadows, like a nightmare. He looks terrible, with bags under his eyes so huge you could store all of the world’s sorrow in them. His skin is pale and clammy. His shoulders and chest are too thin.
“You look awful,” Dean pretends to sympathize. Cas breathes deeply in and out, once. His eyes are wide and unmoving on Dean’s face, colorless in the ugly lighting. “You gonna look at me all sad and say nothing all night?”
“What do you want me to say?”
It’s annoying. Dean expected more of a warm welcome, to be honest.
“I thought you wanted to see me,” he says accusingly.
“I also didn’t expect it. Especially not in the middle of the night in my hotel room.”
Dean laughs. The sound is rough and too loud in the quiet ambience, but he just can’t help himself. He suddenly feels like they’re in the prelude to a very bad porno.
“Oh?” he teases in a sultry voice. He knows his teeth are showing, catching the light. Cas’ eyes seem to widen a fraction. Dean hadn’t smiled this easily in years before he turned. “It’s nice, though, isn’t it? Me, in your room, in the middle of the night.”
“Dean,” Cas warns, but it’s weak. Doesn’t deter him.
“You know I sorta used to imagine this exact scenario? Well, the other way around, obviously, with you having your mojo and me being in bed.” He winks at Cas’s not-so-stony expression. “I jerked off to it once, you having your way with me. Came so hard. Felt very guilty afterwards. Really lost my shit that maybe you heard me somehow, like maybe I’d prayed. Did you? Hear me?”
“Dean, please…”
“’Cause you were holy, weren’t you? Powerful. Nothing I did could hurt you, you were untouchable.” Dean shakes his head mournfully. “And now? You seen yourself? You’re weak. I can do whatever, and you won’t be able to stop me.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Cas’ voice is shattered glass. “To hurt me while I am unable to stop you?”
Dean shrugs. Taps the Blade to his knee. The flask is warm against his leg in his pocket.
“Maybe,” he says. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“What other options are you considering?”
“Well, saving you, obviously.”
Cas’ surprise at that is palpable. He sits a bit straighter, the blanket falling even lower so that the line of his underwear is showing, and the trail of hair above it.
“How would you know how to save me?” he asks, and Dean drags his eyes up and away from his vulnerable belly.
“Oh, you know. I asked nicely.” He takes the flask out of his pocket and shakes it a little. Cas’ eyes go wide.
“Is that…”
“Oh yeah. Nice ’n fresh. And don’t worry, there’ll be no one asking for it back.”
Cas closes his eyes as if in pain.
“Dean,” he whispers. “What have you done…”
“Killed the poor motherfucker, what do you think,” Dean responds merrily. “So it can either go to waste, or go in you. Depending on what I decide, of course. Thoughts?”
There’s such devastation on Cas’ face it’s not even funny. He shakes his head, puts the tips of his fingers against his lips for a moment, lowers them again.
“It isn’t you, Dean,” he begs, making Dean snort.
“Ah, yeah it is.” He gestures at himself with the hand holding the flask. “Not a shapeshifter — it’s literally silver.”
“Not what I meant.”
Dean laughs. Puts the flask on the bedside table. They both eye it tensely, as if waiting to see who’ll be the first to grab it. Neither moves.
“Thing is,” Dean intones after a moment of silent tension, “you can’t stop me unless you take it. So maybe, maybe I can do both, ya know. Hurt you and save you.”
He stands up rapidly. Cas throws himself back across the bed, angel blade suddenly in his hand — must’ve been keeping it under the pillow, clever boy. It catches against the teeth of the First Blade with a metallic clank when Dean lunges at the angel with a grin that probably comes off as manic. They crash into the middle of the bed, Dean on top, pressing Cas heavily into the mattress.
They wrestle a bit, though there’s really not much Cas can pit against him in his condition, and they both know it. Dean’s just playing at this point, forcing his way between his legs, pinning his wrists above his head to the pillow. He even lets the First Blade drop onto the mess of sheets next to them to do that. To him, it all honestly reads as sweet foreplay.
“Honey,” he purrs, grinding in, trapping Cas under his body. The angel still has his sword, but it’s useless if he can’t move his arms, isn’t it. Dean’s halfway to hard in his pants. “You lose,” he whispers in Cas’ ear, mouthing at the lobe lightly, rolling his hips as smoothly as he can against the still-thrashing body. “Might as well give up and let me do whatever. I promise you’ll like it.”
Dean lowers his head and bites hard at the junction between Cas’ neck and shoulder. Marvels at the give of the flesh, at how Cas’ breath catches, at his painful gasp. It’s good, so good, better than anything he’s had since his eyes went black.
Right about this moment, though, Cas somehow manages to weasel one leg out from under Dean and jab his knee hard into Dean’s ribs. Dean grunts and weakens his hold on Cas’ wrists for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough — the angel frees himself, and back to wrestling they go. Dean doesn’t mind. It’s almost as good as the next thing.
There’s a sudden ferociousness to Cas’ movements, a readiness to hurt Dean that wasn’t there before. He kicks the First Blade away when Dean tries to grab it, and it clatters to the floor somewhere far.
“Oh,” Dean manages to say when Cas breaks his nose with the hilt of his sword and brutally flips them over. He laughs wetly, swallowing blood, and before his bones manage to self-repair, he feels another sharp bite of pain in the middle of his chest. He looks down, and there’s the point of the angel’s blade scratching at his heart through the layers of fabric and skin. Cas is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling under Dean’s hand weakly pushing at it — he’s hot and sweaty, bruises fresh and vivid on his pale skin. It’s beautiful. There’s blood dripping from his nose too, right onto Dean’s face.
Dean grins, licks his lips. It’s impossible to tell his blood from Cas’ in his mouth.
“Well, go on,” he taunts. Pushes up onto the blade, feeling the wet spot on his flannel grow. “I’ll probably not even die, and if I pass out, you’ll have a chance to bind me and get me to Sam. Go on. Push. You know it’s the smart thing to do.”
Cas gulps, the long line of his throat moving up and down. He doesn’t push. Dean lets his palm slide from Cas’ pec to his thigh where he’s straddling him. His other arm is pinned under Cas’ knee. It’s not a very stable position, and an easy hold to get out of, even with the blade at his heart. But why rush. He’s good right where he is, for now.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Dean,” Cas pleads with raw intensity. Another drop of blood lands on Dean’s forehead, slides down, gets trapped in his eyebrow. Dean raises his hand and rubs gently at Cas’ upper lip, smearing the red there. He touches the soft line of his mouth, and it’s strange — like there should be something else here, some other feeling that’s missing, not just pain and lust and hatred and greed and triumph.
“You really should,” he whispers. “Or I’ll just hurt you more. I want to.”
Instead, the angel lowers his head until their foreheads are touching and sighs brokenly, so close that his warm breath brushes Dean’s mouth. It makes him squeeze his fingers on Cas’ thigh. It makes him want, but this want is spoiled by the strange absence of that unknown feeling. It’s not a want he knows how to satisfy. The familiar rage rises within him instead, and suddenly there’s nothing nice about this, nothing at all.
“Alright, enough,” he decides, and slams his head into Cas’ poor nose. The angel chokes, and Dean pushes him hard, drops them both onto the floor, wrenches the blade from his loose hold. “You had your chance,” he says with contempt, looking down at the weak, pathetic creature beneath him, trying and failing to gather himself up. He kicks him in the face, and Cas goes limp, prostrate on the floor, unconscious.
“Fuck,” Dean mutters under his breath, annoyed and frustrated and conflicted about what to do. He throws the sword on the bed and gets his own Blade from the corner of the room. It hums hungrily in his hand. It wants Cas dead and has no doubts whatsoever about it.
“Fuck,” he repeats, rushing to the door in a hurry to get away. He’s covered in blood, both his and the angel’s, and there’s a bright metallic taste in his mouth that doesn’t seem to go away. He stumbles out of the room and shuts the door behind him, cutting off the strange desperation he’s not supposed to even feel anymore. The fresh air is sweet on his tongue and pleasantly cool on his heated skin; he stands at the rail for a few moments, clutching the Blade and willing himself to move in either direction.
He finally goes down the stairs to his stolen car, drops the Blade in the passenger seat, and drives away without looking back once.
The farther he goes from the motel that has unconscious Cas inside, the better he feels. He drinks a beer in one go and throws the bottle out the window — it helps to get rid of the lingering taste in his mouth. By the time he arrives at the truckstop where he left the Impala, he’s calm and himself again. He comes to the decision that this whole thing with Cas has been a mistake. It was stupid to leave him a means to his salvation, and won’t that come back to bite Dean in the ass one day.
A part of him looks forward to it, in secret, somewhere very deep inside.