Work Text:
“So I’ve been reading,” Sam pipes up from the bed, loud enough for Dean to hear through the bathroom door.
Two seconds is all Dean wants. Two seconds to brush his teeth and check his stitches and to piss in peace without Sam talking to him, or worse, discussing another case. They’ve been driving nonstop for three months—three months of motel stays and bar tabs and more than enough grease-smothered cheeseburgers to give him a heart attack at thirty. Sure, he may have been doing this most of his life, but that doesn’t make it any easier, especially given their recent investment.
Really, all he wants is to sleep in a bed that doesn’t have bloodstains and to sit down for two seconds to rest his back. It’s December, for God’s sakes—they deserve a break for once in their lives.
“If it involves me getting back in the car, I’m out,” Dean mumbles around his toothbrush.
He spits and rinses his mouth out with Listerine, then splashes his face with water that smells like it came from the swamp. Florida may be great in some aspects, but the further south they travel, the more Dean wants to haul ass to some other state. There’s only so many mosquitos he can get bit by before he contracts something that could kill him before the monsters do.
The gash on his shoulder is healing nicely, but it’ll leave a nasty scar, enough to thoroughly damage the ink there, his sleeve utterly ruined; a good thousand dollars down the drain, and another hundred or so just to fix it once it heals. His new wound, a slice across his left pec, is butterflied together and slathered in Neosporin and another bandage, just to keep the wildlife from attacking him and giving him more to worry about than a cut. One more scar to add to his collection; it won’t be long before he’s covered in them, down to his toes.
“It’s not a hunt,” Sam says. He barges in just before Dean can pull his shirt on, thankfully oblivious. “But I started reading last night after you passed out. Did you know there’s an animal sanctuary on Marquesas Key?”
Dean blinks and turns, leaning his hip on the sink, the only thing in this hotel that isn’t covered in mold. “I’m not letting you adopt a dog,” he huffs and leaves the bathroom; he needs pants before he can discuss even leaving the hotel.
“I’m not asking for a dog.” Sam follows, flopping down onto his mattress; the cleaner of the two, much to Dean’s lament. “This just sounds like our kinda thing.”
“What, a sanctuary on an island?” Dean scoffs and pulls a twice-worn pair of jeans from his duffel. “You think something is stealing animals?”
“No, no.” Sam sits up in exasperation, eyes practically rolling back into his head. “It’s an urban legend, but apparently people bring their pets there and leave them because they claim a god lives there, and he’ll put them out of their misery.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “Isn’t that animal cruelty?”
“If there wasn’t anyone there, yeah.” Reaching over to the foot of his bed, Sam hands Dean his laptop, displaying a news article from the 1980s. “There’s no evidence, but sometimes people hear barking. Some guy drove a boat over there over twenty years ago and said the whole time, dogs followed him around the island. Not feral ones, either.”
“So what, Labs?”
At that, Sam snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “Pekingese.”
Well, that’s odd. “And you’re saying…” Dean pauses just long enough to pull his pants on, foregoing a belt; if they’re planning to drive, he doesn’t need the added pressure around his waist. The story doesn’t make sense, even if it’s real. After all, stray dogs on isolated islands isn’t uncommon—small dogs on isolated islands, however, is a totally different story. “You really think a god is just chilling off of Key West with a bunch of dogs?”
“And cats,” Sam shrugs. “We don’t have to go, but I thought it’d be something to look into. I mean, how often do we get to meet a god that doesn’t want to bash our faces in?”
Not very often, Dean thinks. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he lets out a rough sigh; Key West is only three hours west of Homestead, and Marquesas maybe a bit farther, if they can rent a boat in time. Key West probably has better hotels than the Knights Inn, at least he hopes; maybe they won’t have bed bugs and mold in the ceiling and questionable spots on the carpet.
Plus, Cuban food and music—can’t go wrong there.
A three hour drive, and then they can park the car and spend the day outside on the water—not a real break, but Dean will take it for what it is. “You get one shot,” Dean concedes, running his hands through his still-damp hair. “If it don’t work out, we’re staying in town for a week. No buts.”
“I’ll take it either way,” Sam laughs. “Be in the car in ten?”
Dean agrees with a nod and retrieves his toiletries from the bathroom just before Sam sneaks in. This next hotel better have a functional shower—and breakfast.
-+-
Personal boats aren’t hard to come by in Key West, apparently. For the right price and the word Marquesas, Dean and Sam successfully rent a jet sled and, stuffing their bags into the bottom, make their way from the harbor into the Gulf of Mexico. According to the GPS on Sam’s phone, Marquesas Key is about thirty minutes from the last city in the island chain, their path monitored occasionally by the Coast Guard to ensure no one is endangering the wildlife refuge.
Dean maneuvers through the crystal blue waters while Sam sits at the bow, pointing in whatever direction he thinks Dean needs to go. It really is a beautiful day, though, Dean thinks; for winter, it’s humid, but there’s enough of a breeze to keep him from sweating through his clothes. The water here smells different too, less like limestone swamps and more like sand. A dolphin follows them for a few miles, its fin surfacing and diving back under, occasional puffs of air breaching the water’s surface.
This far out, Dean would normally be wary of being on the open ocean, within range of sharks and whatever other creatures are waiting to eat them the minute they tip over. But Sam keeps them within sight of other islands as best he can, the land masses thankfully never far away. If they capsized, they could swim for it and hope to flag down a passing boat or the Coast Guard; that’s what they were there for, right? Saving idiots like them?
The atmosphere begins to change the minute Sam spots Marquesas Key, though. Not from the weather or pressure, but something more foreboding, weighing down the air they breathe. Sadness, maybe; Dean’s heart beats faster in response. Mangroves line the entire island cluster aside from the few inlets, where water steadily flows between an inner lagoon and the gulf. Beneath them, the water is brilliantly blue, clear enough to see the bottom and the stingrays and multicolored fish, and coral reefs.
Compared to all of the beaches they’ve been to over the years, it feels alien, unexplored.
A sign reading STOP ENGINE juts from the water about five feet from shore, painted in what was once red and weathered by storms and salt air. Dean and Sam exchange a look, but do as told, and they let their boat sit in the surf. Eerie stillness engulfs them while they wait, the only noise that of a few seagulls and water lapping along the beach, washing into the mangroves.
“I don’t like this,” Dean admits, hand gravitating for the boat’s starter. This was a stupid idea, and one of the many stupid ideas Sam has had over the years, but one of the few that Dean has followed along with. It’s not even a hunt, just a wild goose chase into the middle of nowhere. Now complete with a creepy sign probably written by a homicidal maniac living on a deserted island.
“Give it a few minutes,” Sam says, ever-hopeful. Sometimes, Dean wishes he could have his optimism.
But Dean does wait, just to humor him. It’s not like they have anything to do today: their Impala is parked by a boat dock, they have all of their stuff with them, and if need be, they can camp out for the night and cook whatever cans of soup or beans Dean has in the bottom of his duffel. They’ve been in worse places before. At least the sky is blue, here.
A dog barks along the shore, startling Dean and nearly sending Sam overboard in terror. Not a small dog, either—a Newfoundland, with long black fur and a white muzzle, stands at the base of a mangrove tree, and another follows after, this one brown with its eyes obscured. Lumbering, massive things, with white paws the size of Dean’s entire hand, and together, they launch into the water, howling and splashing their way to the boat.
Dean flinches, terror-stricken. “I swear to God if they jump in here—”
They don’t, thankfully. No, instead they push it with their heads, the joint effort shoving the boat into an inlet, where it promptly beaches. I could’ve done that myself, Dean thinks, scrubbing his face. On either side of them, the dogs shake and bark, so deep it rattles Dean’s ears. “Dean, they’re friendly,” Sam says, just as one proceeds to lick his face; if it wanted, it could put Sam’s entire head in its mouth.
A terrifying thought Dean wants in no way to entertain. “Alright, alright, let’s go,” Dean huffs; Sam ignores him, too busy petting the black Newfoundland, its partner now sidling up to Dean, its massive head nudging Dean’s. It looks at him with soulful eyes from just beneath its fur, black but in no way as tar-soaked as a demons.
It’s just a dog. Just a giant dog living on an island, and a well-fed one at that.
“Sam,” Dean calls again, the Newfoundland now threatening to lick Dean’s face every time he looks away. “Sam, c’mon. Before it decides you taste good.”
“You’re such a killjoy,” Sam jeers, but ultimately assents and drags himself from the boat.
Bags slung over their shoulders, they walk with the dogs at their lead, each of them occasionally looking over their shoulders to make sure they’re still being followed. The mangroves wind deep and sickly throughout the island, their roots bending at odd angles and disappearing into the sand; sometimes, the surf bogs them down, the ocean floor out of sight in the shadows. Hopefully the god is here, and hopefully Dean can hang his shoes up after this is over to dry them out.
To his relief, though, Marquesas is small. Small enough that they reach the lagoon in just a few minutes of hiking, and a large cottage built just along the shore, with a white picket fence and a chimney and more than enough windows to light every room without electricity. “Oh thank God,” Dean mumbles and shoots up a quick prayer to whoever’s listening. It wasn’t a fluke—Sam’s hunch was real. “I thought you were lying.”
Sam laughs and nudges his shoulder; the dogs bark again and take off, splashing through the lagoon and butting into each other along the way. “I’m smarter than you think,” he says with a grin.
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Stanford, yuck it up.” Still, Dean smiles, barely even bothering to hide it. Especially when a man appears from behind a screened door, dressed in the loudest blue-and-white flowered shirt Dean has ever seen, even from a distance. “I’ll beat you there—”
But before Dean can think about running, Sam is already sprinting out of the mangroves and into the lagoon, sand kicking up behind his feet. So much for a friendly race.
By the time Dean strolls closer to the cottage, the Newfoundlands have taken their spots on the porch, and Sam is seated in a rocking chair facing the homeowner and supposed god—and, one of the most handsome strangers Dean has ever laid eyes on. Deep cobalt eyes latch onto Dean as he ascends the two steps onto the porch, and Dean just barely resists the urge to blush from that alone. His hair is mussed in every direction, and dark stubble clings to his jaw, some gray and white pepped in; Dean wants to scratch his own face just from looking at it. Sharp cheekbones, pale, soft lips, and—dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and khakis and flip flops.
If he didn’t look like he were in his thirties at least, Dean would’ve thought he washed up from a nonstop Jimmy Buffett concert. He’s even got Christmas lights up in the shape of palm trees and beer bottles and flamingos.
He must be staring, based on the way Sam is glaring at him, face pinched into a frown. “Dean,” Sam hisses, hands on his knees.
Dean snaps himself to, albeit with force; not like the guy isn’t staring right back with mirth in his eyes and a smile on his lips. “You didn’t bring any pets with you?” the god asks, glancing back over to Sam, who shakes his head.
“It’s just us,” Sam answers, extending a hand. The god takes it, long fingers deftly curling around Sam’s in a way that makes Dean jealous. “I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother—”
“Dean,” Dean finishes. The god’s hand is warm in his own, just the faint edge of power radiating from his palm; his arm aches with it, and his fingers warm where they touch.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he rumbles; Dean’s stomach flips from just how rough he sounds, just a little. “My name is Castiel. I sense you came willingly.”
“We did,” Sam interjects; reluctantly, Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand, lamenting his touch the minute they part. “We… We’re not here to hurt you, I’ll just say that.”
“I would hope not,” Castiel says. “Who would take care of my animals?”
God, he’s so sincere, too. Dean wants to smother him just to make him stop smiling. “We’re hunters,” Dean says, blunt enough to keep Castiel’s attention. “Sammy over here heard about a god that didn’t kill people.”
“I used to,” Castiel says with enough surety to set Dean’s teeth on edge. Leaning back, Castiel looks up to the slowly rotating ceiling fans above their heads, stirring up the humid air. Electricity, good—maybe he has a few spare bedrooms, as well. “But I grew… sympathetic. I didn’t understand why we killed, or why humans killed for us. It unsettled me for a great many years.”
“So you’re real?” Sam asks; Dean echoes his thoughts with a nod, both waiting for Castiel to continue, or to at least confirm it.
Instead, another dog interrupts them, this one a blue Labrador Retriever with a black cat softly held in its mouth. He sets the cat down and nudges her with his snout, whimpering. She’s still breathing, but barely, with no puncture wounds. But as Dean picks her up and holds her to his chest, she gives a feeble meow, and a tear forms in the crease of her eye, spilling down her nose.
She’s sick—she’s sick, and someone left her, and the Lab brought her here.
“Oh dear,” Castiel sighs, eyes downcast. Looking down at the poor water-soaked cat, Dean can only think the same.
-+-
“There’s a legend attached to me, unfortunately,” Castiel says in the living room, seated in a wingback chair with the cat held close to his chest, its tail not even bothering to sway anymore. “There’s a belief that if someone leaves their animals here, that a god of death will take pity on their plight and put them out of their misery.”
Castiel’s living room, like the rest of the house, is quaint but stuffed with furniture. Ornate tapestries hang from windowless walls, along with portraits of musicians Dean can’t put a name to, and some of the island and of animals presumably long-since deceased. Everything is covered in cat hair, so much so that Dean’s sinuses are threatening to close up if he sits anywhere; for now, he stands by a non-functional fireplace while Sam sits on the couch, a cat in his lap and a kitten batting his hair from the cushion at his back. There’s even a Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with miniature lawn flamingos and framed pictures and tacky souvenir ornaments from every state in the country, and more tinsel than Dean knows what to do with.
A Whippet walks through long enough for Castiel to scratch behind his ears, afterwards leaving through the doggy door built into the front screen. At least the place doesn’t smell; probably the ventilation, with every window opened to let the warm December air through.
Tomorrow is Christmas, and it’s almost eighty-degrees outside—what’s going on?
“Do you know who started the rumor?” Sam asks, one hand stroking along a cat’s back, the kitten now chewing on his hair and spitting it back out. “Or is it just an excuse to dump unwanted animals?”
“They’re all wanted,” Castiel sighs; the cat in his arms mewls, her eyes still watering. Cancer, Castiel had told them. Incurable to humans, but not for him. “But some humans don’t know what to do. Euthanization is always an option, but the ones who come here… They’re young. They still have life in them, and their owners don’t want to see them suffer while they still have a long life ahead of them.”
“That’s… sad,” Sam says, hollow; Dean can’t help but feel the same. “So they what, come out here and just drop them off without looking back?”
“They’re scared,” Castiel admits. Under his finger, the cat cries and buries her head into his palm. “And I fear they don’t want to be caught. If they read the sign, Roscoe and Palmer could lead them here, like they did you. They could go home together.”
“That’s their names?” Dean asks, motioning vaguely towards the door. “The big ones?”
“That’s what their owners called them,” Castiel shrugs. “I don’t change their names, if they have collars.”
Castiel stands with little grace, his pants rustling while he walks; still, he looks comfortable here, like he belongs on this little island surrounded by animals, rocking a five day beard without a care in the world. He finds a seat in the middle of the chevron-pattern rug and crosses his legs, laying the cat flat on her back with her head hanging over his ankles. She’s exhausted, she has to be; just barely, she breathes, her chest rising and falling under Castiel’s hand, two of his fingers pressed to her throat.
Dean never doubted Castiel for any reason—a strange god living on an island in the middle of nowhere surrounded by animals is enough of a story to get Dean hooked—but the white light pulsing from Castiel’s hand cements the reality into his brain. No human can wield the power to heal, and only Angels—if they even exist anymore—and gods can restore life. Yet, the cat lives, her meow going from pained to ecstatically chirpy in ten seconds. Blue eyes blink to life, and she rolls over in his lap and sprints for Sam’s shoes, the bell on her collar jingling.
She’s alive. She’s alive and healthy, and apparently really eager to jump around again. “Holy shit,” Dean says, a hand over his mouth. He did it—Castiel really did it, with just his hands.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Sam jokes and leans down to pick up the cat—a seal point Siamese, Castiel mentions. Castiel laughs, his grin full of teeth; Dean’s heart warms for no reason other than admiration. “What’s your name, baby?”
Around her collar is a circular silver nameplate with the name Tanya printed into it, along with a phone number and Cocoa Beach, Florida. “Hey, Cas,” Dean starts, still holding the tag between his fingers. Tanya purrs and butts his hand, yapping at someone to pet her. “You ever think about calling the owners? Y’know, after you fix them?”
From the floor, Castiel shrugs, the Whippet back and now head-butting his side. “I don’t have a phone,” he admits, sheepish and somewhat ashamed. “I tried once, but Sansa found her too late. Her owners had already boarded their plane.”
“We got cellphones,” Sam pipes up; Tanya chirps and lightly bites his thumb. “Maybe she just got here, maybe you can catch up to them!”
At that, Castiel looks over to Dean with concern in his eyes; he scratches his beard while the Whippet bites his shirt, growling for attention. “It couldn’t hurt,” Dean admits. “Maybe they actually read the sign.”
“I really need to repaint those,” Castiel says, afterwards running both hands through his hair; it musses up further than before, now a completely wreck. Like this, he looks human and utterly approachable—not like any god Dean has ever met before. “Can I borrow your phone?”
Dean fishes his cellphone from his pocket while Sam fends off Tanya from trying to eat his hair—maybe this will change his mind about getting a haircut—and hands it off to Castiel. Afterwards, Castiel plugs in the number and leaves for the kitchen, and Dean hopes that her owners haven’t gotten far, and that they’re still on the boat within turnaround distance. If they can save one family from heartache, it’ll be worth more than Dean can even imagine.
“Hello? Hi, this is… I just received Tanya. No, she’s not… She’s special, your daughter. She’d like to come home with you now.”
-+-
The owner, a young man named Malcolm, is in hysterical tears the minute he stops his boat and the Newfoundlands lead him to shore, brown eyes bloodshot. Castiel hands over a squirming Tanya and Malcolm takes her into his arms, where she promptly lays her head on his shoulder, tail whipping side to side. Dean wipes away a tear with his palm; Sam is inconsolable.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Malcolm sobs, rocking Tanya and occasionally pecking her head when she rubs against him. “She’s just a baby. She’s like my kid, and I couldn’t… I waited, and I went to every doctor I could—”
“She’s alright now,” Castiel soothes. He runs a hand over Malcolm’s shoulder, thumb tracing over the curve. “She’ll live a long life with you, and you’ll have many happy memories together.”
“Thank you,” Malcolm weeps; Castiel wipes his eyes dry. “You don’t know what this means to me, sir.”
“Take her home.” Castiel smiles and lets him go, petting down Tanya’s back as Malcolm departs. “You both have beautiful souls. She understands you were just trying to help.”
“Thank you,” Malcom repeats, and heads for his boat. Tanya gleefully climbs back into her carrier and, closing the door behind her, Malcolm steps inside; he waves as he leaves, and soon, he’s out of sight, the sun beginning to glow on the horizon.
For a while, Dean watches Castiel stand along the store, settling waves lapping around his feet, while the wind blows through the mangroves and rustles his hair. The few gods Dean has ever met have been either hedonists or lusting for blood—those gods wouldn’t have returned a cat to its owner, and those gods wouldn’t have allowed two total strangers into his home. Castiel cares, and he heals with those strong, tanned hands, his whole essence good and pure and just.
Different. Beautifully strange.
“I wish they would stay,” Castiel mourns, looking down to his feet. A stingray passes, then two, then more, the entire shoreline blackening while dozens and hundreds pass. “They come from love, and they leave behind their soul every time.”
“You can keep calling,” Sam offers. He kneels with his knees in the water, reaching out to touch the rays, their fins slapping him repeatedly. “Maybe if you tell them what happened?”
Castiel shakes his head; Dean’s heart breaks for him. “I’ve been here for decades, and though they come here, they never return. I’ve spent my years tending for animals who didn’t understand, but they accepted the decisions their owners made. The ones who didn’t…” He stops, sighs. “I live a sad life. A lonely life. You’re the only ones who heeded the signs, and the only ones I’ve spoken to in… years.”
“Cas,” Dean mutters; Castiel turns his head, the setting sun reflecting on his eyes. “Key West isn’t far. You don’t have to live here forever.”
“Humans don’t… understand me,” Castiel sighs. “And if I weren’t here, these creatures would all die. I just wish I could return them.”
“We can help,” Sam blurts. Both Dean and Castiel turn to him, Dean’s mind racing with the concept of Sam offering assistance, like they aren’t planning to leave tomorrow. What, does he want to stay? For how long? Does Castiel even have food? “We have a network, we can get the word out for people to stop, or at least wait long enough for you to find them. And we can make more signs!”
“Sammy, chill,” Dean scoffs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Cas probably doesn’t even want our help, right?”
Castiel shoots him a look full of mirth, admiration floating in his eyes. Shit. “I could use some assistance, if you’d like to stay here for a few days. I went shopping yesterday, and I bought a ham. It’s Christmas tomorrow.”
Christmas, right. Not the way Dean intended to spend the holidays—there’s no snow and it’s warm, for God’s sakes—but it’ll be different. A new experience, with a complete stranger, but when has their life ever made sense?
“Dean’s a good cook,” Sam says; Dean’s face flushes with the sudden praise. “Last time we had a kitchen, I couldn’t get him out of it for hours.”
“I didn’t see you complaining about the meatloaf that night,” Dean chides, and Sam just laughs.
Castiel smiles, regardless of their bickering, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes softening ever so slightly. “I’d love your help, Dean. I haven’t celebrated with anyone in years.”
“Us either,” Dean says, offering a grin. The last time he and Sam actually sat down and exchanged real gifts that weren’t off a curb store rack was years ago, too long for Dean to actually remember. They don’t have gifts this time, but they have this island, and the god offering to take them in and feed them, purely out of the kindness of his heart.
Dean deserves a lot of things in the world—but he sure as hell doesn’t deserve Castiel.
-+-
Dean wakes in one of the upstairs bedrooms to the smell of ham and brown sugar and every spice imaginable, all coalesced into one scent—Christmas. Though, not like any Christmas he’s ever experienced. This is what he always imagined cooking shows smelled like, with women and men in aprons walking through individual steps with ease, surrounded by their family with cheesy holiday music in the background. They always looked so happy, so at ease in their own homes.
Part of him always wondered if he’d ever get to have a Christmas like that, or at least a family meal with someone, no matter the occasion. And by happenstance, he’s here, and his brother is sleeping in a bedroom not too far from his, with an god in the kitchen apparently cooking… Gumbo, probably. Hopefully there’s pie, and ice cream. If he somehow happens to die tomorrow, then at least he’ll die happy with a full stomach.
A Shih Tzu is sleeping is sleeping at the foot of his bed when Dean finally pulls himself from the blankets, solid black save for a white band around its eyes, and a pink bow jutting up from between her ears. She doesn’t stir until he sets his feet on the floor, and she yaps and bolts towards him, pawing at his tattooed shoulder. “Alright, alright,” Dean laughs, petting her head. “You wanna go see your daddy?”
Thankfully, he has the forethought to put on pants before he scoops up the Shih Tzu and leaves the room, still as shirtless as ever with the dog cradled in his arms. On quiet feet, he makes his way through the maze of halls on the second floor and descends directly into the main corridor, the kitchen at his left and the living room opposite; another hall stretches behind him, leading to a half bath and a dining area connected to the kitchen through a set of swinging doors.
“Lila, that’s where you got to,” Castiel says from the refrigerator, peeking his head around to see Dean on the bottom step; Lila, apparently, leaps from his hands and takes off to the living room, falling into a pile with her brown-spotted sibling on the rug.
Castiel is remarkably dressed for a Monday morning, his button-up undone and pajama shorts hanging loosely off his hips; god, he’s tan too, with impressive thighs and toned abs, the curve of his pecs just visible underneath his shirt. A woven bracelet adorns an ankle, and he wears a toe ring on his other foot in the shape of a manta ray.
In Dean’s observations, he doesn’t notice that Castiel himself is staring as well. His eyes rake over Dean’s collection of tattoos and scars, the ink covering the worst of them, but not all. At this point, he’s more ink than skin, his arms and torso painted in both his own designs and pieces on the recommendation of artists across the country. In his early twenties, he made it a point to hit up at least one shop in every city he stayed in, even for a small design, something to remember down the road.
Every work has a specific meaning—yet, Castiel looks like he already knows all of them.
Dean runs his tongue over his lower lip, under the guise of sudden dry mouth; Castiel tracks him anyway, and Dean’s stomach twists, warmth spreading to his toes. “I was wondering when you’d wake up,” Castiel says, turning to the stove with some reluctance. He doesn’t bother to button his shirt, though; in fact, he lets it sag a bit to bare his shoulders. “It’s almost ten.”
“Shit,” Dean huffs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. The last time he slept that long was years ago. “You gotta tell me what that mattress is, though.”
“Memory foam,” Castiel hums, opening a pot lid to stir the contents; definitely gumbo. “Sometimes my siblings visit. Though, I think they’re mostly here to sleep. I’ve rarely seen them awake, actually.”
“Man, if I had a bed like that, I’d be asleep all day too,” Dean chuckles. Aimlessly, he wanders the kitchen and ends up at Castiel’s side, all the while eyeing every pot and pan and microwave and oven occupied. “What’ve got you going?”
Oddly excited, Castiel rattles everything off, pointing to each pot as he goes. “Deviled eggs, a honey glazed ham, sweet potatoes, chicken and dumplings, green bean casserole, sweet rolls, cranberry sauce, and my mother’s award winning chicken gumbo. Also, your choice of apple or pecan pie.”
This is it—this is how Dean dies, a heart attack at twenty-six because a god gave him too much to eat.
“It’s not a traditional Christmas,” Castiel adds, resting his hip against the island; sweat shines on his chest from the heat of the oven. “But I normally make enough for myself and cook the rest for the food kitchen in Key West. I normally spend all of Christmas eve and the day of in the kitchen.”
“Dude, this is perfect,” Dean chuckles. Honestly, he’s surprised he hasn’t started drooling at this point, or worshiping the oven. “Me and Sammy, we don’t get a lot of Christmases these days. Last year I was in the hospital, and we kinda just… forgot.”
“What happened?” Castiel asks, genuinely concerned, like missing Christmas is a mortal sin. Or, does he actually care?
What shocks him most is that he doesn’t have to fib this time. Castiel is as much of a creature as anything he hunts, only kinder and surrounded by pets. Castiel understands. “Broke my knee in a few places,” Dean says, holding up his right leg, where a tattoo of a mandala covers multiple surgical scars, the raised edges still visible. “Got a few metal plates, but I’m alright. Just as long as it doesn’t rain.”
“It’s a shame I didn’t know you then,” Castiel murmurs, low enough to catch Dean’s attention; he sidles closer, just enough for Dean to feel the heat radiating off of him, and this time not from the stove. He’s absolutely scalding, his hand burning a brand into Dean’s bare shoulder, fingers trailing over ink and holding tight; Dean swallows, wills his knees not to buckle. “I could’ve healed it.”
Footsteps rushing down the stairs stop them from leaning into one another; catching sight of Sam, Dean takes a step back and covers his face while Castiel preoccupies himself with checking the ham, just as disheveled as ever. “I swear I died,” Sam announces, placing his hands on the island and looking over to the stove. “This must be heaven, because this doesn’t smell like Christmas.”
“What does Christmas smell like to you?” Castiel asks, standing and stretching his arms above his head; Dean pointedly doesn’t look, just stares at Sam instead, in his wrinkled pajamas and ridiculous bedhead and lightened circles under his eyes. It’s a miracle what actually sleeping can do.
“Canned beans,” Sam laughs, earning a chuckle from Dean. “Gas station snacks. One year we went to Boston Market and ate ourselves sick.”
Dean grins. “Best damn turkey I’d had.”
“We don’t really have a home.” Sam shrugs; he reaches down enough to pick up a black lab puppy, the dog promptly licking his face. “We’ve been living out of Dean’s car for as long as I can remember.”
“There’s a story here that I haven’t heard,” Castiel says, imploring. “Is this dinner conversation?”
“No, but it’s certainly a long walk,” Dean decides. “Show us around while this cooks?”
-+-
On the westernmost point of Marquesas sits a shipwreck, the weather-beaten hull jutting from the sand and covered in guano; water laps through it weakly, barely a ripple making it through the skeletal remains. Underneath is a raised platform, dry and free of droppings and barnacles. One of Castiel’s terriers follows them all the way through the mangroves to the shore, and effectively seats himself on the makeshift bench while Sam draws lines in the sand, a pit bull digging holes wherever he draws.
“Dad died when we were young,” Dean says, sitting on the roots of a mangrove with his chin propped up on his hands. The gulf laps at his toes, warm, clear enough to see a fever of baby stingrays swimming around his feet. “Do you believe in demons?”
Castiel stands a ways away, skipping shells across the near-reflective surface of the ocean. Occasionally, a dolphin surfaces and Castiel reaches out to pet its snout with a gentle hand. “To wage eternal war against the light, there must also be dark, therefore there must be demons. I’ve never had the fortune to meet one.”
“You’re not missing out,” Dean sighs. The mother stingray swims to collect her young, slapping his foot repeatedly in the process; Dean just toes her fin until she swims off. “Freak accident, that’s what my mom called it. House caught fire and they found dad in the ashes missing his eyes. Mom had taken us to a playdate with one of her friends, so we weren’t there to see it, but… It really tore her up. She took us along on hunts for a few years, until we were old enough to make our own choices.”
“You didn’t stay with her?” Castiel questions.
“I did.” Kicking his feet, Dean lets out a heaving breath. “Sammy went off to college and eventually came back home once he graduated. By that time, mom’d saved up enough for a house. She lives in our hometown in Kansas, and we could’ve stayed with her, but… I love my mom, I really do, but I didn’t wanna drag her into this. She was homeless for so many years, and I wanna make the world better for her, but… sometimes I feel like I’m never gonna find the damn thing.”
“You will,” Castiel offers; the dolphin butts him again, this time threatening to topple him into the surf. “After you find it, will you stop hunting?”
Dean nods. “I just wanna go home, man. Fuck demons, fuck monsters, fuck it all, if it means we can get out of this life. I wanna work on cars, not bury myself in werewolf guts on the daily.”
“You understand me more than you think, then,” Castiel says. Sam joins them by the mangroves with the pit bull at his side, happily holding a large stick in her mouth. “Living here is my retirement. Years ago, before your parents were born, the gods waged war against one another. Tensions had boiled for thousands of years until Mars was claimed, and the fighting began. Few humans were killed in the end, but our numbers dwindled significantly.
“I didn’t want to kill my family, please understand.” Castiel’s shoulders slump, his eyes downcast; Dean aches to comfort him. “But I couldn’t stand by and let everyone I loved die for no reason. And after the dust cleared… There were only a few dozen of us left. Not enough to answer prayers or to do much good. The ones who survived, we went into hiding.”
“So you chose the Keys?” Sam asks.
Castiel nods. “It’s peaceful here. For the first few years, I was alone, but I traveled to Key West enough that I never got lonely. Tourists used to stay with me, but then they stopped coming.”
“And then the animals,” Dean continues.
Another nod; a smile cracks Castiel’s lips ever so slightly. “I love them, just as their owners had. And when their time comes, I send them to sea. I scatter their ashes and say a prayer, and release them to the earth.”
Ashes to ashes, Dean thinks, looking down. At least they get to live out their days in peace.
“Your past doesn’t mean you should have to hide,” Sam offers, kinder than Dean has ever heard him; sometimes, it really does break Dean’s heart, knowing that Sam never got the childhood he deserved, but somehow, he came out better for it. Not only is he a brother, but he’s Dean’s best friend. “You’re saving lives instead of taking them. Atonement shouldn’t mean being alone.”
“I can’t hurt anyone here,” Castiel concedes, toeing the sand. Dean swallows, steadies his hands. “I’m doing good, no matter—”
Self-control has never been Dean’s strong suit, really. Springing from the mangrove and sinking into the water, Dean throws Castiel into a crushing hug, Castiel deflating against his chest, arms hanging at his sides. Sam joins in once they’re entirely sure he won’t fight back, and together they surround Castiel, Dean’s arms around Castiel’s neck and Sam’s around his waist from behind.
“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” Sam says into Castiel’s hair.
“We’re here,” Dean sighs, lips too close to Castiel’s for his own good. “We got you now. You can rest.”
Castiel isn’t a crier—Dean can tell just looking at him, he isn’t one to show his emotions beyond what’s absolutely necessary. But the sadness in his eyes echoes every fear Dean has ever experienced, every insecurity suddenly acknowledged and accepted unconditionally, no exceptions. “Thank you,” Castiel whispers, and Dean just holds him tighter, allowing Castiel to rest his face in the curve of his throat. “Thank you, thank you.”
“You’re safe,” Sam says, squeezing Castiel’s middle. “We got you.”
Dean pets through Castiel’s hair, hiding a kiss behind his ear. “You’re safe now.”
-+-
“Sam’s always wanted a dog,” Dean garbles through a mouthful of potato salad, not even bothering to swallow first; Sam just rolls his eyes while Castiel laughs behind his hand. “We tried to help this family once, and they had a puppy. I swear, I couldn’t get him out of their house.”
“In my defense, she wouldn’t let go of me,” Sam jeers back, pointing his fork. “You were there, you saw her!”
“I saw you trying to steal a dog,” Dean accuses. “Mom always wanted one too, but that’s no place for a dog to live, out of a car.”
“They would probably see more of the country than any other dog, though,” Castiel adds, to Sam’s agreement. “Though, most motels don’t accept pets.”
“See?” Dean points to Castiel. “He gets it.”
“He also said it’d be a great experience,” Sam shoots back.
This is nice—nicer than Dean thought it would be, in fact, eating with a stranger in a house he barely knows. Cool air wafts through the open windows of the dining room, the drapes swaying in the breeze; outside, the sun shines bright and if he listens hard enough, he can hear the waves lapping the shore. The table, apparently an antique older than their grandparents, is adorned with more pots and dishes and bowls than Dean knows what to do with, but Castiel never told him not to go for seconds.
In fact, if he keeps eating like he is, he might have to lounge around in his underwear for the rest of the day. Castiel has a TV; they could watch football, wasn’t that what normal families did, watch parades and fall asleep in front of the television? There has to be a marathon of The Christmas Story on somewhere.
“Do you have any family?” Sam asks, plating more sweet potatoes from the dish in front of him. “I mean, are any of them still around?”
Castiel looks to the ceiling, still chewing. “My mother is alive,” he remarks after he’s swallowed, a glass to his lips. “I believe she’s in Guatemala. She’s one of the gods of children, so she looks after orphanages wherever she travels.”
“That’s sweet,” Dean says. “See where you got it from.”
Castiel chuckles, ducking his hand under the table; Dean suspects he’s feeding someone, probably the cat that keeps trying to trip him down the stairs. “I haven’t seen her in a few years, but she sends postcards. She met Pope Francis last year and actually sent a letter.”
“Did he know who he was talking to?” Sam wonders aloud, amused.
“She’s not as blatant in her healings as I am,” Castiel muses. “Those that know we provide miracles don’t often speak of us to others. We’re… a collective secret, if you will.”
“How’d you get to be an urban legend though?” Dean stops to take the last slice of pecan pie, about the only thing he can stomach before he has to roll himself out of his chair. “We’d never heard of you, and we’re kinda the experts at this thing.”
“An old wives tale, perhaps?” Castiel shrugs, setting his fork down. “I was mentioned in a novel once, and a fairly well read one in the nineteenth century. A mother was taking her daughter to the southernmost point of the United States with her pet rabbit, because her mother claimed she knew a man who could heal the dying in exchange for kindness. I didn’t find out until thirty years later that that was why I had several dogs in my house.”
“How old are you?” Sam asks, eyebrow raised.
Castiel considers that for a long minute, counting on his fingers; Dean stops following after the tenth cycle. “Give or take fifteen hundred years,” he says, nonchalant, and Dean nearly chokes.
God, compared to Castiel, Dean is a baby.
“I’ve lived through more than enough strife to want to seclude myself.” Castiel reaches for a roll, inhaling half of it in one bite. “Politics and violence make me anxious.”
“God, same,” Sam huffs. “Monsters are one thing.”
“People are a whole ‘nother level of crazy,” Dean sighs. “No rhyme or reason, it’s just a fight for control.”
“I don’t like it,” Castiel murmurs. “Living here is just… so exhausting sometimes. I don’t understand how you do it.”
“Keeping busy works,” Dean says, disheartened. “Just hoping everything ends up better in the end.”
Sam nods. “You just gotta accept that whatever you do, you can’t change anything alone. Having friends helps, that way you can relate to someone.”
“And have dinner together,” Dean points out. “We’re friends, right?” He turns to Castiel, tapping his feet under his chair. “I mean, we barely know each other, but if you wanted to talk about anything, we’d be there for you.”
“Yeah.” Standing, Sam rounds the table to stand at Castiel’s back, cupping Castiel’s shoulders in both hands. “I can give you a phone, if you’d wanna call once in a while.”
Castiel flushes a bit, but in the dimly lit dining room, Dean can see him smile; he taps Castiel’s bare foot with his own until Castiel pushes back, playful. “I think we can be friends,” Castiel eventually says, now grinning. “I haven’t had human friends before.”
“You got some now,” Dean laughs. “You want us to help clean up?”
-+-
The nights in the winter aren’t as humid as the afternoons, without the sun to beat down on their backs. Though, it’s certainly darker here, with only the light from Castiel’s house to guide Dean’s path, steadily decreasing the further he walks with Castiel behind him, wrist in hand. No street lamps, no flashlights, only the glow of the moon and the endless abyss of stars.
“You haven’t explained why you dragged me out of bed,” Castiel says once Dean finds the beach, the hull of the wrecked ship casting a shadow into the sand. “Or why we’re at the beach.”
“I told you, I wanted to show you something,” is all Dean says. The explanation would be too stupid; Castiel would laugh at him probably, just from hearing the suggestion. But it’s Christmas, and Castiel cooked them more food than Dean has ever seen, and Dean didn’t give him anything other than company. Surely, this can make up for the absence.
Dean sneaks through the rotted wooden slats and drags pulls Castiel with him, until they’re stepping barefoot into the pool, the sand between their toes. “You’re making me nervous,” Castiel lies; once they’re alone, he sidles closer—really alone, without dogs or cats or the aquatic life that seems to follow them wherever they go—and places his hands on Dean’s hips, just above his waistband.
“I haven’t been kissed in two hundred years,” Castiel murmurs, low, deep enough to make Dean’s toes curl. Was he that obvious? “Isn’t that what you wanted? To kiss me under the stars?”
“You make it sound cheesy,” Dean huffs, but eventually nods. “I didn’t get you anything, and… I’m not practical, but I’m physical.”
“So you think that kissing me would be more sufficient than a present?” Again, Dean nods, ashamed. Castiel palms his cheek despite his fear, though, drawing Dean in closer—like he could stop himself if he tried. “I think it’s working.”
Dean snorts, but leans in, kissing the corner of Castiel’s lips to start. “Is this wrong? Am I making some cosmic mistake by wanting this?”
“I assure you,” Castiel breathes, snaking his arms around Dean’s waist, “you won’t suffer for wanting me.”
Castiel’s tongue tastes like brown sugar and cinnamon, and his lips of honey when they kiss, intoxicatingly real and everything Dean has wanted since they arrived. Plush lips press against his own, and Dean finds himself opening with little insistence, lust overcoming fear and guiding his hands. Castiel’s shirt comes away easily, and Dean casts it towards the bench, in an ingrained effort to keep everything dry unless absolutely necessary.
In the scant moonlight, Castiel is even more beautiful, his features highlighted in an ethereal glow, his eyes shining bright at certain angles. Not that Dean pays much attention to that, anyway; Castiel’s hands keep him enthralled, gliding under his shirt and up his spine, and down again, igniting every fire Dean’s ever kept hidden.
No matter how often he’s tried to repress his desires in the past, Dean wants this: he craves how Castiel yields under him, the feel of his teeth nipping Dean’s lower lip and soothing it with his tongue, the soft noises they make when they part. Quiet moans, hidden from sight, muffled by the steady lull of the ocean and the night.
Somehow, they end up spread out on the bench, Dean on his back with his knees bent and feet touching the water; Castiel straddles him easily, hands mapping the bare expanse of Dean’s chest and over the scars, tracing each and every tattoo while they kiss. And really, that’s as far as they go; it’s hot, hotter than Dean could’ve imagined, but he doesn’t crave sex tonight. All he wants is right here, in his arms, blood-warm and tangible.
“Do you make a habit of seducing gods?” Castiel asks, nuzzling just beneath Dean’s ear, afterwards sucking a mark there, one Dean couldn’t hide if he tried. “Taking us into abandoned boats and having your way with us?”
“Just you,” Dean sighs, urging Castiel into another kiss. “You’re too nice, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.” Slowly, Castiel lowers himself onto the bench at Dean’s side, taking his hand and threading their fingers together; his lips gleam in a moonbeam, swollen and spit-slick; Dean kisses him again, just to remind himself of how it feels. “I’d like to think I’m just… me. I wear my heart on my sleeve.”
“You do,” Dean chuckles. Castiel smiles and rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “I was serious, at dinner. I still wanna keep in touch after we leave.”
“I’d like that,” Castiel whispers, albeit concerned. “Would you really want to, though? I can’t be much fun.”
“You’re totally fun,” Dean laughs. “I’m serious, you’re… I’ve had more fun here with you and Sammy than I’ve had in years. You’re just… special.”
“We’re not the same,” Castiel says, in no way admonishing. Just an observation, but just confirmation enough of everything Dean believes. “It would never work, a human and a god.”
“Who says it won’t?” Reaching over, Dean caresses his face, stubble soft against his palm. “I’m not planning on dying any time soon.”
Castiel smiles, kisses Dean’s shoulder. “I’d hope not. The world would be lament to lose your soul so early.”
“Now you’re being sappy.” At least Castiel finds it funny. Dean kisses the smile off his face, until all Castiel knows is his name. “Let me call you? And if you get bored or wanna talk about your new babies, I’ll be here.”
A sigh; Castiel closes his eyes. “You’re too kind to someone like me.”
“You deserve it.” Another kiss, and no more.
“You do too,” Castiel murmurs, barely audible. “Maybe we deserve each other.”
Maybe, Dean thinks, leaning his head back. Maybe we do.
-+-
They leave two days later, after Dean receives a phone call saying if he doesn’t move his car by tomorrow, he’ll be towed to somewhere further inland. Hopefully not Homestead—the last place Dean wants to go is back there. It takes convincing to get Sam to leave, but Dean eventually talks him into it, after they give Castiel one of their unused cellphones and a charger.
“It’s got mine and Dean’s numbers,” Sam points out in the contacts folder. “And anyone you wanna call in Key West, you can add right there.”
“You’ll have to get a card in town to reload it, but it’ll get you by.” Dean shrugs. “Phone plans are a bitch.”
“I appreciate this,” Castiel says, too genuine for words. Dean really will miss him, maybe too much.
Sam hugs Castiel for probably too long in parting, and honestly, Dean can’t blame him. All of their things have been loaded into the jet sled, yet, Dean can’t bear to climb in after Sam.
“I didn’t think it’d be this hard,” Dean mentions to Castiel, Castiel standing at his front with his hand on one of the Newfoundland’s heads. “I feel like we’re breaking up.”
“We’re not,” Castiel laughs, patting Dean’s wrist. He leans in to kiss Dean, just out of sight of Sam, and Dean doesn’t want to let him go. “Call me when you make it to Key West.”
“I’m gonna talk your ear off.” Dean grins, probably too happy for his own good; their next kiss is a little more frantic, but still real, heat spreading to Dean’s toes. If Castiel smiles against his lips, he’ll never tell. “I hope you’re ready for me.”
“I always will be,” Castiel says, sincere. “Be safe, please. Both of you.”
The Newfoundland barks when Sam starts the boat, and chases after them when he pulls away, speeding off through the water. All the while, Castiel waves, until he’s out of sight and all Dean can see is the rapidly fading shape of Marquesas Key, disappearing into the horizon. His lips still tingle.
Maybe they won’t ever stop.
-+-
Castiel receives a call close to a year later—or rather, three, all missed while he was fishing Lila out of the lagoon after attempting to catch a fish. He picks up on the fourth ring, clothes soaked through and flip flops squishing on the hardwoods, and a familiar voice echoes through the speaker, warming the chill from his bones. “Hello, Dean.”
“Hey, guess what I killed about a month ago?” Dean asks without preamble, practically ecstatic.
It would be shocking, if Dean hadn’t asked that every time he called, just to start off conversations. Like small talk, only more morbid. “Chupacabra?” Castiel asks, shrugging his shirt off and casting it in the odd direction of the laundry room.
“No, dude, the demon.”
Castiel frowns. “The demon?”
“The demon, Cas.” His smile is practically audible through the phone. “Me and Sammy got him in Hastings, burnt his eyes out of his head. And remember, I made you a promise?”
Wildly, Castiel’s heart beats; he temporarily forgets his sopping shorts in favor for asking, “Are you quitting hunting?”
“Hell yes,” Dean laughs. “You got an extra room down there? Think I wanna stay for a couple days. Hell, maybe a month, if you’ve got time.”
A smile overcomes him, his sudden happiness cloyingly thick in his throat. Dean is giving up hunting—Dean is coming back to stay, and selfishly, Castiel hopes for a long, long while. “I have all the time you could ever want, Dean.”