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Dean fucked up.
He’s fucked up bad.
His condo is too spacious, too bright, too empty. What he once considered his ideal interior home design now washes him out, dulls his shine, nullifies his existence.
There is beer stocked in his fridge for the first time in three months.
He goes to work, yells at his men, headlines demo days so he can break shit and feel good about the fact that he’s tearing down walls and jackhammering concrete instead of flaying himself from the inside out.
Everyone notices the change.
Sam tries to get Dean to open up and when that doesn’t work, Charlie tries and fails just as spectacularly.
His days are filled with anger and hatred all directed at himself, bloody knuckles under his gloves and concrete stuck to the insides of his ears.
His days are nothing compared to his nights.
When he sleeps - if he sleeps - he dreams of Hell. At least, he thinks it’s Hell. He’s strung up by meat cleavers and chains and picked apart molecule by molecule, only to be reassembled again for it all to start over. He feels the flesh rip from his bones at eleven p.m., feels his muscles mend back together at midnight, and then screams through the agony of his bones melting at two.
The worst part is when his invisible torturer starts on his wings.
His beautiful dappled wings.
They’re ripped from his shoulders and even detached from his body their nerve endings alight with pain as they’re burned to ash.
He wishes he would dream of Castiel.
Castiel, whom he hasn’t seen or talked to since the morning he walked out.
And how could he?
How do you face the man - the being - that you’ve been searching for since the dawn of time?
Dean has never thought he was anything special. Plenty good looking, sure, and fit, and generally characterized as a man’s man and a ladies’ man, but nothing terribly special. Now, with the knowledge that he is so much more than Dean Winchester - so much more than a human on this earth - well.
Dean’s never had the best coping mechanisms.
In the back of his mind he knows he’s lost all of his grips because he’s not with Castiel. He doesn’t have Castiel to wrap the black rope over his wrist and forearm, the length of it instead coiled up neatly in Dean’s bedside drawer. He doesn’t have Castiel to feed him, shower with him, sleep with him. He doesn’t have Castiel’s unnerving presence, his undeterred stare, his private beautiful laugh.
Castiel hasn’t tried to contact him.
Dean wonders if these nightmares are Castiel punishing him for leaving.
Dean wonders if these nightmares are a glimpse into what Dean’s life had been like, long ago, without Castiel.
Dean wonders if these nightmares are his future.
When beating the shit out of flip houses isn’t enough, Dean renews his gym membership. He gets up before the sun, works out, and from the locker room heads straight to work only to hit the gym on his way home. He’s not eating right, but his body is trim, fit, on edge, if not a little undernourished. A part of him thinks that if he can whip his body into shape, he can fight the invisible demons in his nightmares.
A part of him knows it’s just a distraction from the harsh reality of the fact that Dean walked away from the best thing that had ever happened to him.
--
It’s been a little over a month since he left Castiel.
Dean’s itching for something to do. He’d thrown out all of his alcohol last week and hasn’t had a drop since. Your body is the most holy of temples, Castiel had once said, created by God Himself. Dean had thought that a weird thing for Castiel to say at the time, given the fact Castiel is covered in tattoos and has a few scars in his face where piercings used to be. But those words - and plenty of others - echo around in Dean’s head forcefully enough to be obtrusive.
So he’d ditched the booze, put some vegetables in his fridge, and bought a black candelabra to put on his dining room table.
More black ekes its way into Dean’s life. The candelabra turns into black candles perched in their holders. Black placemats, even though Dean cooks for one and never has company anymore. The throw pillows on his couch get new black cases, green and blue gossamer reflecting in the silk in certain lighting. His bedding goes from soft cream to black hole and no matter what Dean changes, it still doesn’t feel right.
He tries nesting, once. Consciously. But it doesn’t feel the same when he’s alone in the bed, so he puts everything back in its normal place.
Sam and his friends still try to contact him, although their texts have been dwindling in frequency.
Dean only answers his phone for work, and screens all other texts.
He thought his life had been alright before, but after meeting Castiel, awareness had been breathed into him and Dean became the man he had always wanted to be.
He’s merely a shell of that man, now.
He’s not even a shell.
He’s a dried husk and he’s waiting for the faintest of breezes to pass over him and turn him to dust.
Sitting on his couch, the only light in the condo coming from the burning candles on the dining table, Dean slumps and puts his face in his hands.
“What have you done to me?”
--
Dean takes to wearing long sleeves. The watercolor tattoos are brilliant and beautiful and Dean doesn’t deserve to have them on his body. He gets too many questions about them. His crew never gets personal with him, but it’s people in the grocery store, or at the gym, that point them out and compliment them. Ask him where he got them done.
Never able to come up with an answer on the fly, Dean just offers tight smiles and exits the encounter as briskly as possible.
He only sees the tattoos when he showers, now.
Through the steam fogging up the mirror and swirling by the unopened vent in his bathroom Dean looks his fill.
If he imagines these constellations and galaxies on someone else’s body, he thinks they’re gorgeous. Truly works of art. They’re so softly colored it almost looks like a trick of the light, until he turns his body this way and that, touches them, and sees them ripple under his skin like water in sunlight.
But they’re on his body.
In his body.
He is the vessel.
Dean punches his mirror so hard he feels his knuckles crack as glass shards spark and fly towards him, nicking tiny microscopic cuts all over his face, neck, and chest. A few droplets of blood appear in various places, staining the stars, but before Dean can even think about grabbing the first aid kit the cuts close, the blood disappears, and his swollen knuckles return to their original state.
Bracing his hands on the sink counter, Dean hangs his head and feels angry, hot tears prickling in his eyes.
“What have you done to me?”
--
Dean starts seeing Castiel.
It’s not actually Castiel; it’s his ghost.
Dean sees him in crowds, he sees him in reflections, he sees him with eyes wide open and the sun high in the sky.
He blinks, and Castiel is gone.
On the third day of seeing not-Castiel, Dean decides to take some vacation days.
Ten of them.
Two full weeks off of work.
The first two days Dean barely leaves his bed. He gets up to piss, put food in his stomach if he thinks he won’t puke it back up, and stare at the drawer where the black rope is coiled up out of sight.
On the third day Dean opens the drawer. His fingers touch the material of the rope, electricity skittering from his fingertips all the way up to his shoulder. The tattoos under his skin swirl. His fingers hook around the rope and lift it up, uncoiling it as it goes, his eyes trailing down the length of it to where the tail end rests gently in the drawer. Sitting down on the bed Dean rests his elbow on his thigh, bending slightly so he can start looping the rope around his arm. He tries his best to not think about Castiel while he does it.
He doesn’t succeed.
Around the bones, the curve of his wrist and up to the middle of his forearm, the pastel galaxies shift and move as if to welcome the rope into their universe. Dean ties off the knot and stays slightly hunched over, fingers of his free hand trailing up and down the rope, feeling the texture of it on the pads of his fingers, eyes drinking in the contrast of solid black against delicate colors.
He feels calm.
Straightening a little, Dean exhales a soft breath and stands up. He feels more sturdy on his feet than he has in over a month. He puts on a pair of sweatpants and makes his way out towards his living room, taking in the changes.
Not enough black.
Not enough darkness.
He spends the afternoon on Amazon and Etsy, picking out unique, handmade items to add to his decor.
It’s too bright in here, still.
Even with the rope on his wrist he feels like he’s just going through the motions. He’s considerably calmer, his body less weak, but he’s still directionless.
He stops seeing Castiel when his eyes are open.
He sees him every time he closes them.
Sleep only takes him for a few hours a night by the time Dean heads into the fourth day of vacation. His online orders arrived earlier that morning and now he spends his time examining each piece one by one, putting them where he thinks they’ll work best. He wonders, as he drapes an indigo scarf over a lampshade in the living room, arranging the material into a beautiful cascade of fabric, why he’s never decorated anyone’s house like this.
Thinking about what his own home looked like before, he realizes that he’d just been following the mainstream trends of decoration - and so had his clients. No one had any original ideas for their own homes. They wanted something from a magazine; not something from the heart.
Castiel’s home had been the most unique space Dean has ever entered.
Dean’s own home is developing into quite the contender.
The lights in the living room get muted with scarves spanning the richest, coolest spectrum of the rainbow. He switches the curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows with blackout material, a rich, royal blue, and tells himself it reminds him of the ocean, not Castiel’s eyes. The bathroom stays light. He adds a black vase with a single white rose to the vanity sink.
Now standing in the doorway to his bedroom, he folds his arms over his chest. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of gym shorts, the material of the rope scraping across his pec, his nipple stiffening in response. He ignores his body in favor of moving to the box on the bed, reaching inside to start pulling out items. The curtains in here get changed as well; solid black. The bedding has been dark for a while but he adds a few more throw pillows to it. On either side of the bed he drapes prussian blue scarves over the lamps. After a moment’s thought, he arranges crimson scarves over them as well, the colors melting over each other to create the prettiest purple Dean’s ever seen.
He cleans up the boxes and packaging and miscellaneous plastic.
Nothing feels right, but it feels better.
He checks his phone for the first time in twenty-four hours.
No new messages.
He opens up his chat with Castiel and reads over their last text messages.
Cas: Do you have a digital stud finder?
Dean: I knew it. You only want me for my tools.
Cas: Specifically… one of your tools.
Dean: ;-----)
Cas: Stud finder?
Dean: Just found it. Been going off like crazy.
Cas: Do you have faulty equipment, contractor?
Dean: Nah, it’s just already found a stud.
Dean: ;---------------------)
Cas: …
Dean: Woah now, it’s going CRAzY
Dean: Too much stud!!!!
Cas: I’m going to Ace.
Dean smiles as he reads the conversation. After Castiel’s last text he’d called, still laughing, and told him he would bring it with him the next time he came over.
He’d ended up forgetting the stud finder.
Dean locks his phone and sets it on the nightstand. He sits on the bed, stares at the rope on his arm, and feels his soul ache. His fingers trace the nebulae in his veins.
He lies down, tries to nest as much as possible, and falls into fitful sleep.
--
When Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, he feels like he’s dying. He’s burning up from the inside out, feverish, sweat clinging to his skin and limbs on fire. He untangles from his sheets, struggles to get out of the nest, and ends up rolling right out of bed. He barely catches himself from landing on the floor face first, instead hitting the wood hard on his hands and knees. It smarts, pain blooming, and he gasps for breath now that he’s not tangled.
The rope on his arm burns.
His fingers tremble as he reaches for it, starting to undo the knot.
The pain intensifies, a splitting headache making his vision go blurry. He curls up in child’s pose, pressing his forehead to the cool floor, trying to regulate his breathing.
He’s dying.
Castiel isn’t here, and he’s dying.
His shoulder blades itch and he writhes slightly, shifting the bone and muscle, sitting up a bit to try and reach behind himself so he can scratch. He can’t reach. The sensation isn’t on the surface of the skin, anyway. A little sob escapes his throat, a wet, pathetic sound, and he struggles to stand. He braces himself on his dresser, then the wall, making his way out towards the living room on unsteady feet. It’s dark. His eyes adjust after a few seconds and his knees get weak; he’s short of breath, he’s so close to the couch.
Castiel, he finds himself praying, his throat not working properly.
He hits the floor, too weak to stand.
Cassiel.
--
Dean wakes up swathed in comfort. The headache is gone, his body is free of ailments, and he’s no longer burning alive. He keeps his eyes closed, burrowing further down into the nest of blankets and pillows. He smells ash and patchouli and sinks into the softness surrounding him. He sleeps once more.
When he rouses again he slowly blinks his eyes open, at first unable to see anything in the dark. For a moment he thinks he’s in his own bed - that he’d dreamed he woke up feverish and delirious - but that scent.
Dean knows it well.
Very slowly he sits up, taking stock of his body. Still no pain. No discomfort. He feels the rope on his wrist, and then notes he’s dressed in a shirt and sweats. He’s warm, but not uncomfortably so.
Looking around, Castiel’s room hasn’t changed a single bit since Dean was here last.
Shifting carefully, quietly, Dean checks to make sure he’s in bed alone. He is. He stands up and grabs one of Castiel’s fluffy robes from the hook on the back of the door, wrapping himself up in it both to retain the warmth from the bed and also to offer himself a bit of comfort.
It smells like Castiel.
He leaves the bedroom. The rest of the house is lit with the predawn sky, lamps shut off and candles burning on various surfaces. Castiel is sitting at the kitchen table, bong in front of him, his gaze turned to look out the window as the edges of the sun flirt with the horizon. There’s a faint haze of smoke around him. He’s beautiful in profile, Dean muses to himself.
He’s beautiful.
Castiel seems to sense Dean, turning to face him, twisting around in the chair. His blue eyes are guarded, his brow set with concern, lips pursed as though he’s purposely preventing himself from saying anything. Dean doesn’t know what to say. They’re at a standstill.
He had prayed to Castiel, and Castiel had come to him - despite the fact that Dean had done his best to cut Castiel from his life completely.
But Dean didn’t truly succeed in that, right?
Because even though Castiel wasn’t physically with him, Dean brought him into his space. The scarves on the lamps, the candles on the shelves, the incense burning on the coffee table.
Dean grips the lapels of the robe, drawing it tighter.
Castiel stands up. He’s wearing his black silk robe and it’s loose up top, the sash drawn tight and accentuating his figure. The hem of it barely skirts mid-thigh. He’s naked underneath. Dean keeps his gaze on Castiel’s face, but not without monumental effort. They stand, silent, regarding one another; Castiel isn’t hiding the way his eyes trace over every inch of Dean, no doubt seeing the changes in his body.
With Castiel Dean had stayed thick and cut, solid. Someone Castiel frequently ravished with his gaze alone.
Without Castiel Dean has lost weight, muscle definition stark against his bones, the healthy fat nearly gone.
He feels ashamed.
He drops his gaze to the floor.
Castiel crosses the space between them in a few strides. His scent intoxicates Dean and his eyes flutter closed, before fingers are under his chin and lifting his head up. Opening his eyes is a struggle. When he does, he feels wetness clinging to his lashes.
“My sweet Dean,” Castiel murmurs, both hands lifting now to cup under Dean’s jaw. Dean rests heavily into it, like Castiel is holding him upright from that point of contact alone.
“Cas,” Dean tries to say, but his voice loses pitch and comes out broken.
“Shhh,” Castiel draws Dean closer. Dean is undeserving. Castiel wraps him in his embrace and Dean returns it, clinging to the other man like a lifeline, burying his face into the curve of his neck. His eyes close. Castiel’s neck gets wet with tears.
The dam breaks.
Dean sobs into Castiel’s skin, snot and tears and shaky breaths, and Castiel holds him through it. When Dean’s knees get weak Castiel walks him towards the couch and they fall onto the worn cushions; Castiel grabs the blanket off of the back, the throw pillows from either end, and walls them in. Dean feels tiny curled up against Castiel, trembling fingers twisted in silk. The blanket wraps around them. The air shifts, the scent changes, and the snap of feathers is comforting as another heavy weight settles around them.
He’s not sure how long he cries, but when he opens his eyes and they’re no longer gummy, the sun has risen fully and is spilling into Castiel’s living room through the open curtains. He’s warm. Safe. Protected. He pulls away slightly and Castiel allows him, one of his hands lifting to card through Dean’s hair gently.
They’re only wrapped in the blanket.
Castiel leans away slightly to grab a tissue from the box on the coffee table. He passes it to Dean, who now has maybe an ounce of humility and shame as he leans away a bit more so he can mop up his face. He coughs wetly into the tissues and then balls it up in his hand, deciding to hold onto it so he can toss it later. Also, he might need it again. His constitution is feeling pretty weak.
Castiel is unbothered by how gross Dean is, as he leans in and presses the softest kiss to Dean’s forehead. Dean melts into it, more tension leaving his body. When Castiel pulls away he tilts Dean’s chin up once again to meet his gaze, that concerned line still drawing his brows together.
“Why have you hurt yourself?” Castiel says softly.
Dean doesn’t have an answer to that. He shakes his head a bit jerkily, dropping his gaze.
“I was worried,” Castiel admits. Dean chances a glance to look up at him again and only now notices the bags under his eyes, the frown lines around his mouth.
He’s so achingly gorgeous.
“I’m sorry,” Dean finds himself saying - finds himself meaning. “I didn’t- fuck, Cas, you’re… this is all…” he drops his gaze to look at the galaxies under his skin, now vibrant instead of muted in Castiel’s presence.
“I should have explained more,” Castiel says, regret in his voice. “I relied too much on memories locked away long ago. I thought it would be easier to show, rather than tell.”
Dean hates how morose Castiel sounds. He shakes his head and scoots closer to Castiel, practically in his lap. “No, Cas, I- I freaked out. I’m still freaking out a little bit but I- bein’ away from you was-”
“Hush,” Castiel commands softly. Dean does. Castiel runs his hands up Dean’s arms to his shoulders, then to the curve of his neck, fingers wrapping around the column. Castiel’s hands are so big. “You did nothing wrong, Dean. I will not have you thinking otherwise.”
It’s quiet again.
Dean’s skin gradually starts to feel hot to the touch, as he lies against Castiel on the couch. It takes him over bit by bit; it’s slow at first. He thinks the blanket might be a bit too heavy. He shrugs off the material and Castiel allows him to, his arms replacing the blanket. Dean tries to settle again. He mops his face one more time with the tissue and watches with tired, blurry vision as Castiel takes the tissue away from him and tosses it onto the coffee table.
It’s hot.
“Cas,” Dean croaks, his voice thick and wrecked. As if saying Castiel’s name was a trigger, a sweat breaks out over Dean’s skin. “Cas, what’s-”
“Shhh,” Castiel shifts a bit, grabbing Dean’s shoulders to help him sit upright. “This is normal, Dean. We were apart for too long. Our biology…” his words trail off, and then turn thoughtful. “Although this seems to be different from pining sickness. We are together now, you should be fine.”
“Pining…?” Dean can barely focus on what Castiel is saying. His vision doubles and it feels like he’s sweating rivers. Sitting up a bit more, he winces at the sensation of his wet skin peeling away from Castiel’s dry skin. Castiel’s robe is disheveled. His scent is strong, wafting through Dean’s nostrils and sending sparks through his body - patchouli, ash, ozone. Dean’s mouth goes dry and he parts his lips, panting as he tries to take the scent in through his nose and mouth at the same time, to smell and taste it.
“Dean,” Castiel’s voice sounds like it’s coming from under water.
Dean turns his head to look at Castiel, feeling his own features tugging into a frown as Castiel’s expression shifts from confused to moderately alarmed. “Why… why you lookin’ at me like that?”
“I need to take care of you,” Castiel says, and it sounds like he’s coming to a decision and verbalizing it to reassure himself.
“M’ I sick?” Dean asks. His skin is so hot. He reaches up to start pulling at the borrowed shirt on his body; Castiel’s shirts normally would be tight on him, but with the weight Dean has lost over the past weeks, it hangs a bit loose. No matter the size, it clings to him uncomfortably, drenched in sweat. “Cas, I gotta… m’ hot…”
“Shhhh, Dean,” Castiel hushes him softly. He stands up from the couch, the sash of his robe still tied but the fabric loose and open. Dean’s eyes trail down Castiel’s tanned body, the inky black tattoos over his skin still as impressive as ever, his eyes following the path to where Castiel’s cock hangs between his legs, soft and beautiful.
Dean’s mouth waters at the sight.
Castiel must sense where his eyes go, because he’s reaching down to haul Dean up off of the couch with strong hands. Dean follows with no choice, knees a bit weak, hands reaching up to grip at Castiel’s elbows to keep himself from toppling over. Castiel starts leading them back towards the bedroom and Dean feels hot and thirsty - or is he hungry? He can’t remember the last full, nutritious meal he ate. He doesn’t even know what day it is. Castiel leads them back into his bedroom and sets Dean on the edge of the bed, wasting no time in stripping the sopping shirt from his body. Dean’s arms lift lethargically and then fall to either side, fingers loose. It takes a bit more maneuvering for Castiel to get his sweats off of his frame - Dean tries not to think about how loose those are, too - and then Castiel is urging Dean to shift his naked body up on the bed, back into the nest.
“Cas,” Dean murmurs, reaching for the other man.
Castiel’s blue eyes flash in the darkness of the room, the morning light blocked out by the heavy curtains on his window. The sound of silk hitting the floor makes Dean’s temperature spike and he huffs out a breath, once again trying to taste and scent Castiel’s unique fragrance.
“I don’t have time to explain,” Castiel says, his voice tinging with regret and worry as he climbs onto Dean’s lap. Dean’s hands automatically fall to his hips, thumbs pressing into sigils. Castiel’s tattoos glow with a faint white-blue light, and Dean’s eyes drink them in.
He catches sight of the rope on his arm, which then lets his eyes see how bright his own tattoos are. Swirling and moseying and rolling, the galaxies and nebulae come alive with Castiel’s proximity, stars glittering and cosmic dust swirling.
“Dean,” Castiel says, hands on either side of Dean’s face. He forces the man beneath him to look up into his eyes and Dean sees galaxies swirling in the indigo depths. “Stay with me.”
Dean nods, feeling drugged. Drowsy. His head tips back against the headboard and he feels his eyes roll a bit. The heat under his skin is irritating, prickling; Castiel shifts above him and then Dean feels fingers wrapping around his cock, stroking him to hardness. Coupled with the feeling of molten lava moving through his veins Dean lets out an almost pained noise, his hips automatically bucking upwards even though the last thing he wants is to move, let alone have his dick be touched. Castiel’s vice grip is replaced by something softer, warmer, and Dean blearily blinks his eyes open to see Castiel has seated himself on Dean’s erection, ass-to-thigh as he grapples for Dean’s shoulders and pulls him into his chest.
As if on autopilot, Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s body. He’s aware of Castiel moving, just on the outer reaches of his conscience, but he’s unsure of his own participation. The heat under his skin starts to abate little by little; he starts coming back into his own awareness. First his fingertips - he feels them pressing into the curve of Castiel’s spine, helping guide him down to his cock. Then his legs, where his bowed knees are slightly bent to keep Castiel from falling backwards. The rest of his body comes into awareness bit by bit - points of contact where Castiel’s hands are roaming, a liquid cool seemingly channeling from his fingertips into Dean’s overheated skin.
“Loholo,” Castiel commands in that whisky-rough voice.
Dean snaps into his body like a rubberband. His eyes open and the room is bathed in white-blue light, Castiel’s head tipped back, wings out and quivering. Ripples of that white-blue light are chorusing through the inky black feathers of Castiel’s wings, starting at the shoulder joints and fanning out towards the very tips of his flight feathers. It pulses with Dean’s quickening, thunderous heartbeat, and he comes into full awareness as he takes everything in.
Castiel’s wings are out, and so are Dean’s.
This isn’t a dream. This isn’t some weird fever-induced vision. This isn’t Dean starving himself to hallucination, this isn’t stress playing tricks on his eyes. Real as can be Castiel rides Dean’s cock with fervor, his skin flushed, inky tattoos swirling, wings beating slowly to help keep his balance. Dean’s own dappled appendages enclose around them protectively, and when Dean can take a breath without his lungs feeling like they’re being filled with hot rocks, he sits up to change position. Castiel lets out a low moan as Dean repositions him onto his hands and knees, spine bowing and ass tilted, fingers clutched in the blankets as he looks over his shoulder - over his wing - towards Dean.
“Dean,” Castiel breathes.
Dean’s aware of everything and nothing at once. He feels his cock encased in impossible tightness; he feels something slick and hot dribbling out of Castiel’s hole on the outward strokes, leaking down Castiel’s thighs and slickening the way. Dean’s hands keep Castiel’s hips where he wants them - where he needs them - and for a bit all Dean can think about is the heat being fucked out of his body with each thrust. Castiel’s wings quiver and snap, the resulting wind from the force of their movement knocking over lamps and rattling dressers. Dean hears a growl, he thinks it might have come from him, and then he’s doubling over Castiel to plow him into the bed.
A hand moves up towards Castiel’s right wing. His fingers push into the feathers, heading directly for the oil glands; the secretion from there is similar to the liquid seeping between Castiel’s legs, and Dean straightens a little so he can smear the oil across Castiel’s back. The only light in the room is coming from their bodies, some bioluminescence being emitted from his wings and the tattoos swirling under his skin. His other hand moves to Castiel’s left wing and he presses with all ten fingers, feeling flesh and bone and the soft squish of the glands. Castiel howls, thrashing under him, and this weird primal need to claim Castiel overcomes Dean’s senses. Castiel’s wings flap and Dean’s hands move up towards the alula to calm them, gripping them tight enough to still but not hard enough to hurt.
Castiel goes completely supine, his whole body laid out on the bed. Dean follows, his knees on the outside of Castiel’s thighs as he continues to fuck into Castiel’s hole, the sensation almost too slick to be any sort of pleasurable. But this position tightens the channel and Dean growls, this time he knows it’s him. His wings cocoon them and stardust falls in glitter showers when he shakes the dapple feathers, covering Castiel in a light, shimmery layer. Dean bends, slowing his thrusts, and starts mouthing at the back of Castiel’s neck.
He doesn’t expect Castiel to turn his head to the side submissively, offering himself up. Dean barely has the mental clarity to try and understand what exactly Castiel is offering. He understands he’s fucking Castiel, primal and animalistic, going off of instinct alone. He understands Castiel submitting to him. What he doesn’t understand is the fierce rip of possession that flares through his gut at seeing Castiel like this.
Just like this.
Just for him.
His mind flashes back to eons ago, stories untold, memories barely surfaced. Castiel laid out on the rings of Saturn, smile lazy and content, the indentation of Dean’s teeth a pretty little scar on the hollow of his throat. Dean tracing the scar with reverent fingers; Dean saying even God couldn’t create such beauty. Castiel saying he exists solely for Dean.
The blasphemy.
Dean snaps back into awareness again, hearing Castiel babbling nonsense in a language he barely recognizes. He knows a part of his brain can translate, but pretty much all higher function has been zapped out of him as he fucks Castiel. All that is buzzing through his brain is claim claim claim and he stares at the part of Castiel’s throat that’s been exposed for him - the memory of Cassiel drawing Kokabiel in for a kiss, milleniums away, falters and fades like images on an old reel-to-reel, an overlay of what’s happening right at this exact moment in time.
He doesn’t know his teeth break skin until the coppery tang of blood explodes over his tongue. He’s distantly aware of his orgasm wracking his body, wave after wave, and following some weird primal instinct Dean licks up the blood he’s spilled, sucking at the wound, drawing the liquid into his own body. He laps at the broken skin and feels it healing under his tongue, and his hips slow to a stop, keeping his twitching cock buried deep inside Castiel.
Castiel, who is panting heavily and otherwise motionless.
“Fuck,” Dean breathes.
In a tight snap his wings are gone, and Castiel’s disappear also, glitter puffing around them and settling delicately on every surface like dust in an old museum. He gingerly pulls out of Castiel’s body and then scrambles to help the other man turn over onto his back; Dean’s eyes scan his body hurriedly, seeing no blood but plenty of semen smeared into tattooed skin. Sitting back on his ass Dean bends a leg and props his elbow on it so he can rest his head in his hand, breathing harshly and blinking at Castiel in confusion.
They’d just had sex. He knows this. But he doesn’t remember all of it. It was like he’d been outside his body. Did he black out?
“What the fuck just happened?” Dean asks, his voice sandpapery rough. He coughs, wincing and rubbing his throat.
Castiel stares up at the ceiling until his breathing regulates, and then he slides cool blue eyes towards Dean. “You bit me.”
“I-” Dean cuts himself off, swallowing. “Why did I do that?”
“Because you were supposed to,” Castiel says, shifting to prop himself up on his elbows. He glances down at his dirtied skin and lets out a breath, lifting a hand and flicking his wrist - in a blink the mess is cleaned up, not a trace of cum on his body. Between his legs is dry, too, as he rolls over to face Dean. Castiel is as he always is; calm, collected, ethereal.
Magical.
“I’m not-” Dean scrambles to get off of the bed, kicking his right foot to untangle the sheets. Castiel looks on in mild amusement. “I’m not runnin’, I- I’m gonna. I need a shower. And then you need to tell me what the fuck is happening.”
Castiel nods sagely. “I will meet you in the kitchen. You need to eat.”
Looking down at his body, Dean wraps his arms around himself a bit self-consciously. His ribs aren’t visible, but the edge of them near his stomach protrudes slightly. “Fine.” He turns around, ducking out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. He still feels a little dizzy, but his fever is down (he’s still warm, but he also did just have sex…) so he turns on the shower and turns to stare at his body in the mirror in the candlelight.
Being with Castiel is second nature. Being with Castiel is all Dean knows, now. Being without him had been torture. It should be scary. It should be fucking terrifying that this man, no- this being, has ingrained himself so deeply into Dean’s psyche. But Dean knows it’s not just him. It’s Castiel, too. A two-way street. Apparently one that got paved millions of years ago. Bracing his hands on the counter, Dean looks at his body. His freckles stand out against pale skin; he hasn’t really left the house except to go to work, and in the winter months most of the jobs are inside. The tattoos are once again swirling on his skin, bright and jubilant, like being in Castiel’s presence energizes them.
He doesn’t think that’s far from the truth.
He unwinds the rope from his wrist and runs his fingers over the rope burn etched into his skin. It doesn’t hurt. More importantly: he doesn’t feel anxious when the rope is unwound. A good sign. He coils it up neatly and puts it on the counter, the flickering candlelight dancing over the features of his face and casting shadows he’d rather not look at. He turns on the overhead light and then steps into the shower, hissing through his teeth at the frigid temperature; he cranks the dial and steps out from the spray so it doesn’t scald his skin when it heats up. A bit more fiddling and he gets the shower where he wants it, and then he washes himself quickly, deciding not to linger. He can’t remember the last time he ate, or showered, and he’s eager for both. Once he’s clean he gets out and dries himself off perfunctorily with a towel and then wraps it around his waist. His spare toothbrush is still in the caddy and he brushes his teeth vigorously, going the extra mile with some mouthwash before deeming himself presentable.
When he leaves the steamy bathroom his nose is assaulted with the scent of cooking meat. Licking his lips, Dean forgoes getting dressed and goes straight into the kitchen, entering quietly so he doesn’t bother Castiel. Castiel is back in his black silk robe and there’s a new haze of smoke in the kitchen now, the heady scent of marijuana battling with the tantalizing smell of bacon. Dean sits down at the table and stares at Castiel’s bong for a moment, before he lifts his gaze to instead watch Castiel.
This is familiar.
Early mornings with Castiel, freshly showered, freshly fucked. The scent of incense and weed along with whatever meal Castiel wanted to throw together. It makes Dean’s heart ache.
He almost threw all of this away.
Well- he did.
Castiel had only come for him because Dean had prayed to be saved.
Putting his elbows on the table, Dean rests his face in his palms. Castiel came and saved Dean, despite the fact that Dean had basically abandoned him after learning the truth. The truth being, of course, that Dean is some sort of reincarnated angel, and Castiel his starcrossed (ha) lover. A truth hard to swallow for anyone, but a truth that had scared Dean nearly out of his wits. And like a coward, Dean had fled.
Yet Castiel came for him, anyway.
Staring at Castiel’s back through his fingers, Dean asks, “Why did you save me?”
Castiel turns around wielding a plate full of bacon, sausage, eggs and hashbrowns. He moves to the table and sets it in front of Dean, and then turns back to the counter so he can pour coffee from the pot that only Dean ever uses. He sits across from Dean at the table, slides the steaming mug over, and meets Dean’s eyes.
“I will always come when you call.”
Dean lets out a breath. He doesn’t grab his fork. “I don’t deserve it.”
“You are my mate,” Castiel says, voice going soft. “Whether or not you think you deserve to be saved…” his eyes drop a fraction. “I need you.”
Words get stuck in Dean’s throat. Three words, to be precise. Words that Dean had been flirting with before the morning he ran out of Castiel’s apartment. Words that he’s said to past lovers and hadn’t ever really meant - more like he said them because he felt like he was under some sort of obligation to do so.
He’s not obligated to say anything to Castiel.
And yet as he regards the man - the angel - across from him, Dean knows that while he isn’t obligated to say those three words, that doesn’t mean they aren’t floating around in his head, anyway. Glancing down at his plate, he finally picks up his fork. He pushes his hashbrowns around a bit, avoiding Castiel’s gaze.
Does he feel this way because of some fated bond? Or has Dean really, truly and completely, fallen in love with Castiel? They’ve been exclusive for months. Dean had stopped flirting with strangers; he lost a few numbers; he barely even looked twice at attractive people that came his way. Why would he when he knew he’d be going home to Castiel?
Going home to Castiel.
Castiel’s warm hugs and soft kisses. Castiel’s painted nails and long lashes. Castiel’s from-scratch pies and cheap, but delicious, coffee. Castiel’s warm bed, his comforting couch. Castiel’s strong hands, thick thighs, perky ass. Castiel’s voice saying Dean’s name. Castiel’s eyes focusing only on him. Castiel’s soft and gentle attention; his teasing laughter and witty, dry jokes.
He finally looks up at Castiel, who is still regarding him serenely from his seat.
The words don’t come.
“I need you, too,” Dean finally says. He takes a bite of hashbrowns and flavor explodes on his tongue, salty and a bit bitter, greasy at the corners of his mouth. He coughs in surprise and grabs a napkin to wipe his lips, staring down at his plate in mild surprise.
“Going back to your regular eating habits will be difficult at first,” Castiel says. He has a forearm on the table, fingers relaxed. His other elbow is up, chin propped in his hands as he looks over Dean. “Your appetite won’t return for a few days. Eat what you can, but don’t force yourself.”
Nodding, Dean takes a breath and has a sip of coffee to settle his tumultuous guts before he takes another bite, this time of egg. It feels funny on his tongue and he chews mechanically, swallowing and doing his best not to wince. “I’m starving,” he almost whines, hating that his mouth is betraying his roiling stomach.
“It will pass with time and healing,” Castiel reassures him gently. “Dean, I need to tell you about what just happened.”
Dean gathers a bigger bite of egg on his fork, looking up at Castiel as he puts it in his mouth and chews slowly, waiting for an explanation. Things were strange this round. Well- as strange as angelic sex gets, he supposes. But Castiel seems to always have the answer; Dean just needs to learn to listen. Without bolting afterwards.
“Your body has gone through changes since being apart from me,” Castiel observes. Dean drops his gaze again. “We had bonded… before. And when you left abruptly and cut off all contact with me, that bond got stressed, which in turn caused your vessel stress.”
Dean glances down at himself.
His vessel.
Right.
He spears a sausage and takes a bite out of it, rolling the flavor around on his tongue. He grimaces and uses his finger to get the sausage off of the tines of his fork to let it fall back onto his plate.
“It is what the animal kingdom calls ‘pining sickness’.” At those words, Dean remembers Castiel saying something like that when they were on the couch. “Bond mates go through withdrawals if they are suddenly separated.”
“Bond mates.” Dean nods. He exhales, his stomach churning a bit. He picks up his coffee for another sip. “We’re mates.”
Castiel nods, lifting a hand to trace his fingers lightly over the bite mark Dean left behind. “This… is not how I intended our union to play out. But your rut came unexpectedly and I had to take care of you.”
“Rut.” Dean repeats. He frowns. “What’s that?”
Castiel licks his lips, settling in his chair and pulling the bong closer towards him. He picks up the lighter and flicks it a few times, almost thoughtfully, before he puts the flame to the bowl and lights up the cherry. Dean watches the smoke swirl through the tube as Castiel sucks, watches as it disappears when he inhales, and then lets his gaze follow the shape of Castiel’s mouth as he exhales.
“Mating across all species is a very primal thing,” Castiel starts explaining. “Typically there’s a hierarchy: alpha, beta, and omega. It is no different in the angel genus. Alphas are exactly what you envision them to be - strong, courageous, brave. They lead packs and protect the weak. Betas are… I would say middle-class, but I have a brother who would vehemently argue otherwise. But they do not have the same physiology as alphas and omegas. Omegas are…” Castiel slants his gaze to the side. Dean sees the corners of his mouth tilt downwards slightly. “Omegas are typically classified as weak and depicted for the sole purpose of mating with alphas in order to procreate.”
“But…” Dean says softly, sensing that there’s more Castiel wants to say on that particular matter.
“There are always exceptions to the rule.” Castiel says. “Alphas can be weak. Omegas can be strong. In any species.”
Dean nods slowly, trying to wrap his head around the information. “So… ok, there are alpha angels? And uh, omega… and beta.”
Castiel nods. “The biological needs of these subgenders are very complex. In order to ensure a proper breeding cycle, alphas go into ruts, and omegas go into heats. It is when both parties are, hopefully, fertile enough to catch and procreate.” He hums. “God always had an odd sense of humor…” he takes another hit of his bong.
“Rut.” Dean repeats the word again. He frowns. “So that means… I’m an alpha angel?” He sets his coffee down so he can rub his temples. His stomach twists uncomfortably.
Castiel nods. He exhales his hit slowly, falling silent. His head tips back as he stares up at the hazy cloud above his head, his next words almost too soft to hear. “Truemates trigger breeding cycles. When you and I met it was only a matter of time until one of us cycled.”
Dean licks his lips. “So, uh. You’re due for a rut, too? Or…”
Castiel takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, eyes still turned upwards. “No, Dean. I would go into heat.”
Absorbing the words, Dean goes over the new data he’d just learned. Heat is for omegas. Omegas go into heat. Omegas procreate. Dean’s eyes widen comically as his gaze drops to Castiel’s stomach. “Could you- oh my god, we stopped using condoms-”
Castiel snorts. “I’m not pregnant, Dean.” The bit of amusement from Dean’s worry softens the edges of his expression as he leans both arms on the table and regards Dean quietly. “But I am due for a heat, soon. And I need my alpha to help me through it.”
Heat zings through Dean’s body. His stomach rumbles and he pushes his plate away from him, standing up so he can go towards a cupboard and grab a cup to fill with water. He downs the entire glass in one go and then sets it on the counter, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. The fever is coming back, crawling up his spine slowly, and Dean is trying to keep his wits about him so he can process all of the information he’s just been given.
“This is fucking weird,” Dean finally blurts, turning around so he can lean against the counter and scrub a hand over his mouth. “Angels- I mean, I can get on board with that I guess. Got the memories and stuff to back that up. But alphas? Omegas? Not quite following.”
Castiel turns in his seat, draping his arm over the back and passing his gaze over Dean. “Now that we are mated, certain… physical traits should surface.
“Physical traits,” Dean says blandly. “Wings ain’t enough?”
“During our cycles our human bodies will have to change and adapt in order to accommodate our angelic physiology,” Castiel explains. He then frowns. “I understand this is a lot to take in, but there’s no delicate way of explaining it. You’re in a rut - I can see sweat forming at your brow again - and the most important thing we need to focus on right now is taking care of you.”
“Rut.” Dean feels like one of those stuffed bears you speak into so it can repeat everything you say back in a weird voice. Running his fingers through his hair, he feels a little strengthened from the meal (and let’s face it, probably the sex) and less like he’ll topple over if he blinks wrong. “How long does rut last?”
“Until it breaks,” Castiel says, “or until you…” he wipes a hand over his mouth, but Dean sees him hiding a smirk. “...get me pregnant.”
Dean’s hair stands up on the back of his neck. “We are not havin’ kids!”
Castiel laughs, the sound bright and melodious. The pitch of it sails through Dean’s body and soothes him unlike anything else in the word, the sound settling into the barren nooks and crannies of Dean’s abused and malnourished body to fill him up from the inside out.
He’s missed that laugh.
“I am infertile,” Castiel says. Dean expects there to be some sort of sad glimmer in his eyes when he says this, but Castiel looks as open and honest as ever, blue eyes twinkling. His gaze drops a little, his smile softening around the edges. “But you would make a wonderful father.”
Grumbling, Dean takes a few steps to the table to grab his plate and bring it back to the sink. He dumps the uneaten food into the garbage disposal and sets about noisily cleaning up the mess; not that there’s much, since Castiel is the type to clean while he works. As soon as Dean has things cleared away his hands are fidgety, he’s sweating again, and he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“So… to break the, uh, rut,” Dean says, kind of hating how ugly that word sounds. He’s still reeling from the new information. It’s one thing to learn how he’s an eons-old angel trapped in a human vessel, but it’s another to learn that his body is physically changing. Wings really ain’t dramatic enough for Castiel, huh? Showy bastard.
Puberty was rough enough.
“Simply put,” Castiel stands up from his seat, lifting his arms above his head. Dean watches his robe part over his chest, one perky nipple peeking out from behind midnight silk. “We marathon sex.”
“Awesome,” Dean breathes. But after a second, he hesitates. He’d ghosted Castiel for months. Castiel shouldn’t be so accommodating, so inviting and warm. He expected Castiel to be pissed at him, call him immature and stupid or whatever; what he hadn’t expected was for Castiel to welcome him back in open arms. Lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck, Dean speaks up when Castiel starts to leave the kitchen. “Hey…”
Castiel pauses, glancing over his shoulder. The shadows catch over the curve of his neck, the bite marks dark on his skin when Dean looks at it. Dean fidgets slightly, hand sliding up from his neck to run through his hair.
“You don’t hate me?”
Castiel melts visibly and turns around fully so he can walk towards Dean. His arms wrap around the slightly taller man’s shoulders, their bodies aligning, Castiel pressing his nose against a part of Dean’s neck that sends tingles through his body.
“Do you know what you smell like?” Castiel murmurs against his skin.
Swallowing, Dean shakes his head as he wraps his arms around Castiel’s body. Their forms fit together differently now. Dean hates how… emaciated he’s become. How can Castiel even stand to look at him?
“You smell like freshly cut wood,” Castiel says, nose puffing soft air across Dean’s skin, “soaked in a summer rain. You smell like the eye of Jupiter’s storm and the tip of the Big Dipper.” Castiel slides his hands down Dean’s arms, fingers catching over sharp angles that didn’t exist months ago. He wraps the length of his fingers around Dean’s bony wrists and guides them down to his hips, pressing them solidly to his shape. “God created you and yet I feel as though…” Castiel kisses up the length of Dean’s neck. “...He couldn’t have created something as beautifully perfect as you.”
Dean doesn’t really know what to say in reply. He blearily thinks that it really is a cosmic joke, to be born an angel only to Fall and be cast out for finding love, for having questions. He is fallible, and he has been punished for it. What more could happen to him?
In this life, he at least has Castiel.
He won’t run.
“You are my star prince,” Castiel says softly. “A oiveae…” He pulls back so he can cup his hands underneath Dean’s jaw and look directly into his eyes. Dean sees Apus reflected there and thinks it’s too fitting that the bird of paradise has nestled in Castiel’s irises. Castiel’s feet have never been on the ground. “Please stay, Dean.” He presses their foreheads together, indigo eyes sliding shut.
Exhaling slowly, Dean lifts his hands to rest his palms over Castiel’s. His eyes drift shut and behind closed lids he sees gossamer feathers and dragon wings, feels air rushing over his body.
“Let me take care of you.”
Heat spikes in Dean’s body again, sweat starting to form drop by drop at his temples. Swallowing dryly he nods, pulling Castiel closer, his next words heavy.
“Help me.”
--
Over the next week Dean’s body bounces back with incredible speed. He gains weight, his muscles fill out, his skin tans even though he hardly leaves Castiel’s house. Castiel feeds him, fucks him, praises him and loves him through the recovery. Dean calls his brother to ease his worries, calls Charlie to let her know he’s alive and they should meet for lunch, and then tells his crew to take a long weekend.
The rut is both difficult and easy all at once. Difficult because the heat overtakes him suddenly in intervals, his aggression snappish and mental state shifted. Easy because Castiel is there for every second of it, sitting on Dean’s cock, bathing him, feeding him, elegant and regal and everything Dean never knew he wanted.
They fall back into routine. By the end of the week Dean even feels mostly like himself; they joke, they play around. Dean grows accustomed to seeing the pastel galaxies under his skin and even spends time tracing them with his fingertips, watching them swirl and shimmer like glitter under water wherever his fingers touch. He has been brought back to sound mind and body and it’s all thanks to Castiel. Once again, Dean thinks he should be concerned at the fact he seems to be so… dependant on Castiel. But when Castiel smiles - when he kisses Dean, when he curls around him at night, when he rolls his eyes in his direction - Dean thinks… this is ok.
This is what he needs.
Castiel has been so good to him - good for him. Being apart had truly almost destroyed Dean. It’s kind of scary to think about how sick he’d gotten at the beginning of his rut, without even knowing what the hell was going on. If he hadn’t prayed to Castiel…
Well.
Dean doesn’t like to think about it.
Being around Castiel improves Dean in ways he didn’t think he’d needed improving. For instance, he knows he made a mistake in leaving. He knows he panicked and made the wrong decision when he ran. But instead of holding it against him Castiel has taught him a lesson, never punished him, and has moved on, water under the bridge. Dean has always been so used to dwelling on past mistakes, on beating himself up for things even outside of his control; but now he finds himself moving forward with Castiel, ready to do better.
Eating is still a difficult task, and Dean suspects Castiel implements some sort of angel mojo in order to improve his overall health to speed things along. It frustrates Dean that his body seems to reject his mental will to get back to his old eating habits, especially when Castiel continues to prepare meals fit for a king. But Castiel explains that Dean had abused his body, and while his body forgives him, it will take a while for his vessel to come back to full, regular capacity - which includes being able to eat like he used to.
Castiel teaches him patience.
Dean learns.
On the eighth day, propped against the headboard and looking over projects on his tablet, Dean glances up when Castiel enters. He’s freshly showered, dripping wet, and Dean’s dick should be sore from how much sex they’ve had (the rut finally broke and ended two days ago and Dean has spent that time recuperating and replenishing electrolytes) but it gives an interested twitch anyway. Castiel climbs onto bed and Dean puts his tablet on the nightstand so he can welcome the other man into his arms, chuckling at the wetness seeping into the blankets and pillows.
“You’re gonna complain about shit bein’ cold later,” Dean says.
Castiel hums and lies against Dean’s side, cheek pressed against the (now healthy) swell of his pec. He splays his hand over Dean’s sternum, long fingers reaching wide. “Couldn’t wait to come back to you.”
“Really? ‘Cause your shower was like, thirty minutes,” Dean teases. “Not in that much of a hurry.”
Castiel doesn’t grace him with a reply, which is fine. After a few moments, though, as Dean is reaching to turn off the lamp, he says, “Move in with me.”
Dean pauses in his reach, entire system locking up.
“You spend so much time here,” Castiel says. “Why should you pay rent for a condo you barely step foot in?”
Castiel has a point, but Dean still hesitates. “I’ve never… uh, lived with a- uh-” he struggles to find the word. “...significant other, before.”
Unoffended, Castiel just shrugs. “It’s an invitation, Dean. You can accept or deny.”
“Not a trap?” Dean asks, slightly wary.
Now Castiel sits up with a frown. “I should hope you never feel coerced or forced to be with me.”
“Woah-” Dean shakes his head, disliking that expression on Castiel’s face. “Look, I- I know that’s not what it is. I just- if I say no, I don’t wanna hurt your feelings.”
Castiel rolls his eyes and the action should be impetuous, but it instead comes off as charming. “I’m a big boy, Dean. I’m merely suggesting it because it makes sense. You’re here much more often than not. Plus, this home is one-hundred percent cost free.”
Dean can’t help the smirk that filters over his features. “You cheatin’ the system, Cas?”
Castiel’s eyes narrow like he’s insulted, but the way his lips curl tell a different story. “I would never.”
“Mmhmm,” Dean nods slowly, and then scrubs a hand over his mouth. “It does make sense, y’know. Next step an’ all. “M’not worried much about expenses but not havin’ to pay rent is always a dream.”
“I understand that our relationship seems… consuming,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “And I do not want you to feel stifled at all. Or like I’m controlling you.”
“I don’t think that,” Dean says quickly. “Look, I know it’s not like that. You wouldn’t have left my dumb ass leave you if it was.”
Castiel smiles wryly. “Well, you did need to be taught a lesson.”
“At the expense of my physical and mental health?” Dean pouts.
Castiel shrugs airily, pulling away. “You’ve always had a thick head, Dean. Even millions of years can’t penetrate a skull as thick as yours.”
“Gee, thanks,” Dean says flatly, but his eyes are warm. “Anyway we’re uh. Pretty codependent, but I still work and have friends and a pretty healthy social life.” Castiel arches a brow, and Dean rolls his eyes. “Excluding the past few months. Sheesh.”
“I’m not trying to poke old wounds,” Castiel says kindly. “Depression is serious, as is your eating disorder. I’m not trying to invalidate them.”
Dean squirms a little. He hates when Castiel says those things so bluntly - especially the eating disorder thing - but he knows he needs to be spoken plainly to for things to get through his (admittedly) ‘thick skull’. After a day of Castiel dancing around the issues Dean had given him permission to speak candidly about it, and while sometimes it still shocks him, he’s still appreciative of it. Having it laid out in front of him helps him battle it. “Anyway,” Dean continues. “I’m back on the wagon and my vacation is almost over and I’m ready to get back into the swing of things.” Sensing that neither of them are tired enough for bed, Dean grabs his tablet again, going for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile when he says, “You should meet my brother and friends, anyway”
He can sense Castiel’s feathers ruffling. A great, big, feathered cat. “You can barely admit we are in a relationship, that we are,” Dean winces, “boyfriends, and you want me to meet important people in your life?”
“We gotta move forward, right?” Dean says, trying not to lose his nerves. He knows Castiel is only hesitant to meet the people in his life because Dean has been keeping him at arm’s length. Unintentionally, but old habits die hard. “Besides, uh. No one’s been worth introducing them to.”
That seems to appease Castiel. He shifts to get under the covers, lying out languidly. His feathers on the astral plane preen and shake out with smug pleasure. “I should hope I qualify.”
“More than,” Dean assures him, glancing down. Castiel is peering up at him from his pillow, his damp hair creating a dark circle in the fabric under his head.
A dark halo.
Despite knowing that Castiel is an angel Dean still sometimes views him as a demon, the way his pink lips curl and his beautiful eyes flash and his body stretches. If Dean didn’t have proof in his memories of Cassiel the Angel flying through the cosmos with him, he’s pretty sure he would think Castiel crawled out of the depths of Hell specifically to incite sinful pleasure with him.
As it is, Castiel the Fallen Angel is anything but Holy, and that’s just one of the things Dean loves so much about him.
That thought has Dean smiling softly, reaching to card his fingers through Castiel’s damp hair. Blue eyes flutter closed and Castiel rolls onto his side, arm draping over the top of Dean’s thighs.
“I’ll meet your brother and friends,” Castiel says, voice slightly muffled by the pillow.
“I’ll move in with you,” Dean replies easily, feeling no fear or trepidation within.
In the ether Castiel’s wings snap out and fold over Dean’s legs, encasing him warmly and offering comfort and protection. As Dean returns to perusing his next project on his tablet, he smiles softly to himself.
Castiel saved him.
Castiel raised him from perdition.
Praise be.