Chapter Text
Dean was right. It did suck. Great big hairy balls of suckage.
Chris looked like a ghost. A gaunt, greyed out version of himself, with eyes so dry that they’d formed deep dark hollows until there was the barest pinprick of pupil staring out from the shadows. He seemed to be not seeing the here and now, they were so very lost and desolate, or if he was - then he was seeing something very different to what everyone else was. Maybe a little girl with long shiny brown hair, apple-round cheeks and a sweetness to her which had surprised the heck out of him considering her family tree, which was how Dean remembered Allison from the one and only time he’d met her by accident. Chris and Victoria had been very protective.
He was grateful that Chris seemed to have support and didn’t seem to need or want anyone’s condolences. He wasn’t good at that shit anyway. On one side of Chris was a very pretty older woman, dark hair pinned up with some loose wisps falling either side of her face, her red-rimmed brown eyes watching the Hunter with concern. On the other was the Sheriff in full-dress uniform, steely-eyed, his shoulder steady against Chris’, ready to support him if needed. He was watching the gathered crowd with cool calculation, it was obvious that he knew that a lot of the mourners often found themselves on the wrong side of the law which was maybe why the neatly pressed uniform. Every now and then his eyes would drift towards a group on the far side of the deep hole soon to be an occupied grave, worry softening his gaze.
It's the same group that Dean’s eyes were frequently drawn to. Stiles wore a plain white shirt, a black skinny tie and an expression of such carefully contained grief that Dean wondered how he didn’t rupture something. Standing not quite at his side wasn’t the leather-clad werewolf like he’d been expecting, it was a younger man, the same age as Stiles. Shorter with floppy dark hair and a look on his face that was gut-wrenching in its devastation. The swollen brown eyes were wet and familiar, matching those of the woman who stood with Chris. Mother and son then.
On the other side of floppy boy holding his hand is a tall good-looking kid. Pale with golden curls and cheekbones you could cut yourself on, he looked more like an angel should than the actual angels that Dean had met. Angel’s eyes flicker and dart all around trying to avoid looking directly at the rather plain coffin and the open grave. It’s more than grief Dean thinks as the kid swipes a shaky hand over his sweat-beaded brow and blows out a few deep anxious breaths.
To Stiles’ right is a petite redhead and at first glance her face is so cold and expressionless that Dean wondered why she’d bothered to attend at all she seemed so dispassionate. But, the closer he watches the more he realises that her staring eyes are unfocused and her breathing is so regulated to appear unnatural, each breath in and breath out timed to the exact second. Her fingers are twined with Stiles’ and they are white, almost bloodless, from the death grip they have on each other.
Looming at their backs is the wolf from the bar’s parking lot. He watches them all carefully, as though gauging which one of the brittle group is going to shatter first and readying himself to snatch them up, but Dean notices that his attention seems to settle on Stiles more often than not. When he’s not watching them, he warily keeps an eye on the other mourners, clearly knowing there's more Hunters than civilians among them. Ballsy.
Dean drags his gaze away and looks up at the brilliantly blue sky above. It’s such a perfect mild sunny day that it feels like even Mother Nature is spitting in the eye of the grieving group. He much prefers the traditions of his own extended Hunter family of burning rather than burying their dead, but then that’s the European way he supposes.
The drone of the minister’s voice peters out and finally it’s over.
He knows that it will never be over for the other man as he watches Chris stand at the edge of his daughter’s grave, looking down into it like he’s only a heartbeat from taking the one step required to join her. As the rest of the mourners slowly walk away, he thinks that maybe it won’t be over for the small group of teens that lingers either.
Movement catches his attention and he sees Stiles reach out and say something to the floppy haired boy who turns on him sharply, his wretchedness disappearing with a vicious sneer before tugging his hand free and walking away, Angel scurrying after him. Stiles visibly droops until the wolf places his hand on his shoulder.
Somehow, he can’t seem to move away, not until he sees Stiles lift his gaze to meet his eyes and he can see the grief etched into the young man’s features making him seem not quite so young anymore. What allows him to finally take a step is that while there is grief it’s not one that consumes and devours until there’s nothing else left, he can still see other emotions that Stiles can’t or won’t hide flicker over his face and he knows that eventually Stiles will be okay.
He nods in acknowledgement, aware that Stiles’ wolf protector is glaring at him fiercely, almost daring him to approach and at any other time or place Dean would’ve gladly taken up that challenge just to piss him off. For one moment the werewolf looks down at the boy and girl in front of him and his expression changes for a split second to one of such care and concern that Dean can’t believe it’s the same person. Even with his neatly trimmed stubble, he looks younger and almost as vulnerable as his two charges and without the fierce frown Dean realises he’s ridiculously good-looking. Aware of his scrutiny, the frown is swiftly back in place as the older boy shepherds Stiles and the girl away from the graveside towards the black muscle car that looks almost as well-cared for as his own Baby.
Blowing out a long breath, the sun is warm on his face and shoulders as Dean starts to walk to where he’d parked the Impala further back on the long driveway winding through the cemetery when he hears footsteps rushing up behind him.
Spinning on his heel, Dean barely holds back from lashing out defensively as a hand lands heavily on his upper arm, fingers digging in to keep him in place.
“Dean.” Chris Argent sounds shaky and breathless, deep furrows marking his face and his sunken eyes gleam wildly.
“Chris…I’m sor-“
“Can you bring her back?” Chris interrupts before Dean can even start to panic over what to say to a man who is known as a Hunter’s Hunter, tough and relentless, but now is simply a grieving father.
“What?”
“I’ve heard things…things about you and Sam.” Chris leans in close enough that Dean can feel the other man’s breath on his face, close enough that he can smell the sweetness of bourbon and the cool bite of mint layered over the top. “There’s talk that you’ve died and come back more times than I can count on one hand…that Death won’t allow you to die. So can you bring her back?”
Dean cringes inside. Is this what he’d been like when Sammy had died - grieving to the point of madness, to the point of begging and he knows that he was probably worse. There’s hope in Chris’ expression and it makes his grief so brutally real and raw in contrast that the surge of pity that washes over Dean leaves him momentarily speechless.
“Can you bring my Ally back?” Chris’ voice cracks as Dean shakes his head. “Please Dean…please.”
“I can’t Chris.” Dean says quickly. “Even if I could…coming back it’s…it’s fucked up. It’s not right. We’re not meant to come back. I wasn’t meant to come back.”
“You did though and you’re okay. If you did why can’t she?” Tears trickle down the etched in grooves of Chris’ face. “She’d made mistakes, but she was trying to make amends, to be better. She was a good person, better than me…better than you or Sam. She shouldn’t be lying in that hole…she shouldn’t.”
“No she shouldn’t.” Dean agrees and puts his hand over Chris’ where it still grips his bicep tightly and pries his cold fingers loose. “I can’t bring her back Chris, but I can tell you where she is right now.”
Leading the other man to one of several park benches near some shady trees Dean sits down and points to the space next to him. He inwardly sighs in relief when after a moment’s hesitation Chris sits down too and shudders quietly next to him with every sobbing breath.
“Let me tell you about heaven.”
Dean wearily stuffs his toiletries into his duffel bag, on top of the clothes he’d need to wash when he gets back to the bunker and casts another look around the motel room making sure he’s not left anything behind. His laptop is still open on the desk where he’d been doing some last minute research, plugged in to let it fully charge before he gets on the road again, but everything else is already stowed away in Baby.
He’d thought about staying one more night. The conversation with Chris had been long and emotional. The other Hunter asking a lot of questions that Dean had tried to answer the best he could without going into too fine a detail and pissing off some of the winged bags of dicks that didn’t want humanity knowing too much about the afterlife. By the end, Chris was dry-eyed and after a long hard stare, he’d simply nodded before standing up and walking away. It had been exhausting and Dean wasn’t sure if he’d been of any comfort to Chris at all. He just wants to go home.
The knock on the door has him checking his gun snug against his back before peeking out from behind the room’s curtains. Whoever it was had moved further along the building, as though anticipating he would do exactly this and had put themselves out of line of sight.
Cursing under his breath, Dean cautiously opens the door. The man standing outside has his back to him, as though surveying the view of the motel parking lot in the still warm early evening. It gives Dean the chance to appreciate the broad shoulders and back tapering down to a firm round ass and solid thighs encased in dark denim.
“Can I help you?” Dean asks, momentarily distracted when the man turns around. Older in appearance now, he still recognises him nearly instantly from the newspaper articles he’s read online from the local archive about the Hale fire and he’s even better looking than his photos would suggest. Dean can’t stop looking at his thick neck and defined chest revealed by the low ‘V’ of his grey Henley.
“Why, yes you can…aren’t you the pretty one.” The leer is well-practiced, but the wickedly amused twinkle of interest in the bluest eyes he’s seen in a long while is all genuine.
Dean’s fingers tighten around the grip of his gun as he’s on the receiving end of a lingering once over that is practically smouldering. There’d been a time that if he’d been in a bar or club then he’d be all over that. He knows himself and the aura of a powerful confident man, gets his motor running like nothing else.
He returns the once over with a sneer. This guy is hot and dangerous, more so because he’s not carrying any weapons except for what his nature provides, and the goatee is sexy as all fuck when he thinks how it would feel against his skin - rasping against his thighs…his ass. That said, he still can’t compare to a warrior angel – one who had fought his way through Hell, commanding a Wing of Angels to rescue Dean from a nightmare.
“What do you want?” He asks dismissively and realises his mistake instantly when Hale’s eyes light up, accepting the challenge. Dean silently curses, wolves are predators in every sense of the word and they love to hunt and not necessarily just for food either.
“Where do I start?” Hale says with a smirk, before taking a step closer cocking his head to one side. “Business before pleasure though, I need you to leave town. You’re a distraction and now I’m up close I can see why.”
Dean twitches in surprise, not at the attempt to run him out of town – that’s nothing new, but being called a ‘distraction’…huh. “You caught me packing, but you’ve piqued my interest now so maybe I should stick around for a bit longer.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, things happen in Beacon Hills. Bad things.” Before Dean can even blink the other man leaps and he finds himself pinned up against the door and staring into burning red eyes. “Particularly to Hunters, even to Winchesters.”
Dean’s gun hand is trapped between his back and the wooden door, he struggles furiously, grunting – letting the Alpha think it’s his only weapon as he slips the fingers of his other hand into his pocket and retrieves a vial of mountain ash.
“Then you know if anything happens to me Hale, my brother is going to burn this town down around your ears.”
It’s a barely there movement, the inadvertent flinch, but Dean feels it all the same as he stares into the eyes of the Alpha werewolf. He’s not sure if it’s because he knows his name or the reminder of how he’d received such severe injuries that even his healing had struggled to cope with them, but he definitely scored a hit. The wolf draws in a deep breath, pauses then leans in closer until his nose brushes teasingly up and down the line of Dean’s throat and then does it again, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he examines Dean’s face.
“I think I understand now why you’re such a distraction for him, like calls to like and you Dean Winchester have an underlying layer of scent very similar to someone I know. Someone who’s very special, who has a gift that would make a pack near enough invincible.” Something flickers in his eyes, a shadow that Dean would describe as grief before it flickers out and pure calculation replaces it as Hale muses aloud. “It makes me wonder if you have that gift as well. That talent, that spark.”
“Call me contrary, but I don’t think you should leave now. Stay awhile and see what Beacon Hills can offer.” His hip rolls seductively against the front of Dean’s jeans as the wolf leans in close. Hale’s lips brush against Dean’s ear as he speaks and Dean struggles not to react even though he can feel his pulse begin to throb in his neck to a faster beat, uncertain if it’s solely from fear. “My sweet spark…oh what I could do with two of you in my pack. It makes me positively giddy.”
“Stiles.” Dean says, not needing Peter Hale to confirm or deny it, he just knows. He’s not sure if he believes that whole thing about ‘gifts’ or ‘talents’, all he knows is that the moment he saw the younger man he’d felt a kinship to him that he’d never known before.
Dean holds his breath as he sees the man’s jaw bulge and nauseatingly realign, viciously sharp fangs descend in front of his eyes. “I offered him the bite once and he refused me, just as well considering my nephew has finally got his head out of his ass and is bumbling his way to courting him. I wonder though-“ The wolf pauses and lifts Dean’s arm, his wrist level with his mouth and he can feel his humid breath against the sensitive skin there – the scrape of his fang tracing the vein and it makes Dean shiver. “-would you do the same?”
“Yes he would.” Before the wolf can even turn to the speaker, two fingers press against his temple and Peter Hale collapses unconscious to the floor.
“Cas.” Dean acknowledges the angel as he rubs his damp wrist against his cotton t-shirt, noting that Cas is looking even more judgey than usual. It’s been so long that he’d forgotten the aura of power that surrounds him, the pressure of it against Dean’s skin – a demand for submission that threatens his composure every time – he’s grateful that his voice sounds so steady.
“Been a while. Thanks for the assist, less clean-up for me without my handy dandy dustbuster.” He waves the vial of ash in the air before pocketing it once more.
Dean drags the werewolf fully into the room and shuts the door, taking a moment to compose himself before he turns around and-
It slams into him all over again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Those deep blue eyes he’s dreamed about, watch him with an intensity that he can almost feel prickling over his skin.
“Dean.”
Dean waits and when nothing more is forthcoming, like ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around’ or ‘time’s different in heaven and I didn’t realise I’d been gone so long’ even if it’s a lie, he starts to get pissed.
Stomping over to his bag, he shoves and pushes, cramming in everything tight and savagely pulls on the zipper, which promptly gets stuck and he curses it vigorously under his breath.
“Dean, are you angry with me?” Castiel asks, clearly puzzled. The rustle of his overcoat letting Dean know that he’s moved closer, but he can’t look at him or he just might snap.
“Ya think.” He snorts in annoyance when Cas brushes his fingers over the zip and it starts to move smoothly back and forth.
“You wanted him to bite you?” Confusion lowers the angel’s voice. “Should I have not interfered?”
“No, of course I didn’t want him to bite me, no matter how good looking the guy is. I’m human, I don’t want to start howling at the moon or sniffing butts and crotches.” There maybe one or two exceptions he thinks before clamping down on that stray thought hard and fast.
“You’re attracted to him.”
Dean’s used to the matter-of-fact way that Cas speaks, but there’s a harsher tone in his voice which jerks Dean’s head around and he eyeballs Cas, taking in how stiffly he’s carrying himself and the fleeting twitch at the corner of his eye. The atmosphere surrounding the angel is positively crackling.
“Maybe, but that’s not why I’m angry.”
Cas who’d looked like he was one step away from smiting some werewolfy ass falters.
“I don’t understand.”
“Have you heard me calling you at all?” Dean tries as hard as he can to keep the hurt from his voice, which is next to impossible when his throat feels like it’s got a lump the size of his fist lodged somewhere deep in it.
“Yes, but you weren’t in immediate danger and you knew that I had work to do in Heaven with my brothers and sisters. I couldn’t leave, it was at a delicate point in the negotiations.” It’s so logical and practical and so everything that Dean isn’t right now, it’s the lit match to the fuel of his barely contained temper.
“Bullshit. When you care about someone, you keep in touch. You don’t ignore them and leave them thinking of all the fucked up things that could’ve possibly happened to you…and what do you mean immediate danger. I wasn’t in immediate danger here, except for maybe being turned into an Alpha werewolf’s chew toy.”
Dean rakes his hand through his hair when he sees that Cas still isn’t getting it. “If I disappeared on you and didn’t answer my phone-“ Dean shakes his head when Cas looks like he’s about to butt in. “-and no you couldn’t just snap your fingers and find me what would you think? Would you think something bad had happened or maybe that I’d had enough of being your friend? That I was walking away.”
Cas sits down heavily on the end of the bed and deep furrows appear on his forehead. “Oh.”
“Yeah ‘Oh’.” Dean snipes bitterly. “You ignore me for all this time and the only reason you show up now is to be a cockblock.”
“I would never ignore you Dean.” Cas says seriously. “I’ve always kept watch over you.”
“Keeping watch and keeping in touch are not the same things Cas, not between friends…” Dean stumbles to a stop as he thinks about what’s been said or more importantly what’s not been said. “So you did mean to be a cockblock, didn’t you?”
Cas looks away and Dean can see the way his jaw bulges as he clenches his teeth. “Yes.” Cas grinds out.
Dean sits down heavily on the end of the other bed, not sure what to make of that. Part of him is pleased at the apparent jealousy and another part is pissed knowing how possessive and territorial angels can be that he can be discarded like a toy until someone else wants to play with him.
Cas clears his throat, breaking the silence. “I feel for you Dean.”
Slowly, slowly Dean turns his head towards the other bed, not quite ready to meet the other man’s eyes.
“What-“ He coughs uncertainly. “-what does that mean?”
“Inside me…my head…in here.” He rests his hand on his chest. “I feel things for you Dean Winchester that I’ve never felt before. My mind and body reacts to you in ways that are surprising…intriguing.” Cas gestures to his lap and Dean wants to squirm as he feels a twitch within his own pants. “Hard.”
Not daring to stare at the angel’s bulge any longer, Dean warily meets Cas’ eyes and feels his breathing hitch at the look on his face. It’s the first time he’s seen such a complex mesh of emotions rather than the blank stoic expression he’s used to and it’s both frightening and exhilarating. Cas is looking at him like he’s a fucking miracle, the wonder mixed with fear and such a fierce longing that it makes Dean’s cheeks grow warm.
Damn it. He’s blushing like a virgin bride. Rubbing his hand over his burning face, Dean tries to figure out what this all means or if it even means anything at all. Strangely, what echoes in his head is Stiles’ saying ‘you too, Dean’ – reminding him to take his own advice and live his best life - when they’d parted ways at the Hunter bar.
He’d always felt that it would be selfish of him to worry about his own desires and needs when so often the stakes were world-ending and there was a part of him that believed he didn’t deserve them to be met anyway. When he was younger he’d been able to use casual encounters for sex and a very shallow form of intimacy, now that he’s older it’s getting harder and harder to pretend that it fills that hollowed out space inside him – one that’s carved out by loneliness and an aching hunger for a connection that’s more than physical.
Scowling, Dean’s pretty sure he’s reached his limit of touchy-feely introspection and thinks ‘fuck it’.
He offers his hand across the dividing space between the two beds. Cas blinks uncertainly, but Dean holds steady, unwavering.
“Take my hand Cas.” Dean demands, swallowing hard as the angel slowly extends his and he shivers slightly at the electrifying slide of skin against skin. Cas’ fingers are warm and trembling as they entwine with his. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Dean.” Cas says his name roughly. The low, gravelly sound a punch to the gut. “I am sorry.”
The angel looks down at their hands and up to Dean’s face then back again, pure pleasure lightening his usually stern features.
“Okay Cas.” Dean croaks as Cas’ hand tightens around his. He remembers the angel once saying that they had ‘a profound bond’ and he’s always felt it was true on his part, seeing the smile slowly curl Cas’ lips now he thinks maybe it’s more reciprocal than he’d always believed.
In a run-down motel room, the Hunter and the angel sit holding hands and for the moment, it’s enough, more than enough.
Even with ‘Highway to Hell’ dialled down low enough to be called mood music, Dean’s fingers still tap in time with the beat against the steering wheel of the Impala and he does a mental high five as they cross the state line. One down and he doesn’t care to think of how many more they have to go before they get home.
“I like this.” Cas says unexpectedly.
“Road trips, what’s not to like. You, me, Baby and a seat load of snacks to keep us going on the open road.” Dean grins as he points to the bags of candy, potato chips and jerky scattered between them. Cas nods seriously in apparent agreement.
Satisfied, Dean takes a moment to quickly glance down at his phone to make sure there are no messages.
“You are worried about him.”
Dean keeps his eyes on the black top ahead. A couple of days ago he’d think that Cas was referring to Sammy, but now…there’s someone else that he’s added to the list of people he’d go to war for. “I know you did some major healing of Hale’s mojo before we dumped him on Stiles and Derek, but I don’t trust him.”
“I would not expect you to considering his proximity to Stiles.”
Dean shifts slightly in his seat. “And yeah, what’s the deal with that? Why do I feel this…this connection to the kid?”
“You and he are alike.”
“That’s what Peter Hale said when he was trying to seduce me with his swivel hips. He called me a spark. He said ‘what I could do with two of you in my pack’.”
Dean sucks in an appreciative gasp as Cas’ eyes flash dangerously.
“Many years ago, Angels walked the Earth freely and interacted with humanity regularly and from some of those interactions children were born. Nephilim.”
“From the Sons of God and the Daughters of Men.” Dean adds. “But, I thought all the Nephilim were tracked down and uh…dealt with.”
“Some were not found for many years and in that time they had children and those children had children and so on until the grace that they carried within them was diluted down until it was little more than a-”
“Spark.” Dean finishes. Disbelief wars with horror and it’s only as he hears the blaring horn from an oncoming SUV does he realise that he’s veered into the opposite lane from shock. They swerve wildly as he corrects the Impala’s path and just ahead he can see an exit leading to an empty roadside rest stop.
Dean pulls in, turns off the engine and just sits a moment before daring to risk a glance towards Cas.
“You’re saying that I have ‘grace’. I know what that makes me Cas. According to your lore, a human with grace is an abomination.” He knows Cas wouldn't lie to him about this.
Cas shakes his head. “I have come to realise that not all Angels have acted honourably with humans and they have propagated a fear of ‘nephilim’ and their power that is unreasonable in many cases. Let me make it clear Dean that you are in no way an abomination. Yes you have grace, a very very diluted version. You will find that the majority of Hunter clans or families have a spark within their ranks, usually the first born within each generation.”
“So Sammy doesn’t? But, I’ve seen him use mountain ash and perform rituals…they’ve worked.”
“Because you believed they would work, Sam does not possess a spark nor does the majority of humankind or any of the people you’ve helped over the years. Do you know that most humans could lay a line of salt and it would not keep anything out at all?"
Dean's eyes widen in disbelief. It can't be true, but Cas is watching him so gravely that he can't not believe.
"You carry that within you Dean, it is why I’ve never mentioned it before. I can see your doubt and you must believe that what I say is true. You are what allows the Winchester’s to fight demons, to lay salt lines, to make a spell work. You have the spark and the belief which carries over to your brother and at one time your Father. Your spark took over when your Mother died.”
Dean puzzles it over. “And Stiles has this spark too?”
“Yes from his mother as well. You have a great deal in common with that young man, no wonder you both feel the pull towards each other so strongly.”
“Well, shit.” Dean drags his hand wearily over his face. “Is Stiles in danger from Peter Hale? He wants him in his pack pretty badly.”
Cas considers the question before replying. “No. I don’t believe so. I’ve healed the injuries to his mind and memories, it will stop the spread of that poisonous wound which was influencing him so darkly. From Derek’s description of the man before he changed, manipulative he may have been, but not psychotic. I think we saw a return of the real Peter Hale.”
The look of true horror on Peter’s face when Cas had woken him from his healing trance had been stark and no more so than when he’d seen his nephew’s face and whispered ‘Laura’. Cas had healed the butchery that the wolf’s own sister had performed on his mind when she’d torn out those memories of his unborn child to protect her pack. Another fucked-up family that made his own look real good.
“If anything I think he will be as protective of Stiles as his mate is.”
Dean silently mouths the word ‘mate’ and quickly decides he doesn’t want to follow that train of thought. The last he'd seen of Stiles and the Hale wolves was the younger man grabbing his laptop and preparing to research where Peter's missing child had ended up.
The question that Dean really wants to ask hovers on his tongue, but he’s reluctant to hear how Cas will answer because he knows the Angel will give him nothing but the truth, regardless of how painful it is. His bluntness is frequently a blessing and a curse.
“Dean.” Cas rumbles his name and Dean can feel his belly tighten in reaction.
“Yeah Cas, I’m just trying to get my head around this. You know, that my great-great-great granddaddy was an Angel and threw a leg over my great-great-great grandmammy.”
“I think it is more than that.” Cas sweeps the snack bags onto the floor and slides across the bench seat until he’s pressed in close to Dean’s side. “I think you are wondering if it is your spark that draws me to you.”
Dean’s breath hitches from both the feel of Cas’ solid body against his own and the way he seems to have read his mind.
“Is it?” He asks hesitantly and can only watch as Cas’ face transforms with a look that warms Dean through every part of his body.
“No Dean, that is the very last thing that draws me in. I once told you I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition, but I think it’s you who saved me. I have seen things, felt things I would never have known without you. It’s your humanity that I adore. I see who you are Dean Winchester. Your compassion, your bravery and intelligence are just a small part of what I love about you.”
Dean can feel his face heat and the tips of his ears burn with the flush that rises through his body. Cas loves him.
“Cas.” He says brokenly, wanting so much to find the right words to tell this man who’s come to mean so much to him exactly why he loves him too. But, he’s never been good with words so he simply takes hold of the lapels of Cas’ trench coat, pulling him close and kisses him. He doesn’t hold back, putting everything he feels for his angel in hot, wet kisses that make him burn and ache.
He kisses him over and over until they’re gasping for breath and somehow Dean’s sprawling on the seat and Cas is above him and the look in his eyes is so raw and possessive that it shakes Dean right down to his very core.
“I think I like road trips.” Cas growls.
“Yeah?” Dean smirks knowingly at the heat in Cas’ eyes, the hardness against his thigh. “We’ve been on the road together before. It’s the snacks, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s you Dean.” Cas says as he leans down and kisses the smirk right off of Dean’s face. “It’s always been you.”