Traveler's Lantern

by LoversAntiquities

Summary:

After being seemingly abandoned by Castiel at the end-of-the-world-that-wasn't and mourning the loss of his brother, Dean travels the country with pennies in his pocket, living out of abandoned hotels and taking every odd job he can find, just to make it to the next town. Only he isn't as alone as he thought. After Heaven's failed war, Castiel returns with the intent to join Dean's side once again, only to find him starving and begging for the life he once had.

And with the intent to rebuild their relationship, they set off together, only to discover that Sam is still alive and in desperate need of rescue.

 

At dawn's rise you may find
the footprints of angels,
brought to fellowship there
by your mercy lamp's flame

Walking beside
the weary soul life's forgotten,
bringing comfort and love
and gently leading their way.

 

Marathon, Texas

Hand to the door knob, Castiel pushes his way inside as quietly as possible. The only noise he hears is his coattails swishing in the crosswind. Warm air rushes in through the broken glass, bits and pieces of it scattered on the concrete floor, and exits through the transom above the door. Castiel takes a moment to adjust his tie, then shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the back of a splintered chair.

He doesn’t look toward the bed. He knows who’s there, still innocent in sleep even while he clutches the gun Castiel knows he keeps hidden under a pillow. If he wanted to—and he wants, desperately—Castiel could wake him, could strangle him with his eyes open, all for making him walk this far. Alone, without a car, without a way to track down exactly where he is.

Where Dean Winchester ended up, turns out, is in the middle of the Texas desert, surrounded by the scorching sun and wind, under a cloudless sky. For a few mostly silent minutes, Castiel just stands there and watches, fingers fidgeting at his sides; his wings ache to unfurl, the movement almost automatic around Dean, a constant need to shelter him, to keep him out of harm’s way. Now, he stands there and creeps closer, acutely aware that if Dean awoke, he would shoot at him.

To his shock, Dean sleeps on, even after Castiel sits at the foot of the bed, facing the window, hands between his knees. Quietly, Dean breathes, and Castiel syncs his own breath to that rhythm; exhaustion seeps into muscle and bone, and his shoulders sag, dragged down partially by the weight of his wings, no longer able to support themselves freely. For days, Castiel walked, invisible to passersby, all in search of a string of prayers he could barely hear. Even sitting here, within arm’s reach of Dean, Castiel can’t hear much above a whisper, Dean’s voice so faded, distant—hopeless, in a way. The voice of a dying man, a broken shell—not the man he left behind a year ago.

The eleven o’clock hour approaches, and Dean stirs ever so slightly, feet kicking, presumably to reach the end of the bed. They collide with Castiel’s hip instead, and Castiel swallows, eyes closed and faced turned away, as Dean sits up. Slow, cautious—his prayers grow louder, hauntingly so, urging Castiel to face him, all without speaking a word.

What Castiel sees robs his lungs of breath. Dean stares at him with one green eye, the other bloodied from a busted capillary. Black and yellow dye the skin around it, and all Castiel wants to do is reach out and touch him, to ease the pain he must be feeling. Every breath Dean takes sounds like his last; Dean wraps his hands around his own wrists, thinner than they were before, knuckles whiter, rougher. A scar mars his bicep, ripped and serrated.

Whatever happened to him, Castiel regrets not being there—regrets going to Heaven, most of all, especially knowing what he does now.

“Couldn’t get enough of me?” Dean says, hoarse, and clears his throat, ending up in a coughing fit. He downs half of the water bottle sitting beside the bed before he can breathe again, afterward scrubbing the sand from his face, pushing his hands into his hair. “Figured you’d be gone by now, or dead. Can’t decide which one’s better.”

“Dean,” Castiel scolds. Making his way to his feet, he rounds the bed to stand at Dean’s side, while Dean tosses the bottle across the room. “Did you honestly think I’d never come back?”

“Hello?” Dean laughs, or attempts to, rather. Whatever the sound is, it doesn’t make it past his lips. “You never even said goodbye. Least you could’ve done was said something, not just… flap off when—” A pause, a rustle of sheets. “You know what, forget it. Just… forget everything, man.”

Abruptly, Dean stands, forcing Castiel out of his way in haste. He shuts himself in the bathroom, and Castiel listens while the water runs in the sink, drowning out whatever he’s doing in there. While he waits, Castiel sits and shakes the dust from his hair; he casts a glance at the shattered window, only a few shards of the pane managing to stay in place. He could repair it, but he doubts that Dean will stay here long enough to benefit. Underneath him, the mattress sags, and the bedframe creaks. Stone walls do nothing to alleviate the heat still seeping in. It isn’t even noon.

“How long have you been here?” Castiel asks when Dean returns, face and hair wet, a towel wrapped around his neck. He changed clothes, thankfully, now donning a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder, exposing the brand still seared into his flesh. Catching Castiel’s gaze, Dean covers the hole and wanders to the table in the corner of the room, where his duffel sits, half-empty. “Or are you planning to ignore me?”

“I’m not ignoring you, Jesus,” Dean huffs. Aimless, he balls up the towel and tosses it toward the bathroom, where another four lay, all various colors. “’Bout a month. Keep changing rooms ‘cause I’m running out of supplies. Place is abandoned, do you blame me?”

No, Castiel wants to say. But you could’ve gone anywhere else. “Why are you here?” he asks instead, hands placed flat on the rumpled bedspread, still warm from Dean’s body. “I looked for you.”

Dean shakes his head, fishing a pill bottle from the corner of his bag. Triumphantly, he shakes the last two Ibuprofen into his hand and swallows them dry. “Didn’t want you to find me,” he rasps. “What part of that aren’t you getting? Just… for once in my life, can I be alone with my own thoughts?”

“Not if you’re killing yourself in the process.” Castiel crosses the room before Dean can defend himself, backing Dean against the wall. Dean moves willingly—too willingly, in his opinion. Castiel marvels at the weakness; Dean doesn’t fight back, and disheartened, Castiel doesn’t think he can. “What happened to you, Dean?”

All Dean does is stare. Faintly, he trembles under Castiel’s touch. “I tried, Cas,” he admits, jaw squared. “I tried to move on. I tried to make it work with Lisa, because I thought I loved her, but we just… It wasn’t worth watching her hurt. It wasn’t worth what I put on her, and she deserved better than me. I tried hunting, I did whatever I could to forget, but it wouldn’t…

“This isn’t what I wanted, Cas, and you know it.” He rubs his unbruised eye. “I wanted Sam here, and I wanted Lucifer dead and buried. And I wanted you here, because I know damn well you’d rather be here than in Heaven with those dickbags any day. What I didn't want is for you to wing it back on home and leave me like this, like I’m just supposed to pull up my bootstraps and make it work. I got somethin’ to tell you,” he says, stopping to shove Castiel, but barely moving him an inch. “It doesn’t work like that!”

Castiel takes Dean’s wrist, rougher than necessary, but it stills him all the same. “Dean—”

“You don’t get to say my name,” Dean hisses, yanking away. A tear falls from his bruised eye, red-tinged. “You left me like this. You left me… It should’ve been me.” Rubbing his face, Dean sucks in a breath, ending up choking on snot. “I should’ve said yes. Sam should be here instead of me, and you know it—”

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Castiel cuts him off, but Dean barrels on, insistent.

“It should’ve been me.” Again, he shoves Castiel, managing to push him back a foot. “If I would’ve listened to you, if I would’ve just given myself up, then Sam could’ve been here instead of me. But he’s dead now, and I’m here, and I don’t—” he coughs into his fist, violent enough to keep Castiel alert “—I don’t know what to do with myself. And I can’t keep living like this, knowing he’s down there, and I’m…”

This time, when Castiel touches him, Dean falls into it. “Look at me,” Castiel urges, but Dean just looks down. “Then you’re allowed to touch me.”

Crushingly, Dean hugs him, practically burying himself in Castiel’s arms. No longer does he speak, his despair coming out in fingernails digging into his jacket and a series of growls. Castiel lets him, eventually drawing his arms around Dean’s waist, apparently the right decision. “I’m tired,” Dean says through it all. His cold ear brushes Castiel’s cheek, nose pressed into his neck. “I’m so fucking tired, and Baby ran out of gas last week, and I haven’t eaten in four days—”

“I won’t tell you it’ll be alright,” Castiel says, low amidst the wind. “But I’ll get us out of here. I’m not leaving you, do you hear me?”

“Lot of good that’s done you in the past,” Dean scoffs. Yet, he stays close, limbs growing looser, the rough scrape of his nails replaced with gentle tugs.. “For all I know, you’re just gonna run off again.”

Exhaling, Castiel pats between Dean’s shoulders. “I’ll bring back gas.”

“And food,” Dean chimes. “Just… anything. I can’t survive on beef jerky anymore.”

To that, Castiel nods. “Can I at least look at your eye first?”

-+-

By the time Castiel returns, Dean has already moved his belongings into another one of the numerous adobe buildings, this one shaped like a mailbox, painted white with red-trimmed windows. Thankfully, these are intact, or as much as they can be, given the age. Castiel leaves the three gas canisters just underneath the awning and meets Dean inside, just as black clouds begin to gather on the horizon and a chill sweeps through the air. Dean cracks open the transom and the window just the slightest, letting the heat sift outside, replaced with blissfully cooler temperatures.

“I got broccoli cheddar and beef stew,” Castiel says, setting a plastic grocery bag down on the single seater table in the corner. “And water.”

“Thank god,” Dean groans, head thrown back. He flops back onto the mattress—this one a queen, unlike the twin he apparently slept on for the past week—and lays spread eagle. In the interim, Castiel fishes out the plastic container of beef stew and wills his Grace into it, warming it nearly enough to scald. “Where’d you go, anyway?”

“Marathon,” Castiel explains. He hands over a container with a plastic spoon and sits at Dean’s side, hands between his knees. In silence, Dean eats slowly, alternating between spoonfuls and watching the wind pick up outside, thunder cracking ominously in the distance. “They had an assortment of different rotisserie chickens and pie, but I didn't want to make you sick.”

“Another time,” Dean agrees, replacing the lid on the container.

Castiel takes it when offered, placing it on the table and returning with a water bottle, which Dean chugs. His throat moves as he swallows, and Castiel watches, transfixed, marveling at his now-unblemished skin and the sweat beading at his temple. “You didn’t tell me how it happened,” Castiel mentions after a while, thumbing over the spot where very recently, a bruise bloomed across Dean’s face. This time, Dean doesn’t flinch.

“Just… some guy,” Dean says, hanging his head. “Decided he wanted to steal Baby while I was in Marathon last week, dragged my ass out of the front seat and punched me. Just got my sight back yesterday, and even then, still blurry as shit.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t damage it permanently,” Castiel adds, to Dean’s nod. Lowering his hand, Castiel wanders back to the window, attention fixated on the storm and the rain now pelting the sand. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’re in danger here. Both from yourself and—”

“Everyone around me, I know.” Dean stands on unsteady feet. He already needs another shower, his hair and skin dirty from walking in the dust. “Look, if I could help it, I wouldn’t be here at all. But I’m out of cash, Cas, and… I’m just tired of being alone, man.” A hand graces Castiel’s shoulder. “Please.”

“You could’ve gone back to Bobby,” Castiel says, distant even to himself. Turning, he spots the exhaustion now painting Dean’s face, the dark circles under his eyes only deepening. He can’t help but feel drawn to Dean against his will, can’t help but approach him, encroaching on that bubble Dean insists they avoid but can’t help but share. “You chose to be alone when you could’ve surrounded yourself with family.”

Dean sucks in a breath, rubs the back of his neck. “Didn’t think I needed to tell you that you’re family too,” he says, sheepish as he looks away. “I could’ve gone back, and I thought about it, but I can’t… I can’t be that burden anymore. I got miles of shit to unpack, and I’m not about to dump it on Bobby, or anyone else. Everyone I know died, and you left, and I’m… I’m dealing, okay? See, I haven’t had a drink in over two months, that’s progress, right?”

“The only reason you’ve stopped is because you can’t afford it,” Castiel says. All Dean does is clench his jaw, both hands tucked underneath his biceps. Defensive—not where Castiel wants him to be. “You’ve run out of your usual coping mechanisms, and you’ve decided to isolate yourself instead. And I understand if I’ve contributed to that, but… I expected more of you, Dean.” Dean backs away, but Castiel steps forward; again, he covers Dean’s shoulder, fitting his fingers over the brand. “You’re stronger than this. Why did you let yourself go?”

“Because I’m scared, is that what you wanna hear?” Feebly, Dean attempts to jerk away; Castiel holds him steady, the shadow of his wings surrounding them in the darkness of the storm. Thunder booms, louder now. “I got no one inside my head but myself, and I don’t like it. I don’t like who I am, or what my life is, or any of it. And what’s worse, is that I can’t tell anybody. ‘Cause the first thing they’re gonna do? Is call the psych ward and have my ass admitted.” He pauses to laugh, palming both eyes. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to in a month. And I’m fucking pissed at you, but I’m… I missed you. And I prayed you’d come back, but you never answered.”

Another step; feathers cling to Dean’s back, unbeknownst to him. “I heard you,” he whispers, nearly overshadowed by the rain. “I tried to come back, but Heaven is… compromised. Factions are forming with God’s absence, and they wanted me to pick a side, either return to earth and start the apocalypse anew, or restore order to Heaven itself, and I couldn’t.” His grip slips, coming to rest around Dean’s bare bicep. “I couldn’t watch Raphael destroy everything we’ve saved, and I couldn’t lead an army against him without watching all of us be slaughtered in the process.”

“So you gave up?” Dean cocks a brow. “Just like that, you decided, fuck it all, I’m leaving?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Releasing Dean, Castiel backs away enough to pull off his suit jacket, tossing it onto the table. He undoes the buttons on his shirt one by one, watching as Dean’s eyes wander to his bare chest and the sigil emblazoned there, dyed silver-black and stretching across his entire torso. On instinct, Dean reaches out to touch, tracing over the lines. “I’ve been marked as a traitor. Even if I wanted to, I can’t go back without them ripping out my Grace.”

“You’re kidding.” Looking up, Dean places his hand over the topmost marking, a sigil that even Castiel can’t read. Something older than the angels, something stolen from God and—twisted, meant to keep the angels in line, or else. “Just because you gave up?”

“I didn’t give up.” Castiel sighs, and covers Dean’s hand with his own. Dean doesn’t pull away. “It wasn’t my war to fight. But angels are resolute, especially when given a task, and this… I might as well have killed God Himself. What I’ve done is irredeemable in their eyes—”

“Then fuck them,” Dean cuts him off. With his fist, he beats against Castiel’s breastbone, more of a reassurance than a threat. “Fuck all of them, if they think they can just force that on you.”

“You’re fully aware of how… persuasive they can be,” Castiel murmurs. “I did the same to you.”

Dean purses his lips at that, retracting his hand; as much as he might want to, he doesn’t back away, not even when Castiel breaks that personal space bubble. “But I never backed down,” Dean replies. “And you did the same. So which one of us has changed more?”

Me, Castiel thinks. Before he met Dean, Castiel would’ve followed the word of any superior angel—and even God—without question. Now, Castiel stands before him, having only known Dean for a blip of his existence—but in that time, Dean has reinvented the meaning of life for him, of using his gift for good. For watching life flourish, instead of destroying it with just a thought.

Years ago, he would’ve killed Dean for his insolence. Years ago, they wouldn’t be standing here, close enough to touch, to hunger.

“Where do we go from here?” Castiel asks, just as thunder rattles the very earth beneath them, the wind gusting strong enough to howl. “Heaven is probably hunting me down.”

“Then we won’t let ‘em find you,” Dean asserts. “We fought them once, we can do it again. That’s what we do, right?”

That’s what you’re not understanding, Castiel wants to say. Those angels won’t show as much mercy, if any at all. Those angels will murder them in cold blood, and display their bodies like trophies. The traitor and the righteous man, once and for all, put in their place. “Right,” Castiel lies. His gaze lingers on Dean’s lips, watching as he licks over the seam, leaving behind a wet shine. Castiel knows sin, in all its iterations—this feeling is entirely foreign, and he lusts.

And if the look in Dean’s eyes is any indication, he must suspect, or feel the same. Whatever the reason, Castiel resists the urge to fly—just this once, he stays.

-+-+-+-

Hospitals have never sat well with Dean. Walking down the empty halls, past unused gurneys and medical trays and closed doors, he cringes at the smell of antiseptic and the distant bang of metal-on-metal, and voices he can’t pinpoint the location of. Every room looks exactly the same: white-painted, with trays hanging just below the window, all with clipboards inside.

One door, he spots just what he was looking for.

Winchester, Sam. Age: 27. Condition: Critical. Ailment: Animal attack.

Glancing over his shoulder, Dean looks down the hallway before he pushes his way into the room, the door clicking behind him. Everything about the room is just as he remembered every other hospital room in the past: white walls, a single chair, racks of IVs and a vital monitor near the closed window. In the adjustable bed, Sam rests, bruised face turned away, arms and legs wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. A stitched gash splits his face from temple to nose, passing over his right eye. His fingers twitch every few seconds, and Dean notices his hands, nails either ripped from their beds or ground down to stubs, knuckles bruised and scraped to the bone.

Most shocking, is that all of his hair is gone, shaved close to the scalp; staples mar the back of his skull, holding together what looks to be a significant blow.

Swallowing, Dean steadies his heart and reaches for Sam’s wrist. Before he makes it, Sam sits up within a blink, and blood pours free when he opens his eyes, staining his face scarlet. Whatever he says, Dean can’t make it out, and only then does he realize that someone slashed Sam’s throat.

One word, though, he repeats—Oregon.

Dean jerks awake to the sun in his face and the wind blowing outside. At some point, Castiel must have closed the window, trapping in the cold air for the time being. The mattress sags at his side, Castiel’s weight still a solid presence, along with the heat radiating off of him. Unbidden, Dean gravitates to him, rolls over to face Castiel’s hip, where Castiel sleeps sitting up, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Meditating, probably. “Cas,” Dean whispers, patting Castiel’s thigh. “Cas, I gotta tell you something.”

“I’m asleep,” Castiel lies, but opens his eyes anyway, the white light behind them fading, shifting to his usual, ethereal blue. Dean can’t help but stare, hand still on Castiel’s pant leg, now gripping the fabric. It’s the only thing he’s wearing, and Dean fights to not look elsewhere. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I have in a while,” Dean admits. Blearily, he sits up, palming both eyes until he sees stars. “Just… had a weird dream. Real weird, like… Premonitions aren’t real, right?”

Castiel cocks his head at him, eyes narrowing. “Are you experiencing hallucinations?”

“No, just…” He shakes his head, smothering a yawn into his fist. “I saw Sam. I was in a hospital, and he was just… Someone tore him apart, Cas. He couldn’t talk, but he kept saying Oregon, Oregon, like I’m supposed to go there.”

“Do you think he escaped?” Castiel asks in all sincerity. And to that, Dean has no clue. “A human escaping Hell is rare, but escaping the clutches of two archangels… It would have to be a miracle.”

The one miracle Dean will ever believe in. “Whatever it is… Next place we get to, I’m burying myself in the internet. And not for porn this time.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel pushes off of the headboard and runs both hands through his hair. “It’s unorthodox to ask, but if you’d like clarification as to whether it’s your subconscious or Sam attempting to contact you, I could look into your memories.”

Dean’s stomach turns, uneasy. “And how’re you gonna do that? ‘Cause if it involves any—”

“It won’t hurt.” Castiel holds out his hand, palm up, a clear offering. “All I’m asking is a minute of your time. It might feel invasive, but it’s the only way to tell.”

He could say no. Could just claim it was all a dream, a horrible stress nightmare brought forth from Castiel’s reappearance. Lying just feels wrong now, with everything scraped so raw between them, practically down to the bone. What Castiel is offering is one method—maybe not the only one, but they’ll come out with the truth regardless. “Come on, then,” Dean sighs, taking Castiel’s hand without prompting. “Go crazy, I guess.”

Castiel doesn’t bother to reply to that. His sigh is almost deafening in the room, and his touch warm when he places two fingers to Dean’s forehead. A chill rushes through Dean at first, spreading through his temple. One by one, Castiel picks through his memories until he finds the dream, somehow able to dredge through even more details that he missed—specific notations on each of the clipboards, words the disembodied voices spoke, the blood—

All at once, Castiel pulls out, barely ten seconds after he started; those ten seconds might as well have been the longest in Dean’s life, terrifyingly brief yet all-encompassing. “They’re documentation, the papers,” Castiel says, wondrous, but his face betrays him. Horror flickers across his face, eyes wide, jaw clenched. “He remembers everything Lucifer and Michael did to him. The one on his door—He knows what’s happening to him. He’s alive, Dean.” Hands clasp Dean’s shoulders, and Dean sucks in a breath, chest heaving. “He escaped. He—”

“We gotta go.” Springing from the bed, Dean reaches for his jeans on the floor and tugs them on, for once uncaring about how they sag on his hips. I need to eat more. “If you don’t get your ass in the car, I’m leaving you.”

“I’m coming with you.” Bed sheets rustle; bare feet pad across the floor. Above it all, Castiel grabs his wrist just before Dean opens the door, effectively pinning him in place. “But you have to understand. Sam isn’t going to be the same man you knew. He’s dream walking, Dean. If he can wake up, it’ll be—”

“A miracle, I know.” But Sam escaping was a miracle in itself. Dean just hopes he can pull off another. “But we don’t have a choice. I already said I’d protect your ass too, so let’s kill two birds with one stone, yeah? Let’s go find Sam, Cas.”

Dean feels feathers, barely there, caress his back, easing him into an embrace he knows Castiel aches to drag him into. This, though. This is close enough.

-+-

Camping out in the back of a twenty-four hour diner probably isn’t the best thing to do after a long drive, but Dean’s hunger ultimately wins out around hour six of the trip. Unlike Texas, New Mexico is sweltering, the ceiling fans overhead working overtime, occasionally rustling the napkins on the tabletop. Castiel pokes at a plate of pancakes and scans through articles on Dean’s phone, while Dean pores through every website he can find, clicking away on the keyboard between bites of bacon cheeseburger.

Occasionally, their waitress visits and refills their drinks, asks while they’re up to. When her shift ends, she sits with Castiel and asks to read his palms, probably just an excuse to touch his hands, much to Dean’s amusement.

The hours tick on, and as the primetime show on the flat screen above the bar switches over to the nightly news, Dean finds himself nowhere closer to finding Sam than he was this morning. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he says, rubbing his temples. “No John Does in all of Oregon?”

“It’s possible he hasn’t been put into the system yet,” Castiel muses, rattling the ice in his glass. He tips the rim to his lips, swallows the last of his soda, and obnoxiously chews his ice cube. “Or whatever ID he was carrying at the time of his—” Castiel stops. Dean knows what he means. Sam’s possession, his departure, his death. “Whenever they found him, he might have been using false identification.”

It would make sense, if Sam was even carrying his wallet at the time. For all Dean knows, he might’ve been. He certainly spent time looking over the past year, but he never did find the thing. “See, I tried that already.” Sighing, Dean closes the laptop, afterward holding his head in his hands. Stars shine through the dirty windows, the light of their motel flickering down the road. “Every ID we have, I ran through the system, and no dice. Almost got a couple hits, but it’s all generic names. Nothing we’d use.”

“Maybe you’re thinking too narrowly,” Castiel says, and Dean glares. “Is it possible that he could’ve been listed under his actual name?”

“We’re legally dead, Cas,” Dean reminds him. Leaning back, he looks to the ceiling, counting the water stains. “Unless they fucked up his face that bad, I don’t think—”

Then again, Dean remembers the scars and the bruising, the hair they probably shaved off to tackle the head injury. To the doctors, Sam probably looks unrecognizable compared to the photos in the FBI database. It could work. It’s a longshot, but it could work. Pushing the screen back open, Dean scours the major hospital systems first, desperately wishing Sam was here to help. Then again, if Sam were here in the first place, this wouldn’t be an issue.

Guilt weighs heavy in his stomach; futilely, Dean pushes it down and continues on.

“Try Sky Lakes Medical Center,” Castiel says, passing his phone back across the table. On the screen, Dean reads a newspaper article from three days ago with the headline, Man Mauled By Bear Washes Up In Klamath Lake, Locals Stunned. Below, Sam’s photograph rests, looking exactly like Dean dreamt—badly wounded, asleep, and on death’s doorstep. “I think that’s him, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. Despite the heat, he shivers, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “Yeah, it’s just… so fucking weird, man. How’d get end up there? We lost him in—”

“Kansas, yes.” Nodding, Castiel retrieves the phone. “Wherever he found Hell’s exit, it could’ve sent him anywhere. He just happened to surface in a lake, of all places.” He folds his hands one over the other. “But the question is, how is he able to communicate with you over such a great distance? And why now?”

“Honestly, beats me.” Dean hangs his head, fighting back a yawn. “Always been a weird kid, maybe his powers didn't exactly go away like we thought.”

“Which could explain how he was able to free himself,” Castiel adds. “How far away is Oregon?”

Dean thinks for a moment, and then closes the laptop again. For his sake, he doesn’t want to read Sam’s lab reports any more than he has to. “Two or three days. Probably more, ‘cause I gotta sleep. Not really used to… staying awake, these days.”

A foot nudges his own underneath the table; Dean hides his face in his hands, hopefully fighting off the sudden flush in his cheeks. “Dean,” Castiel whispers. “Look at me.”

Sucking in a breath, Dean uncovers his eyes, and looks. Still the same old Castiel, albeit apparently intent on pinning one of Dean’s feet down. “I’ve wanted this for the last year,” Dean confesses, steadying his breath. “And now that I know he’s alive, it feels like a trap, and I’m walking into it. You said it yourself, it might as well be a miracle, but is it really? Or are we gonna have to fight those two assholes and die trying?”

Castiel chuckles, though his smile falls soon after. “If it’s the same to you, I’d rather not die again. The next time, I’m not sure I’ll come back.”

Admittedly, Dean doesn’t want that either. He nudges his foot against Castiel’s, all while pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “I ain’t gonna let you die this time,” he says, slapping two twenties on the table. “If I know anything right now, it’s that.”

-+-

Socorro, New Mexico

Night passes too slowly for Dean’s liking. Half a mile from the interstate, the traffic noise keeps him awake, and no matter how many times Castiel pets through his hair, he can’t sit still. If anything, that makes him more restless; Castiel won’t stop touching him, even in his meditative state, methodical and kind. For a while, Dean just rests there, staring at Castiel’s hip while Castiel breathes, rhythmic in a way that would normally lull Dean to sleep. Why he can’t even drift off now is a question he desperately wants answered.

“Stop thinking,” Castiel murmurs, low, droning like the highway. “Your thoughts are incredibly loud.”

“Stop poking around then,” Dean grumbles. Pulling the blankets over his neck, he lets out a breath and tries to relax—really tries, imagining white noise, counting sheep, whatever he can think of. Nothing works, and the analog clock on the nightstand ticks on, counting down the minutes until daylight. “Can you like… just get down here? Like a normal person?”

“I’m not a normal person,” Castiel quips, but obeys.

Noisy in the dark, he pulls his coat and suit jacket off, shoes thudding onto the carpeted floor. Sheets rustle, and a warm body presses up close to Dean’s, head propped up on a pillow. Still clothed, he drapes an arm around Dean’s naked waist, fingers lingering over the waistband of his briefs. Intimate—too close and not enough, all at once.

Socked feet touch his own; Dean slips one between Castiel’s ankles, seeking warmth. This part, Dean has always liked: curling close and just sharing body heat, heart beats synchronizing in the afterglow. He usually only gets that after sex, though. Whatever this is, he doesn’t think he can put a word to it, just being near Castiel and breathing in the ozone scent of him, relaxing into his heat. A thumb sweeps over his eyelid, the faintest hint of Grace easing the strain of the day.

“Can I confess something to you?” Castiel asks, soft.

Dean’s heart pounds, quickening further when he nods. A hand over his eyes, Castiel leans in and kisses him, softer than cotton, barely there before it’s gone. Still, Dean lets out a noise akin to a whine, hand flying to Castiel’s hip, nails threatening to tear into his shirt. “Don’t,” he begs, eyes pinched shut, tears threatening to spill free. “Don’t make me talk about this right now.”

“You don’t have to.” Castiel creeps closer, their thighs pressed together, one of his arms supporting Dean’s head from beneath the pillows. “I meant to tell you before… Before. That I felt something for you, something no angel has ever felt—”

“Cas, please—”

“—and something so abhorred by my kind, but I would gladly bear the sin, if it meant I could see you, if I could stay close to you. The last year, I tried to forget your face.” Pulling his hand away, Castiel wipes away the tears blurring Dean’s vision, smoothing the wetness down his cheek. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Every second away from you hurt, and I couldn’t explain why, until I found you in that pueblo, and I saw the despair in your soul, your longing to see your brother again, your ache to tell me that you felt—”

“Cas.” Dean silences him with another kiss, rougher, desperate in a way he hasn’t felt in years. To make Castiel shut up, to drag him closer—he doesn’t know. “Cas, please, I can’t… It’s too big. This is all too big.”

Castiel’s nose brushes his own; fingertips dance down his ribs, settling over his hip. It would be comforting, if only it didn’t upset him so much. “I’m not asking you to reciprocate, or to tell me if you do,” he says. “I just wanted you to know. Just in case—”

“No,” Dean chuckles, drying his eyes. “Not dying. Already told you, you’re stuck with me, so you just gotta deal.”

Castiel’s final kiss—chaste, a smile hidden on his lips—lingers long after he pulls away, and long after Dean tucks his face under Castiel’s chin. Shame heats his cheeks, yet he revels in it in private, allowing himself this one moment of peace—one moment of comfort, before the dawn breaks.

-+-+-+-

Rain peppers the windshield outside of Holbrook, Arizona, where the endless desert breaks into even more desert, the road rolling on straight and true. In the passenger seat, Castiel watches water streak the passenger window, breath fogging the pane. The cold front is a temporary reprieve from the burgeoning heat wave, and a relief for the Impala’s air conditioner. Quietly, sans radio for the first time in a long, long while, Dean drives without the tape deck playing, the silence between them filled with the rumble of the engine and the storm, and Dean’s steady breaths, no longer labored or jagged.

In fact, he almost looks calm, more peaceful now than he was in previous hours. Faintly, Castiel still feels the heat of his kiss, and stops himself from touching his lips.

“I feel your wings,” Dean says, more an observation than anything else. Castiel retracts the one he typically keeps around Dean, tucking it away. “No, you don’t gotta—”

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Castiel says, sitting up straighter—

And Dean stops him with a hand to his thigh, eyes still on the road. “I’m not telling you to put ‘em away, Jesus. Just… freaked me out the first time you did it. Like I got fondled by a light socket. They supposed to feel like that?”

Castiel shrugs. The ability for humans to perceive wings, whether on a physical plane or even spiritual, has been up to debate amongst the angels for thousands of years. “It could be because you’ve come in contact with my Grace in the past,” he wonders aloud, slumping into his seat. Slowly, he unfurls his wing enough for the feathers to tickle the back of Dean’s neck, and out of the corner of his eye, he watches Dean lean into it, shoulders relaxing with the new sensation. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Not really.” Dean shrugs. His grip loosens on the wheel, blanched knuckles returning to their natural color. “Kinda stopped asking questions when you showed up again. Think you can show ‘em to me, or am I just gonna see shadows wherever I go?”

“You can see shadows of my wings?” Castiel asks. Dean really is special. Not that Castiel ever doubted him, but this proves it. “Humans aren’t meant to perceive angelic essence in any capacity. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Is it that big of a deal?”

Pulling his hand away, Dean rubs the steering wheel, most likely to warm his fingers. Brake lights shine ahead, and several cars pull off onto the side of the road just as the storm worsens, rain reducing visibility to inches. Slowly, Dean eases off onto the shoulder, throwing the Impala into park. Castiel unbuckles for the time being, pulling both legs onto the bench while Dean does the same, leaning back against the door.

Gray light mutes the scenery—amidst it, Dean glows bright, his soul casting all of the color Castiel could ever need into the world.

Out of reflex—or the incessant need to protect Dean, he doesn’t know—Castiel spreads his wings, the shape of them shifting through the Impala’s metal frame. Rain pelts off of the feathers, imperceptible to passersby, but not to Dean. Eyes dilated, Dean watches him, lips parted. “You can see them,” Castiel repeats, astounded. Nodding, Dean lets out a shivering breath. “Take my hand.”

Dean sputters. “What?”

Castiel offers his hand, palm up; his feathers shiver with the chill. “For your safety, take my hand.”

Visibly, he watches Dean struggle through the decision, lips pursing, eyes narrowed at the very concept of Castiel’s hand. He acquiesces anyway, placing his palm atop Castiel’s—and Castiel watches him see. The blackened expanse of his wings—permanently scorched from Hell’s flame save for a few spots where white and blue feathers shine through—twitches under Dean’s scrutiny, and curl inward when Dean reaches out to touch, fingers stroking down the discolored vanes. All the while, he clutches Castiel’s hand, and Castiel lets him, bearing the pressure of his grip while basking in the sensation of being touched, being admired, in such an ethereal manner.

“You’re like a child,” Castiel whispers, to Dean’s amusement. “Touching what you think you can’t have.”

Dean stops—not abruptly, but slowly, methodically. “I don’t,” he starts, then pauses, shaking his head. “I can’t. Not like… Not like I want to. And I want, but I can’t…”

“All you’ve ever done is deny yourself,” Castiel says, ending on a sigh. Releasing Dean’s hand, he watches the light die from Dean’s eyes, his wings disappearing into the ether once again. “You give your body, your soul, your life, all in favor of helping those around you, but you never allow yourself a moment’s pleasure, even if it’s something you crave.” Thunder cracks, and Castiel creeps closer, pinning down Dean’s knee; swallowing, Dean backs away ever so slightly, thumping into the doorframe. “If you’re worried about this being a sin, you won’t go to Hell for love.”

“Plenty of other reasons to go to Hell, though,” Dean deflects. It takes him a moment to relax, skin no longer tensing in Castiel’s grip the longer they sit there, listening to the storm. Wetness creeps along the corners of Dean’s eyes, and Dean wipes it away before either of them can speak of it. “All these years, and you really think you can save me? Cas, I’ve done… I’ve done some stupid shit in my life, and this? I can’t—I don’t wanna fuck up again, not with you, not with fucking… Heaven, or whatever else is out to get me.”

Castiel takes Dean by the collar, purposefully smoothing the fabric out after first contact; thumb pressed to the notch in his throat, he cups Dean’s neck, dragging him in. “You liken yourself too much to Christ,” he says, low amidst the storm. “Taking on the world’s suffering, in the hopes that with your death, they can thrive. But you don’t have to sacrifice yourself to better the world.”

Sucking in a breath, Dean blinks, this time refusing to dry his eyes. “What am I supposed to do then?” he asks, wavering enough to make Castiel’s heart race. “That’s just who I am, I don’t—”

Dean has always been notorious for talking when he shouldn’t; kissing him apparently does wonders to quiet him, though, and Castiel holds him closer even when Dean tugs at his hair by the root, just to the point of pain. And Castiel just lets him, swallowing Dean’s whimper and the subsequent moan; Dean tastes like coffee and salt, and his lips move with ease, every bit of him softening, encased in the shadows of Castiel’s wings. “You’re strong,” Castiel mutters between kisses, chasing the lust on Dean’s tongue. “Stronger than you’re willing to give yourself credit for.”

“Shut up,” Dean hisses, and tugs Castiel’s hair again. “Just shut up for two seconds.”

This time, Castiel does.

-+-

All Castiel has in his wallet—one of Dean’s old ones, emblazoned with a Firebird logo—is four twenty-dollar bills and a stick of gum, and a questionably old condom Dean apparently forgot to remove from the coin pouch. Dean isn’t faring much better; he just barely fills the Impala’s tank with the last few dollars in his pocket. Castiel takes the opportunity to buy food while he waits for Dean to finish, coming back with two water bottles and several snack cakes, and the saddest club sandwich Castiel has ever seen.

Dean eats it with fervor, rarely speaking as he chews, desperate for anything his stomach will allow. “I can’t keep going like this,” he admits after he finishes, chasing bread and half of a Zebra Cake with water. “That place in Texas? Cheapest place I’ve ever stayed in, and it even had running water. But tonight?”

“You can’t afford lodging,” Castiel assumes.

Nodding, Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Haven’t exactly found a town with a bar lately, and I had to bail from a place last month and I left all my cards behind. I had a few hundred left, but between gas and—”

“We’ll find a place,” Castiel cuts him off, earning Dean’s eventual nod.

Rain still falls atop of the Shell’s awning, but slower now, nearing a trickle. In its place, an unsettling chill ingrains its way into Castiel’s bones, even inside the car. Placing his hands between his thighs, he waits for Dean to start the car and the heater to come on—only, it sputters the second the engine turns over, and promptly dies. “Not now, Baby,” Dean groans, patting the dashboard, his frown migrating to his eyes. “Come on, not now. We still got a lot left in us.”

“She’ll be fine,” Castiel assures, though he doubts Dean believes him. Dean can fix her, but not here, and hopefully, the weather will warm again as soon as the rain clears.

Still, Castiel can’t help but feel cursed.

The gray of the sky turns to black an hour later, and the rain dwindles to mist, a welcome reprieve. Faintly, Dean shivers, and Castiel tries his best to keep him warm with his wing, only staving off the chill to certain parts of Dean’s body. Dean never stops shivering, and no matter how often Dean rubs his hands together, he never quite manages to warm them.

“We should stop in the next town,” Castiel says, pointedly resting the arch of his wing atop Dean’s spine.

Dean shakes his head. “Save your money. Next place that has a diner, I’ll see if I can get some day work in. Can’t be too bad, right?”

If only money weren’t essential to survival, Castiel thinks. If only he didn’t have to watch Dean struggle like this, just to see his brother again, to make it through to the next morning. All Castiel can give him is something to hold on to and a warm hand to hold down the winding Arizona roads.

Somewhere off of the highway—Castiel can’t tell in the dark, the lack of streetlights disconcerting—Dean pulls off into what used to be a parking lot, now entirely gravel. In the headlights, Castiel spots the remains of a motel, with both intact and broken windows, shaped into an L. Dean parks on the far end of the lot, by the one door that isn’t broken or dented, and shuts off the engine. “I’ve stayed in worse,” Dean says, mostly to himself. “This ain’t nothing, believe me.”

“This shouldn’t be necessary,” Castiel says. “I can talk to a receptionist somewhere, I can—”

“You don’t gotta, not for me.” Shaking his head, Dean exits the Impala and heads for the trunk, pulling his duffel and a blanket free, one of the few he stole from the hostel in Texas. “Just gotta get a few hours, then we’re good. Trust me, Cas, please?”

But Castiel can’t. He knows full and well that if something happened, he could never live with himself. His need to remain by Dean’s side overrides all over thought, though, and he follows Dean inside the unlocked room, promptly latching the deadbolt as soon as they enter. Inside, Castiel finds a bed and a broken television sitting on the dresser, the rest of the furnishings tipped onto their sides. Dean steps outside to relieve himself, and Castiel arranges the mattress the best he can, brushing away cobwebs and shaking the dust free.

By the time Dean returns, Castiel has already shrugged off his coat and left it hanging on the hook behind the door. For a brief second, Dean stands there, just watching while Castiel sinks into the mattress, testing the strength of it. No holes, no bed bugs, just a bed. And a warm bed at that, once Dean climbs in, dressed in everything except his shoes. The extra blanket helps immensely, and so does Dean maneuvering into his space, into the shelter of his wings.

Now that he can, Dean takes—and Castiel lets him, draping an arm around Dean’s waist, pressing them flush. Near-violently, Dean shivers, teeth chattering. “Am I crashing?” he asks, breath warm against Castiel’s throat. “I feel like I’m crashing.”

“You’re exhausted,” Castiel whispers. “Sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

Dean shakes his head, holds Castiel closer. “Scared to,” he admits, voice slurring, sleep not far off. “Scared you won’t be here.”

I won’t leave you, Castiel promises with a kiss to Dean’s forehead. “I won’t leave you,” he says aloud. “Rest.”

-+-+-+-

Kingman, Arizona

Of all the places Dean has ever had to work in his life, this one seems to be the most quaint. A simple black-and-white checkered diner, intentionally kept retro for tourists, with green leather seats and a jukebox in the corner. He works the morning shift without much interruption, taking orders and handing out plates to the best of his ability, never once dropping a thing. Impressive on his part, expected on everyone else’s.

“I haven’t had a minimum wage job in years,” Dean says between customers, leaning his hip on Castiel’s booth in the far corner of the diner. He refills Castiel’s coffee mug for the fifth time, knowing he doesn’t need it, but Castiel keeps drinking it anyway. Most definitely not for the taste, that’s for sure. “I’m getting what, seven dollars an hour for this?”

“Just about,” Castiel shrugs, setting down his newspaper. He glances over to the apron tied around Dean’s waist, innocence in his eyes but a smirk on his lips. “When is your break?”

Suggestive. “Technically right now,” Dean says, sliding into the opposite seat. “Do you think we should call the hospital? Just to, y’know, ask around.” Asking is the least they could do; showing up abruptly might shock the nurses, and the doctors, if they even care. Considering no one has bothered to call Dean’s phone, it’s doubtful.

“We could always try,” Castiel says, pulling the cellphone from his coat pocket. He hands it over, along with a sheet of paper listing all of their emergency contacts and the inpatient center in Klamath Falls. “You have—”

“Twenty minutes,” Dean says. He dials Sam’s main phone once, the call going straight to voicemail within one ring. “Dead,” he mumbles to himself, and jumps to dialing the inpatient center. If anything, Sam wouldn't have a phone on him, unless he somehow magically pulled it from the pit with the rest of his body. The hospital is their best shot. Hopefully, it works.

Impatiently, Dean waits through a minute of hold music before someone picks up, ringing out “Sky Lakes Medical Center, this is Tracy, how can I help you?” as robotically as possible.

“I’m—looking for a patient,” Dean tries, propping up his chin in his palm. “A possible John Doe. My brother went hiking last month around that area and we haven’t heard from him. Six feet fall, kinda lanky?”

Tracy hums, her nails clacking on the keyboard. “We have one patient fitting that description. We booked him under the name John Doe, but he just woke up yesterday and said his name was Sam, but that’s all he could say. It appears,” she pauses and clicks around, “that he was attacked by a bear. He underwent surgery to repair his vocal cords, but the doctors are optimistic.”

Of course they are, Dean thinks. Doctors are always optimistic when it isn’t their own life they’re trying to save. “Thank God you guys found him,” Dean says, mocking exasperation. Castiel stares at him, brow furrowed. “I’ve been calling around everywhere trying to see what happened. His phone keeps going to voicemail.”

“All we found in his possession was a phone and an empty wallet. Can you confirm the initials engraved into it?”

No, Dean mouths at Castiel, rolling his eyes. “SW?” he says, wincing.

He doesn’t expect a positive response from Tracy, but—there it is. “The next time your brother wakes up, we’ll make sure to give him your message. Do you have a number we can reach you at?”

Probably too quickly, Dean rattles off his cellphone number and bids Tracy goodbye—and promptly drops his phone on the table, out of the way of Castiel’s mug. “I feel like a criminal,” he mutters, palming his eyes. “And like I’m not doing enough. I mean, I’m a busboy to people going to the Grand Canyon, and for what? Just so I can stay in a place that has a shower?”

“You’re taking care of what you need,” Castiel says with a nod. “Sam is where he needs to be right now, and you’re doing what you can in the interim. If you collapse from exhaustion, you’ll never make it to him. You need to eat, for one.” Castiel thumbs back toward the bar, coffee mug in his other hand. He winces with the first sip, just like every other attempt. “And drink something that isn’t this.”

“Got that right,” Dean snorts. Softening his shoulders, he leans back, hands in his lap. “What if he doesn’t remember me?” he starts again. “Or what if it isn’t him? Hell, we could be wasting our time here, and he could be in the morgue by the time we make it.”

A shoe bumps against Dean’s, this time curling up the back of his calf, tucked into the hollow of his knee. “He’ll be fine,” Castiel says, absolutely sure of himself. If only Dean had that much faith. “We’ll make it to him, but until then, you need to rest, and Sam needs to recover.”

“Still feel like you’re getting the shaft here,” Dean mumbles, shakes his head. “You could be anywhere, but you’re just… here, watching me trying not to bust my ass carrying drinks.”

“I’m where I want to be.” Dean swears that Castiel’s smile, rare as it is, can light up a room. “Go. I’ll wait to see if Sam calls.”

If Sam calls. Dean hopes he will.

-+-

For the steep price of working from dawn to well after dusk, the owner of the diner—Martha, Dean thinks her name is—puts the both of them up in a room at the Ramblin’ Rose for two nights, solely because she owns both businesses, and apparently, is a sucker for lost causes. Dean thanks her anyway, and after she hands over his wages for the day, he and Castiel check into their room and lock the door behind them.

“I smell like a grease fryer,” Dean complains, falling face first into the blue-and-brown patterned mattress closest to the door. Castiel doesn’t bother to reply, his attention fixed on the flower paintings above the double beds and the heater underneath the window, pumping blissfully warm air into the room. “Don’t think I can get up.”

“You’ll be fine,” Castiel chides and pats Dean’s foot. “Go shower. You’ve been complaining for two hours.”

“Have not,” Dean lies, but rolls over anyway. Given how much his feet hurt, showering isn’t an option, and the last thing he wants is to stand up for more than ten minutes; how he plans to make it through tomorrow, he has no clue.

Castiel stays outside, much to Dean’s lament, while Dean goes through his routine, pointedly scrubbing the day off his hands while the tub fills. Warmth and humidity fills the air, easing the itch underneath his skin, the sudden need to sink beneath the water overwhelming. Shutting the knobs off, he finishes undressing, tossing his flannel and jeans into a pile by the door, his t-shirt following. Then he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

Naked, Dean steps before the sink and just looks at himself. He can see some of his ribs, deep circles under his eyes, and white hairs sprouting behind his ears at the age of thirty-one. Looking down, he notices the bones in his wrist and just how haunted he looks, the life in his eyes a figment of what it once was. What Castiel sees in him, he doesn't even know. “I really let myself go,” he says, hand covering the stubble dotting his cheeks. He’ll shave in the morning. There’s no use pulling out the razors now.

Steam rises the second Dean dips his toes into the water, the temperature just on the edge of painful; that doesn’t stop him from sinking into it, though, and only when his shoulders drop below the surface does he let out a sigh, the ache in his joints easing. Knees bent, he just lies there, listening to the gentle hum of the heater outside, Castiel flipping through the channels, and the cars passing on the highway. Monotonous, just like every motel he’s ever stayed in—but somehow, it feels more like home than anything else except Baby.

The television grows louder for the briefest of seconds, and the door cracks open, wide enough to let Castiel through, now barefooted and dressed in only his slacks and an undershirt. Castiel almost looks human like this, the way he carries his physical body and the weight of his wings, even when he slumps against the wall, eventually sitting beside the tub near Dean’s head. Exhaustion drags Castiel’s eyelids lower, his breaths more relaxed, in time with Dean’s. “You look good in an apron,” he says, blasé, and Dean laughs. “Happier. You talked a woman into getting pie with just your smile.”

“One of my charms,” Dean says, amused. Tilting his head back, he wets his hair and grabs for the shampoo bottle in the corner of the tub. He doesn’t expect Castiel to take it from him, but he does, squeezing a good portion into his hands and massaging it through Dean’s scalp. Something about it should feel invasive, but Dean can’t bring himself to care, not when Castiel massages behind his ears and the base of his skull, the smell of coconut forever ruined for him in any other situation. “You know you don’t gotta do this, right?”

“I know,” Castiel murmurs. He rinses the suds from Dean’s hair and towels his hands dry, but still remains close, half leaning against the wall, the rest of him dangerously close to crawling in the tub. Not that Dean would mind, but fitting two bodies into one bathtub might as well be a miracle. “Forgive me if I’m too forward. It’s just… nice, to see you like this.”

“Can’t help yourself, can you?” Dean chuckles. Pleasantly warm and somewhat looser, Dean sits up enough to unplug the drain and stands, fully and achingly aware that Castiel’s eyes are on him, pupils dilated in the glow of the fluorescents. He wants something; a shiver rips down Dean’s spine, cock giving a feeble twitch. Not unnoticed—not when Castiel sits up straighter, reaching out to curl his fingers into the meat of Dean’s thigh.

And worst of all, Dean lets him, a hand to the side of the sink; Castiel knees his way into Dean’s space, mouth pressing wet kisses along the inside of his thighs, verging from intimate into entirely too erotic in seconds. “Cas,” Dean breathes when Castiel makes it to his hips, nosing into the thatch of hair between his legs. “Cas, you don't—That’s not—”

“Let yourself have this,” Castiel says, voice deeper than Dean ever thought possible, and closes his lips around the head of Dean’s cock.

There has to be something blasphemous about this, Dean thinks. Something horribly wrong with the universe, with his brain, to make him want this like he does. Slowly, tentatively, Castiel works his cock to hardness with just his tongue, occasionally pausing to swallow him down, lips stretched around the base, hands to Dean’s hips. All the while, Dean just watches and pets through Castiel’s hair, tugging at the strands whenever Castiel swallows around him, trying to take him even deeper. His knees buckle as Castiel pulls back, only to take him in again, his mouth intoxicating in its rhythm.

And his mouth. Very few people have ever taken the time to actually get him off like Castiel does, his focus single-minded, his touch urgent. “Dreaming,” Dean moans, just as Castiel releases him, a strong hand stroking his slick cock, paying special attention to the head. Dean’s hips twitch, and Castiel hums, lapping away precome.

“This is very much real,” he says, voice shot, and takes him in again, delighting in making Dean groan.

Dean comes shortly after that, with little more than a whimper and a shudder down to his toes. He thumps his heel into Castiel’s spine, toes curling while Castiel swallows his spend, the velvet of his tongue doing wonders for Dean’s libido, and everything else. Only after Dean’s cock softens does Castiel pull off, making it to his feet without so much as a noise. “Maybe I should wear an apron more often,” Dean says into their kiss. He can faintly taste himself on Castiel’s tongue.

“I might have to buy you one,” Castiel says. Not too seriously, but enough of a hint—that this is something real, and tangible, and if Dean would let himself, he could have this. All of this, love and lust and longing all in one place.

And desperately, he wants.

-+-

On the nightstand, a cellphone buzzes—and Dean wakes from a dead sleep just in time to grab it without even reading the screen. Castiel clings to his waist and drags him back into bed, leaving Dean’s first words to be a grunt, and, “Stop that.”

“Dean?” a voice croaks, haggard and frayed—and so, so familiar.

“Holy shit.” Forcibly, Dean yanks himself out of Castiel’s hold and sits up, leaving a disgruntled angel with rumbled wings glaring up at him. Though, with his eyes wide as they are, Castiel quickly understands. “Sam, you—How—”

“I don’t know,” he says, monotone but with a laugh behind it. “I don’t know, but I’m out. I’m… Where are you? Where am I?”

“Well, you’re in Oregon, for one,” Dean says. He switches the phone onto speaker and holds it between them, allowing Castiel to listen in. “Me and Cas are in Kingman.”

“Castiel is there?” Sam rasps. “I thought he—”

Sitting up, Castiel says, “I’m here,” and ends up with his head on Dean’s bare shoulder. “God brought me back, but… I’m not sure it was the right decision.”

“I’m sure He had his reasons.” Sam pauses to cough, a horrifying sound that makes Dean wonder if he really is dying. For all he knows, Sam might be. “Whatever happened on my way out, I think they tried to claw me back in.”

“It could’ve been another rescue mission,” Dean suggests, to which Castiel—unfortunately—shakes his head. “What, you don’t think so?”

“Retrievals are broadcast to all angels, the Fallen included. Considering the two of you disrupted Revelation, I doubt any of them would want to intervene with the… proceedings, as it were.”

“Really wish someone did,” Sam huffs. The bed creaks, and he sighs, phlegmy. “Did the doctors say what they think happened? They haven’t come in yet.”

Dean snorts, wiping his wet eyes. Sam is alive—Sam is actually alive, and no longer being tortured in Hell for eternity. “They said it was a bear,” he says, fighting back a grin. “Damn, it’s good to hear from you.”

“You too, Dean,” Sam says, his smile almost audible. “Please tell me you’re getting me out of here, because I’m tired of staring at these four walls all day.”

“We’re trying,” Dean sighs. “Trust me, we’ve been on our way for days, but I ran out of cash, and you know thirsty Baby is.”

Sheets rustle; Sam grunts, probably sitting up. “Don’t I know it. Dean, I’ve been… I don’t think I wanna remember what happened. Whenever I think about it, I get these headaches—”

“Don’t think about it,” Dean says, automatic. At least Sam finds it funny. “From firsthand experience? Just… find something else to think about, like growing your hair back out.”

At that, Sam audibly balks. “How did you know that?”

Before Dean can even open his mouth, Castiel adds, “He had a premonition. That’s how we knew to look for you, because he dreamt of you.”

“That’s sweet,” Sam laughs. An actual laugh this time, no longer on the verge of wheezing. “I just… really wanna get out of here. For once, I need to be on the road again. I don't think I’ve eaten since…”

Dean nods, letting out a breath. “I know the feeling. Look, the minute I wake up tomorrow, we’re heading up there, alright? Gonna bust my ass to get there, but we’re going.”

“I can't believe you got a job,” Sam says, then winces. “Shit, I need meds.”

“We should let you go,” Castiel chimes in, now sitting up, shirtless before an audience of one. Rather than reply, Dean allows himself to stare and imagine what’s underneath the blankets, the one thing he intended to see just before he passed out the minute he fell into bed. “Focus on yourself, Sam. We’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks, Cas. And Dean,” Sam continues, softening, “I mean it. I missed you.”

“I know,” Dean says, from the heart. “You don’t know how much.”

After that, Dean flips the phone closed and sets it on the nightstand, the room once again bathed in silence. Castiel leaves the bed in a rustle of sheets, his naked form crossing the room; the shadows of his wings drag across the floor, passing through every object they come across on his way to the window. Dean watches Castiel peek through the gap in the curtains, knowing all Castiel sees is darkness, with maybe a peek of the sun somewhere far off in the horizon.

The clock by the television read 4:27. They should be asleep right now.

“Sam’s alive,” Dean says, mostly to himself. Castiel nods along anyway, turning fully to face him, and—whoa. Apparently when God brought Castiel back, he left everything intact. Wrong time to be thinking about this, Winchester. “You believe that?”

“I’m finding it difficult to believe anything right now.” Even more sadistically, Castiel stretches, shuddering all the way to his toes, muscles rippling, looking every bit sinful. “The fact that Sam was able to claw his way back with his vessel in one piece… Dean, your brother is a miracle.”

“I got that,” Dean says, distant to his own ears. He should be listening, but Castiel’s cock holds all of his attention, along with the rest of him, all taut muscle and sharp lines—

“Dean,” Castiel scolds, and—Right. Pay attention, Jesus. “Should I put pants on?”

“No, no.” Dean lies. In reality, they do need to talk about this, and Dean needs to come to terms with the fact that his brother is alive and not roasting on a spit. But Castiel is warm and there, and—“Just come here?”

Castiel embraces him before he can even ask, arms around Dean’s neck and Dean’s face pressed into his stomach. Dean contorts himself in the hold, dragging his bare legs over the edge of the bed just to get closer; Castiel’s back bleeds warmth into his hands, and his breaths steady Dean’s heart, the rhythm all too easy to fall in sync with. This is better—this, he can do. “We still have another day here,” he rumbles, stroking down Dean’s spine. “I know you would leave the first chance you get, but he’ll be fine.”

“He’s where he needs to be, I know,” Dean huffs. “I hate waiting. Always have, can’t change that about me. And I thought knowing that he’s okay would make me feel better, but… What if it’s a trap? There’s gotta be some strings attached, like Lucifer’s gonna yank him back in, or—”

“I know you don’t believe in miracles,” Castiel stops him, thumb over his lips. “But sometimes, you should take things at face value.”

“You know that sounds like bullshit, right?” Dean accuses, to Castiel’s waiting smile. Leaning back in, Dean presses his ear to Castiel’s sternum, lip between his teeth. “I don’t like it, Cas. Just feels… weird.”

For once, Castiel agrees with him—and all Dean can do is pray that it’s not a fluke.

-+-+-+-

An angel visits Castiel around seven in the evening, dressed in a black pinstriped suit with an electric yellow tie. Stark blue eyes stand out against his dark skin, catching Castiel’s attention even more than the scar stretched across his face, reaching from the corner of his eye, all the way to his opposite ear. His hair is braided back into neat, tapering rows. Castiel can’t help but think that his vessel is beautiful, if it is even a vessel at all.

The hardness in his eyes betrays him though, as well as the scowl pulling at his lips. “Castiel,” he says, deeper than Castiel expected, “you’re being watched.”

Castiel swallows, sets down the glass in his hand. Across the diner, Dean talks a young girl into buying dessert. “By who?”

“Raphael has taken you out of his sights, but you have another one of us to contend with.” From his pocket, the angel slides a sheet of torn piece of paper to Castiel, Enochian symbols scrawled across the surface. “Nathanael has been sent to retrieve your Grace, but on whose orders, we aren’t sure.”

“For all we know, it could be her own,” Castiel mutters. Unfortunately, the angel agrees. “I didn't want any part of this—”

“Ofaniel,” Ofaniel offers. Briefly, he touches Castiel’s hand, and dozens of midnight-blue wings come into view, eyes dotting the feathers like stars. Multiple disfigured heads carousel around his true face, none of which he can recognize, but all bearing the same scar. “I’m fully aware of your predicament, but I’m not in the capacity to help, I’m afraid. Nathanael is older than either of us, and whatever her intentions are, you must leave. Return to heaven if—”

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t go back,” Castiel hisses, lowering his voice. “Raphael branded me as a traitor, and I’m—”

“Here with a human,” Ofaniel finishes. Not exactly what Castiel meant to say, but the point remains. “I smell the seed of lust on you, Castiel,” he says, verging on a whisper. Never quite scolding, but close. “Lying with the children of God is a criminal offense.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, jaw tight. “There’s no precedent regarding my actions with any human. You of all people should know that.”

“You always were ready for a fight.” Standing, Ofaniel brushes off his slacks. “For what it’s worth, she doesn’t plan to kill you. To her, all you’re worth is your Grace. And though Raphael would prefer to have you dead, I would rather see you live. So I'd suggest that you and your… human confidant leave. Preferably tonight, but soon, before she finds you.”

And Ofaniel vanishes, his departure marked by a single feather and a chasm of lost air. Dean walks straight through it mere seconds after, eyes trained on the feather as he unties his apron. “You molting or something?”

If only Castiel could laugh. “We may have to leave earlier than planned,” he says, ignoring the way Dean’s face falls. “Did you see anyone sitting with me just now?”

Dean shakes his head. “Saw you having a conversation with the back of the chair. What was it?”

Castiel sighs, lungs spasming for air. “I’ll tell you at the motel.”

 

-+-

“So you’re telling me,” Dean says through a yawn, pulling his shirt over his shoulders, “that an angel walked up to you and told you to hightail it out of Dodge?”

“More or less,” Castiel mumbles, head in his hands. From the unused double bed, Castiel listens to Dean change out of his work clothes and throw them into the bottom of his duffle, replacing them with a softer pair of denim and a threadbare shirt. Here, sockless and fighting off sleep, he looks comfortable—homey, almost. “I suspected someone might follow me, but I didn’t think it was… Nathanael, of all angels.”

“Who are they, anyway?” Flopping down onto the other bed, Dean pulls on a pair of socks, following with a pair of tennis shoes, the soles almost worn through. “Feels like the only time I hear about angels is when they’re after you.”

Castiel shrugs. As unfortunate as the truth is, Castiel hates that it always comes to this. Fighting, bleeding, lying—all because of him. “Nathanael was the sixth angel created by God, and one of the angels of vengeance. She’s always been… incredibly thorough with her methods, and torture isn’t out of the question. As to what she would do if she caught up to me…” He stops and clasps his hands between his knees. A confession sits on his tongue, a confession that leads to a discussion he never intended to have with Dean, especially not in the wake of the apocalypse.

It festers, though, like a gnat. “I need you to understand something,” he says, slow, garnering Dean’s full attention. Before Dean can reply—something akin to ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ probably—Castiel holds up a hand. “Listen to me. I know this is rash—”

“Please, for the love of God, don't tell me—”

“—but it’s something I’ve put thought into. And if the time comes, if someone tries to collect my Grace, I don’t want you to interfere.”

Dean’s eyes harden, jaw set in a straight line. “You can’t be serious,” he growls. “You want me to—” He stands, clasping Castiel’s knees. Proximity brings warmth, and warmth bleeds anger, all of it radiating through Dean’s touch. “You just want me to sit there and let someone—I can’t do that, Cas, you know me. And I know you, and this ain’t what you want.”

“But it is.” Steeling himself, Castiel meets his gaze, teeth clenched. “You don’t think I haven’t thought about it? All I’ve wanted to do ever since I came back was to let you bleed me, to leave my Grace somewhere. I could fall, I could be human, and I wouldn’t regret a second of it, if it meant I could be free of this… hell that I’ve been put through.”

“That I put you through?” Dean snaps. “That what you mean?”

Castiel’s stomach sours; hands to Dean’s cheeks, he waits for Dean to soften, for his grip to loosen, no longer to the point of pain. “Not everything is your fault, Dean. I was under Heaven’s instructions to raise you, and Heaven tried to control you, using me as their right hand. And I couldn’t, even after everything they… I couldn’t. Because these past years, knowing you has been the best part of my life, and if it means that I have to live as one of you until I take my last breath, then I’ll do it, because I chose to. Because I love you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Dean whispers. Tears form in the corners of his eyes, scalding when they track down his face, onto Castiel’s fingers. “None of this, you shouldn’t… Fuck, Cas, why’d you have to go and do that?”

Gently, Castiel wipes away his tears, easing him into a kiss. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” he says. Dean shudders in his grasp, exhaling hot against Castiel’s lips. “But this is my decision—"

“Just… shut up for two seconds,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “You keep acting like I don’t feel anything, and it’s killing me, man. Minute you got back, felt like I got punched in the stomach, and then you kissed me, and I just—I can’t deal with this, and I want to, and I’m losing my mind—”

Kissing Dean doesn’t stop him from talking this time—but it does make him angry, teeth tugging at Castiel’s lip while he continues on his tirade. “I know,” Castiel says, tugging Dean closer by his shirt. Knees straddle his hips, hands scrabble with his coat, and Castiel just holds on, for as long as he can. “I know, Dean.”

“Idiot,” Dean says, and shoves him flat, surrounding him. The fire in his eyes leaves Castiel winded, heart in his throat; even in the throes of emotion, Dean is still beautiful, eyes shining, face flushed. “You don't think it hurts? Every time you leave, every time you… I can’t lose you again. Not like this, not because you wanna hack out your Grace—”

“Dean.” Pressing his fingers to Dean’s lips, Castiel watches his eyes close, tears wetting his lashes. “Is being human such a bad thing?”

Shakily, Dean nods. “Please don’t leave me,” he sobs, face hidden in Castiel’s neck. “Not like this.”

I don't plan on it, Castiel thinks, and presses a kiss to Dean’s temple. “I’ll always be with you,” he says instead, stroking through Dean’s hair. “Believe me."

 

-+-+-+-

Pink and orange light the inside of Dean’s eyelids, pleasant in its glow but strange, wrong. Mattress springs no longer dig into his back, and Castiel’s coffee no longer permeates the air around him, instead replaced with well-worn leather and humidity. An engine rumbles, close enough to touch; a blinker clicks on and off.

Castiel is driving my car.

“Dude,” Dean grumbles, blearily dragging his head off of the fogged passenger window and wiping his eyes. “Who taught you to drive?”

From the driver’s seat, Castiel sits with his hands on the wheel, just where they’re supposed to be; he coasts with ease, the rising sun lighting the sharp angles of his face, lighting his eyes. “You did,” he says, eventually, never looking away from the road. “Before you fell asleep, you gave me a ‘crash course’ and told me to never let go of the wheel, or you’ll kill me yourself.”

Dean snorts, smothers a yawn behind his fist. “Sounds like me. Where are we?”

Castiel relaxes his shoulders, the tension visibly leaving his body. “We just passed Las Vegas. I parked for a while to let you sleep. I’ve only been driving for a few hours.”

So considerate—another thing Castiel shouldn’t be. “How much of a backroad are you taking?” Dean asks, fully upright now and in desperate need of coffee, or food. Preferably both. “’Cause I gotta piss.”

“There’s a gas station a mile from here,” Castiel says, glancing over. “We can switch off, if you want.”

You look good behind the wheel, though, Dean wants to say. Dozens of thoughts cross his mind, from something as mundane as watching the sunrise through the windshield, to things as wild as seeing if Castiel can maintain his composure with Dean’s face in his lap. Meanwhile, Dean isn’t even sure if Castiel knows how to park. “Let’s get some caffeine in me and I’ll take over,” he says, caught in another yawn. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“Almost five,” Castiel says. “You slept for six hours.”

Interstate 95 turns from desert to showing signs of civilization relatively quickly, and Castiel pauses in the median long enough to signal and turn into the Chevron parking lot, parking beneath the awning. This time of morning, the only other car Dean sees is a newer Elantra with an Area 51 bumper sticker slapped on the back. “You know how to pump gas?” Dean asks before unbuckling. He digs his wallet out of his back pocket and fishes out sixty bucks—some for breakfast, the rest for a full tank, since apparently Castiel plans on driving through the middle of the desert.

“I’ve watched you,” Castiel says. He touches Dean’s hand, and Dean lets him, despite the shame heating his cheeks. “You’re not used to this, are you?”

Dean shakes his head. “No offense? But normally if someone touches me like that, they’re about to follow me into the bathroom.”

“Not everything has to have strings attached.” For emphasis, he takes Dean’s fingers between his, palms pressed together. “This isn’t sexual.”

“Just checking in?” Dean quips, and Castiel nods, sure as ever. “Look, last night was… I’m not good with words.”

“You’re not,” Castiel says, earning an eye roll from Dean. “But what you lack in communication, you make up for in everything else. You tell me you love me through touch, and I can see it in the way you look at me, the way you hold me at night. You don’t have to tell me—”

“I do, alright?” Red-faced, Dean glares at the station’s front door. Right now, he’ll do anything to not have to look at Castiel. “I… I do… love you. But every time I get close to someone, they always… Shit goes south real fast, and I don’t wanna fuck that up.”

“You won’t.” Quick in the burgeoning sunlight, Castiel kisses his cheek, squeezing his hand tighter. “I want a honey bun.”

Dean can’t help but laugh, forehead to Castiel’s shoulder. “What am I, your meal ticket?”

“Sometimes,” Castiel murmurs. “Pay, I’ll be here.”

Reluctantly, Dean leaves Castiel’s warmth and heads for the station. He puts forty dollars on pump six before escaping to the restroom, washing last night off his hands after he finishes. Splashing water on his face, Dean inspects his reflection, only coming up with a blackened bruise to his lower lip, probably from when Castiel decided that biting was easier than just kissing. “Better fade,” he mumbles, tugging on his lip. “Didn’t even tell me.”

With the last of his cash, Dean buys a large coffee and two honey buns from the aisles, along with a bag of Jolly Ranchers and a handful of snack bars. He still has two gallon jugs of water from their last stop, and in the event that Castiel actually decides to… Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

Stop thinking, Winchester.

By the time Dean makes it back to the car, coffee and plastic bag in hand, Castiel is already in the passenger seat, shoes slipped off and coat folded in the backseat. His heart pangs at the sight, the lump in his throat impossibly thick. Somehow, he manages to keep calm until he sets the cup in the holder on the floorboard and the bag between them. After that, he can’t help but drag Castiel in for a kiss, ignoring the ache in his lip and the smell of gasoline on Castiel’s shoe. “You got it everywhere, didn’t you?”

“Just on my foot,” Castiel says, beaming. “That’s the first time you’ve kissed me.”

Dean blinks, brow furrowed. “I kissed you last night—”

“But not like this.” Castiel chases the coffee on his tongue, his smile inescapable. “You’re happy. I can feel it.”

“Yeah.” With a sigh, Dean falls into him. He stays close, enough to feel Castiel’s wing curl around him, protective in its embrace. “Is it wrong, if I want you to stay an angel just for this?”

“Wings aren’t everything,” Castiel hums. “But, I’ll miss holding you, if the time comes.”

Shaking his head, Dean hides a kiss into Castiel’s throat. “Not gonna come. You’re gonna be just fine, you hear me?”

Castiel doesn’t answer; his wing does for him, curling in closer, wrapped around Dean. Faintly, he feels it shiver, and Dean clings to the shadow of a feather, never planning to let go.

-+-

Out of all the roads in North America, Castiel had to pick the one where Dean can never keep his focus. Occasionally as he drives northward, they pass a small town with barely a gas station, but other than that, it’s… bleak. Desert to either side, rolling plains of brown with scrub brush as far as he can see, and a hill that neither shrinks nor grows. The sun beats down endlessly, scalding despite the air conditioner pumping on. He swears he passed that marker a few miles back.

It shouldn't surprise him, where they are.

“We’re stuck in a warp,” Castiel mentions, sitting up to look out the back window. It’s the same on every side: the road that never ends, the sky that never moves. Not a cloud to be seen, not another car for miles. “The odometer hasn't moved since we passed Mina.”

“I figured that,” Dean grouses. Experimentally, he lets go of the wheel and takes his foot off the gas, only to feel the car lurch in a straight line, slowing on its own accord. The minute Baby stops, the engine cuts off, all sensors failing, the speedometer pushing into the negative. All Dean hears is the slow, steady ticking beneath the hood and Castiel’s harsh breaths, rough and haggard. “Cas, you don’t—”

“There’s no other explanation.” Castiel unbuckles and steps out of the car, entering the blazing heat—and Dean loses sight of him.

“Cas,” he shouts, panicked. Lunging out of the passenger side probably isn’t the smartest decision he’s ever made, but within a split second, Dean finds himself on his knees in the dirt, next to Castiel’s sandy shoes—and in front of the most horrifying sight imaginable.

An angel—an honest to God angel, with an incredible amount of wings and eyes dotting every single one of them. A burning halo of pure electricity blocks out the sun, bathing the desert in bright blue, all of it casting a shadow on the swirling, cacophonous mass in the center, never quite taking shape but somehow occupying it all at once. The sky disappears under the shade of her wings; the wind howls, kicked up by just a twitch of a feather.

 

 

“Bow,” Castiel says, sinking to his knees. Dean follows his lead, terrified of anything else, and places his hands in front of him, forehead pressed into the dirt. “Whatever you do, do not look up. Do you understand me?”

“About the only thing I do understand,” Dean hisses back. “Cas, why can I see them?”

“That might be a question you don’t want answered,” Castiel says.

The rush of the wind and sand around them halts just as soon as it appeared, replaced with an eerie silence that leaves Dean’s ears ringing with nothing to fill the void. Sun lights the sky once again, and with it, boots crunch through the desert, kicking rocks and tumbleweeds. A shiver runs down Dean’s spine, centering in his gut, which lurches when the noise stops and a hand touches his hair. Nails dig into his scalp; Dean never opens his eyes.

“Castiel,” Nathanael—Dean assumes—says, her voice melodic yet accusatory. Yanking Dean up by the hair, she turns his face toward her, her hand over his mouth, nearly plugging his nose. He keeps his eyes closed. “They didn’t tell me you were with a human. This human, in particular.”

“You should know where my allegiance lies,” Castiel says. “Raphael made the reason for my banishment clear.”

“But he didn’t tell us why.” To Dean’s relief, Nathanael lets him go—but drops him in the process, his body ragdolling into the dirt. Face turned away, Dean listens, eyes pinched shut. “This human bears your mark, your Grace, Castiel. You have imbued him with your essence, I can see it in his soul. You’ve committed the greatest sin—”

“People keep telling me that,” Castiel says with a grunt. Fabric scrapes across rocks; Dean bites his fist. Don’t fight back, don’t fight back—“God wanted us to love his creations.”

“Figuratively, Castiel,” Nathanael hisses. “You were to admire them from afar, not to mingle with them. And look what you’ve done, you… tainted the poor boy.”

Not tainted, Dean thinks—Nathanael kicks him in the back for his troubles.

“Don’t,” Castiel growls. “You have no right to hurt him—”

“But I do.” After that, all Dean hears is gasping, pleading. His every nerve fights to get up and throw the first punch, but fear keeps him rooted, stomach in his throat. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you here. You should see the state of Heaven now, what hell you wrought in your campaign—”

“I did no such thing, and you know it.” Castiel’s boots scrape against the sand. “You saw the warpath Raphael led, and you let him.” A laugh. “A seraphim allowing an archangel to lay waste to their home. Which one of us is more at fault?”

Nathanael slaps Castiel, hard enough that Dean hears something crack, followed by the bones realigning. “You know nothing of the seraphim,” she hisses. “You had your chance to become one of us. If you had completed your mission, God would’ve granted you with eternal glory, but you gave it up for this… cretin. You’re ephemeral, Castiel, as are we all, and this is what you squandered your chance for?”

It takes Castiel a minute, but his words break Dean’s heart either way. “Yes,” he sighs. “After all, you did the same.”

Wait.

“My human left me,” Nathanael says, harsher now, broaching that intimate space Dean knows from too many late night conversations. “My human succumbed to her fate, and I was punished for my insolence. Her heaven mentions nothing of me, not even a portrait on her mantle. And all I have to remember her by is this.” Something jangles—a necklace, maybe; she shoves it in Castiel’s direction and increases the pressure to his throat, Castiel’s breaths a gasp. “Why should I let you fare any different?”

“Because you’re scared of seeing someone else hurt,” Dean says. Rolling over, he can’t help but flick his eyes open, only to witness the most horrifyingly beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Eight eyes glare down at Castiel, each one a different color and vibrant against her brown skin. Black hair curls its way down her back, reaching the bottom of her stark white suit jacket. Six wings flare out from between her shoulders, both every color and none all at once—and he can see them, every inch of them, and Castiel’s as well, black feathers dirtied brown. Blood drips from his nose and the corner of his mouth, and a vein pulses in his forehead.

Castiel shoots him a look of abject horror. The same can’t be said for Nathanael, every one of her eyes narrowed in scrutiny as she lowers Castiel to the ground, her attention rerouted, fixated—on Dean. “Why do you think you get the right—”

“Because you loved her.” Sitting up, Dean keeps his head bowed, not quite meeting Nathanael’s gaze. “And losing her hurt you, so what do you think it’s gonna do to him, to me?”

“You really think I care?” Nathanael squats before him, taking his chin in her hand. Looking at her now, Dean can barely focus, caught between her eyes and Castiel just lying there, a broken bracelet in his hand. “Do you really think I care anymore? My human—”

“Say her name,” Dean demands. “She had a name. We’re not all just faceless monsters down here, we have families, friends. We have people who love us, and who’d never forgive someone if they took us away from them. Her family remembers her, and you.”

Nathanael’s jaw tightens, and Dean recoils, yet the blow doesn’t land. Instead, Castiel grabs her by her wrist, placing the bracelet back into her fist. “If you want to end the war, take my Grace,” Castiel says, solemn. Dean swallows, throat clicking. “Destroy it, hide it… Just end this. All it’s ever done is cause the world pain.”

Eyes wide, Nathanael blinks. “If I take your Grace, all he’ll be left with is a corpse.”

“I have a soul,” Castiel says—and Dean prays it isn’t a lie. “You were planning to kill me anyway. What difference does it make?”

Nathanael doesn’t answer. Her wings sag, no longer jagged lines poised to strike, and her face softens, four of her eyes disappearing. “Caroline,” she says, turning back to Dean. A blade drops from her sleeve—Dean can’t look. “I’ll spare you having to watch.”

In hindsight, Dean will hate the fact that Castiel didn’t fight Nathanael; in hindsight, Dean will be thankful that he didn’t have to watch her slit Castiel’s throat. In the moment, he runs to Castiel’s side as he collapses, white spilling from his throat. Desperately, Castiel clings to his shoulders, and Dean drags him into his arms, whispering, “Look at me, look at me, Cas—”

Grace flows like the wind, Dean thinks. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Nathanael catch it in a cobalt vial, the inside glowing bright blue when she plugs it with a cork, sealing off the contents. “I could take this with me,” she says above Castiel’s gasps. Only then does Dean see the reddened mark just above his windpipe, blood spilling freely from the wound. No, not here.

“Fix him,” Dean begs, inexplicably hoarse. Tears wet his cheeks, ignored. They made a promise. This can’t be the end. “You did this, you fix him!”

“Should I?” Kneeling, Nathanael cocks her head at Castiel, now down to two green eyes. “What would you do if I just let him die?”

Kill myself, is Dean’s first thought. I can’t live without him like this. “I need him,” he says instead, fingers in Castiel’s sweat-soaked hair. “Just—Please. I—I love him—”

“Caroline never confessed to me,” Nathanael says, mournful. With her thumb, she covers the gash to Castiel’s throat, a bright flash of orange coursing through her fingers and spilling into his skin, leaving him unblemished and… remarkably whole.

“Dean,” Castiel says, soft at first, then louder, disbelieving. “Dean—”

God, he could hurl. “I got you,” Dean rasps, breaking into a sob. Castiel’s embrace feels like salvation, like renewal, all at once. “I got you—”

“Touching,” Nathanael says, uninterested. “I’ve decided to take Castiel up on his suggestion, but I won’t destroy him. Not completely. That, I’m afraid, is up to him.” With that, she hands over the vial to Dean’s waiting hand, the glass cold against overheated skin. “I’ll tell Raphael that Castiel is dead, and his Grace was destroyed in the process. What you do with that,” she says, motioning to the vial, “is your decision.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, swallowing. Human—He’s human. “Natha—”

A massive dust cloud kicks up with Nathanael’s departure. All at once, the pressure previously weighing down Dean’s shoulders dissipates, leaving behind a cloudy sky and a car swerving around the Impala, blowing its horn the entire way. For the first time in what feels like hours, Dean sucks in a breath, shaking when he exhales. Castiel sits between his legs, a hand over his heart, and promptly dry heaves into the dirt. “Hey, easy there,” Dean half-laughs, stroking down Castiel’s neck. “Not on my leg, c’mon.”

“I have a soul,” Castiel says when he comes up for air, gasping for air like a drowning man. “I’m not—I could’ve done that myself.”

“What’s life without a little piss-your-pants terror?” Drying his eyes, Dean hands Castiel the vial and watches him roll it in his hand. “You got what you wanted, and you’re not… We’re not dead. So what now?”

Castiel mulls it over, slumping into Dean. “Sleeping,” he decides. “I’d like to sleep first.”

Sleep—Sleep, Dean can deal with. “C’mon, up then. Next town with a motel, we’re stopping.”

-+-+-+-

Reno, Nevada

The fingers absently raking through his hair wake Castiel more than their downstairs neighbors fighting in the parking lot. Slowly, lethargically, his eyes adjust to the dark and the occasional flicker of the television set, and the neon glowing through sheer curtains, city lights twinkling in the not-too-far distance. All at once, the electric glow of the television shuts off, and a body crawls into bed behind him, an arm draped around his stomach. Lips press to his neck—and Castiel cries, chest shuddering.

“It’s okay,” Dean soothes, tugging him closer. “Shh, you’re okay.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Castiel says, choking on his own words. “What was I thinking? I don’t—I can’t do this, Dean. I didn’t think—”

Again, Dean shushes him, peppering kisses along his bare nape. When did he take his shirt off? “We’ll talk about it in the morning. You need to sleep.”

“I don’t want to.” Petulantly, Castiel punches his pillow. “Is it too early for coffee?”

“Too late,” Dean snorts. “It’s one in the morning. You’ve been out since we got in the car.”

So that explained why every muscle in his body felt like lead weights. “Why are you awake?” he asks, turning his head enough to look at Dean with one eye.

“Fell asleep in the tub,” Dean admits, amused by it all. “Not a fan of cold water. Hogging all the blankets, man.”

The blankets—the blankets are what Dean cares about, and not the fact that in his coat pocket, Castiel’s Grace sits. Everything he always thought he needed, but now, something he no longer wants. A tear pools in the corner of Castiel’s eye, and he sighs, adjusting the pillow under his head. Dean sneaks his other arm beneath it, propping up Castiel’s head. Castiel rests his own alongside Dean’s, and revels in Dean’s hand covering his wrist and the warmth he provides. “I’m sorry,” Castiel sighs. “I’m sorry I put you through that.”

“Dude, just hush.” Dean pats his stomach before pressing his lips to Castiel’s shoulder. “Told you. Morning, waffles, talk. Go to sleep.”

If he weren’t so miserable, Castiel would laugh. “Goodnight, Dean,” he says, eyelids slipping shut.

Dean hums and holds Castiel tighter. “Night, Cas.”

-+-

The next time Castiel stirs, it’s to the motel door closing and the smell of sausage and pancakes wafting in. Sunlight pours through the window directly into his eyes, and pitifully, his stomach growls, loud enough to make Dean laugh. “You should’ve said something last night,” Dean grins, kicking his shoes off by the door. “What’s your hankering?”

“Coffee,” Castiel rumbles, flopping back onto the pillow. “I think I need to urinate.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the club.” Patting Castiel’s foot, Dean sits at the end of the bed and begins to pull a variety of paper wrappers out of a brown bag. “I got sausage biscuits, McMuffins, pancakes, oatmeal, whatever you want. Figure you can start going through menus for things you actually like.”

“I like everything I’ve had,” Castiel counters through a yawn. “I like pancakes. And hash browns.”

Dean snorts and hands Castiel two hash browns. “Grease is good for you, y’know.”

“So I’ve been told,” Castiel replies, barely—just barely—smiling back.

Together, they eat in companionable silence while the local news plays through occasional static. Castiel interchanges sips of coffee with orange juice and decides on the latter, purely for the taste. He makes it through the order of pancakes and half of a chicken biscuit before he cuts himself off. Any more, and he might not make the trip to Oregon. “When you came back,” Castiel begins, screwing the cap back onto the juice, “when I raised you, rather, how long did it take before you felt… normal again?”

At that, Dean looks up to the ceiling, chewing with fervor. “A week or two. Stomach felt like a rock every time I ate something. Just gotta take it slow for a while, no forty dollar steaks in one sitting.”

“That seems like an impractical use of money,” Castiel considers, to Dean’s amusement. He climbs off the bed in a mess of limbs, gathering up empty wrappers to throw away. “I need to shower,” he says, uncaring of Dean’s eyes on him, no doubt fixated on his bare back. “Are you coming?”

Dean sputters, visibly flushing in the sunlight. “I’ll—give you a few minutes.” Vaguely, he waves toward the bathroom. “May be interested in a lot of things, but watching you piss isn’t one of them.”

Fair enough. Before he makes it to the bathroom, Dean chucks a pair of jeans and a t-shirt at him, both of them smelling nothing like the woodsy scent of Dean Castiel has come to know. “We’ll go shopping once we pick up Sam,” Dean adds. “Got you those last night, figured we don’t need to get you arrested for public indecency.”

“We should’ve put more thought into this,” Castiel says before shutting the door behind him.

Bathed in fluorescent light, he leans against the wood and simply stands there, eyes closed, breathing. Just me, he thinks, palming his eyes. Electricity no longer pulses through his veins, and his wings don’t shift and shudder in the breeze. No, all he can sense is his own existence, carefully confined within his body, and his pulse, beating slowly, rhythmically in his chest.

For the first time in his incredibly long and arduous life, Castiel feels.

The water runs warm while Castiel goes about setting a routine, washing his hands after with pomegranate-scented soap. Cheap, but he likes the scent. He understands now, why Dean takes the toiletries at every motel they visit.

Once in the shower, Castiel pulls the curtain, hopefully loud enough for Dean to hear. Unmuted by his Grace, Castiel stands in place, face tilted up into the spray; water warms him down to his bones, running down his chest, off the tips of his fingers. “Hey, don’t use all the hot water,” Dean says at his back, pulling the curtain back enough to slide in. “Started to think you drowned in here.”

“The statistical likelihood of me drowning in a quarter of an inch of water is relatively slim,” Castiel says. Wiping the water from his eyes, he faces Dean, and Dean immediately draws him in, hands to Castiel’s hips. He’s steady, grounding—Castiel can’t help but kiss him then, his smile breaking free. “This is nice,” he sighs, chasing another kiss.

“Look like you’re feeling better,” Dean murmurs. Gentle hands smooth down Castiel’s spine, resting over the small of his back, massaging small circles through the water. “Pretty freaked out last night.”

Castiel barely remembers last night, save for Dean’s body pressed against his and the abject fear of losing it, losing him. Yesterday, he was an angel; today, Castiel is just a man, in the arms of another, the one he loves, with water beating down on his skin and humidity cloying the air. All of it peaks so suddenly, so abruptly, and Castiel rides the adrenaline, clawing at Dean in an attempt to drag him closer and drown out the present. “Have I made a mistake?” he asks, his mouth falling open. None too gently, Dean sucks a mark to his neck—a claim. “Everything I’ve done, was it for the right reasons? Was this just?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” Dean says. He pulls Castiel into another kiss, softer than Castiel’s and more exploratory; Castiel crowds him against the wall, every inch of skin pressed flush. “Cas,” Dean huffs. For his trouble, he grabs Castiel’s ass and guides them even closer, twin erections slotted together. “Trying to talk some sense into you here.”

“I have sense,” Castiel hums, kissing up Dean’s jaw, concentrating on a particularly sensitive spot beneath his ear. “I’m trying to avoid an existential crisis.”

“Hell of a way to do it,” Dean laughs. “Look, what happened to you, you said it yourself, that you’d rather stay down here and fight for what you believe in, than sticking to orders for the rest of eternity. And if you wanted to change that, we still have your Grace.”

But Castiel doesn’t want it. The longer he thinks on it, the more it feels foreign to him, like it was never his in the first place. Something he had known for so long, only to have it ripped away from him. In a perverse way, it felt like nothing other than a weight on his shoulders. The burden of immortality, of holding the world in his grasp, only to see it diminish within a blink. He envies it, his new expiration date, learning how to be his own person. He will no longer be held back by his siblings, or by God himself.

For the first time, Castiel is free.

“I want to bury it,” Castiel says, pointedly watching Dean sink to his knees in the shower, lips already at work. “In the desert, where no one can find it.”

“We can do that,” Dean says. A hand to Castiel’s shaft, Dean mouths at the head, easing him into it; Castiel tugs his hair, a moan caught in his throat. “Got any preferences? Utah, Colorado, Arizona?”

“Some—where.” Castiel’s hips stutter, near-choking Dean when he sucks him down; he pulls out enough to let Dean breathe, and Dean thanks him with a moan, his attention focused on palming Castiel’s ass, the backs of his thighs. Like velvet—Castiel wants more. “Grace plants roots. It can create entire—cities if it wanted to,” he pants. Sparing a glance down, his gut swoops at the sight of Dean’s lips wrapped around him, green eyes watching ever so closely. And all Castiel can do is moan and hold on tighter, heart in his throat. “It could be an oasis—a home to—Dean—”

“C’mon,” Dean urges. He tugs Castiel’s balls with one hand, chasing them as they rise, and Castiel fights the urge to just take; Dean would probably let him, but probably some other time, when Castiel isn’t as raw and hypersensitive. They have time now, all the time in the world. “C’mon, didn’t get to return the favor.”

“I would’ve let you,” Castiel says, caught in a moan.

He wants to move, wants to get Dean closer and to shove him away all at once. The fire climbs higher, and Dean just increases the pressure, tightening his fist and stroking, laving Castiel with his tongue—and Castiel comes like that, Dean’s hair between his fingers, face to the ceiling while he paints Dean’s face, his orgasm simultaneously constricting and culminating in the height of all emotion, all senses.

Tears streak his face when he finishes, obscured by the shower spray; white streaks Dean’s face, pooled into the corner of his nose and across his lips, and Castiel can’t help but lick it from his skin, sharing it with a kiss. Plush lips tease his own, curling into that grin Castiel knows so well. A grin he’ll never forget. “Normally I’m the one who cries during sex.”

Castiel laughs, sudden and jarring; tears spring to his eyes anyway, and Dean wipes them away, arms around Castiel’s neck. Around them, the water begins to cool. “I’ll get used to this,” he assures, shivering. “Maybe. I have time now.”

“Damn right you do,” Dean says. “Just wait ‘til we fuck. Get you good and deep in me, trust me, that’s even better.”

And wholeheartedly, Castiel can’t wait.

-+-+-+-

Klamath Falls, Oregon

Warm winds greet Dean the minute he exits the Impala; the sun beats down onto his face, but for once, he can’t bring himself to care, not when after almost a week of traveling, they’ve finally arrived at Sky Lakes Medical Center. Castiel exits from the passenger side, shrugging off his coat as he goes and placing it in the back seat. “I can’t wear it like this,” he complains, to Dean’s amusement, shaking his arms out. “I never considered temperature changes before.”

“Gotta just roll with it,” Dean snorts. Slamming the door shut, he walks around the back and waits for Castiel to stop fanning himself. “Do I need to buy you a fan?”

“Possibly,” Castiel says. Dean just laughs harder, hands on his knees.

Sam is located somewhere on the fourth floor, according to the nurse at the front desk. Thankfully, Dean has Castiel there to act as his ears and his brain, because the moment Tracy mentions Sam’s distant location, Dean bolts for the elevators, leaving Castiel to learn any other pertinent information like where he’s supposed to be going. Castiel meets him just before the doors close, sucking in air like he just sprinted. For all Dean knows, he probably did.

“Maybe it’s time to start hitting the gym,” Dean joshes, to Castiel’s eye roll. “Already letting yourself go?”

“I understand your haste, but I highly doubt Sam is going anywhere,” Castiel grouses. Pressing the button for the fourth floor, Dean waits for the doors to open again with his hands behind his back, while Castiel watches their reflections on the ceiling. “You have gray hairs in the middle of your scalp.”

What. “Dude.” Dean shoots him a glare, instinctively covering his head. “You don’t just—See, you got ‘em too, here.” He points to the gray hairs sprouting across Castiel’s temple, and—Castiel is aging. A day old in this body, and Castiel is already going gray. What will tomorrow be like, and the next day?

Shit, one day, if they make it, they’ll all be old and ornery together. How did this happen?

“I still feel like I should be able to heal him,” Castiel says over the elevator doors opening. He steps outside, and Dean follows, a pit in his stomach. Sam. He’s actually going to see Sam, for the first time in a year. “After everything, I could at least ease his physical suffering but… Now, I can’t even imagine what he’s endured, how he must feel.”

“It’s Sam,” Dean says. “He’s strong, stronger than I am, but he’s still…” He pauses in the middle of the hall, wringing his hands together; Castiel stops and turns, the sadness in his eyes all too telling. “He never should’ve had to go through that, Cas. We could’ve found another way to lock Lucifer up, or we could’ve just—”

“Dean.” Warmly, Castiel takes Dean’s hands into his own, curling his fingers into his palms. “What’s done is done. Right now, you need to focus on the future, and where you’re headed next. Dwelling on the past won’t fix him.”

“Wish it could,” he says, bowing his head. If only Dean could change the past—but now, with Castiel’s hands in his, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to bring himself to do so, given the chance. “What if it’s too hard? I… I did this to him. If I would’ve said yes—”

“Dean, no—”

“—then he could’ve… He wouldn’t be here.”

“And you’d take his place?” Castiel steps closer, eyes narrowed; Dean can’t help but look away, even when Castiel nudges his chin toward him with a single finger. “What has happened here is a miracle. For all of your suffering, both yours and Sam’s, you’ve come out the victors. Michael and Lucifer are banished for eternity, and you and Sam are alive. You stopped the apocalypse. Would you want to be anywhere else?”

No, Dean wants to say. But guilt still bears down on him, the guilt of knowing that because of his selfishness and indecision, Sam was subjected to a year of torment in the first place. It should’ve been him; he already endured Hell once, and he’d do it again, if it meant having to spare someone else, especially Sam, the agony of what he went through.

“Stop thinking,” Castiel says, clear as day. Dean sucks in a breath and sighs through his nose; Castiel’s fall hasn’t escaped him either, and somehow, he’ll manage to shoulder the blame, like always. “Dean.”

“I’m trying.” Shaking his head, Dean pulls his hand free. “Trust me, I’m—I’m freaking out, man. It just hit me, that he’s over there, and I don't even know where—”

“Room sixteen,” Castiel says. “Stop thinking and come with me.”

Dean can’t help it. He follows.

Castiel knocks rather than barge in, the complete opposite of what Dean wants to do in the moment. The sight of Sam—his first real flesh-and-blood look at him—nearly brings Dean to his knees in the doorway: a light scattering of fuzz grows in the place of where long hair once rested, and a scar decorates both his face and his scalp, stitches removed sometime within the last few hours. He desperately needs a shave, and maybe more, a decent shower and food that didn’t come out of a cafeteria. Seeing him like this, bruised and battered but still breathing, still living, finally does Dean in.

“Sam,” Castiel says, winded, catching Sam’s attention.

Sam bolts upright, his attempt at tying his shoe abandoned in favor of staring at the two of them wordlessly, tears in his eyes—and all Dean can do is run to him, throwing Sam into his arms, Sam returning the embrace with all of the strength he can manage. “Dean,” he grunts, sucking in air through his teeth. “Dean—”

“I know,” Dean laughs, nearing a sob. “I know, I’m here. We’re here.”

For a long while—seconds feel like hours now—Dean stands there, petting through what remains of Sam’s hair and tracing over the scar. Castiel joins them, and hugs Sam once Dean lets go, allowing Sam to bury his wet face into his shirt. “You’re human,” Sam says, muffled. “Can actually feel your heart beating.”

“It’s a long story,” Castiel says, simple. Like he wasn't branded a traitor and his Grace ripped out by his sister, like he didn't resurrect Dean a second time with just his presence. “Probably not as long as yours, though.”

“Wish I could tell you.” Pulling free, Sam wipes his face dry with his shirt collar. Thankfully, Dean kept most of Sam’s wardrobe in the spare compartment of the trunk. Castiel’s going to need to scour the racks at Walmart later, but God, they have the time for it, they have the time. “Trust me, I… I haven’t tried to remember, and even if I wanted to, I can’t. Think it’s better off this way, anyway.”

Dean nods, his sigh shuddering. “I’ll take that. For once, I’m not asking questions.”

“Thank God,” Sam says with a laugh.

Castiel joins in, only belatedly drying his eyes, and Dean’s heart hurts for an entirely different reason. Automatically, he draws his arm around Castiel’s shoulder and hides a kiss in his hair—before remembering just why they’re there, and that Sam is watching their every move, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “How long was I gone?” he asks, dumbfounded.

This time, Dean doesn't even heckle him.

“A year,” Castiel says instead. “Almost to the day.”

Sam nods before leaning down to finish tying his shoe, these well-worn with the sole threatening to tear free. A resident’s, probably, or something from the lost and found. “Just… surreal,” he says. Sitting up, he moves to stand, seeking Dean and Castiel’s arms as he goes. “One minute, I’m watching Castiel die, and I’m looking at you, and the next… I’m staring at the moon, with a few dozen people trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. I know I should be happy, but I’m… I don’t know what to feel.”

“It could be survivor’s guilt,” Castiel suggests. “Or shock. It’s been… a very long week, Sam.”

“Yeah.” Another nod. Sam sets foot on the tile floor, sturdier than Dean thought he would be. Sammy’s alive. Sammy’s standing. “I just wanna get out of here. Before the chaplain comes back and tries to read me my last rites again.”

“Oh God,” Dean groans. He holds onto Sam’s arm and lets him steady himself, until he no longer wobbles when he walks, his legs supporting his own weight. “You sure you’re good to go?”

Sam laughs, rougher than Dean remembered, but a laugh nonetheless. A sound he never thought he’d hear again, now back in full force, like music to his ears. “Never been better.”

-+-+-+-

Rather than a truck downshifting or a thunderstorm looming off in the distance, the sound of the television wakes Dean instead, the channel barely audible from beneath the covers. Shifting a bit, Dean tucks his pillow further underneath his head and closes his eyes, his attention focused elsewhere. Being, the arm draped around his stomach, fingers stroking soft circles just above the waistband of his briefs.

Castiel, he thinks, blinking. He muffles a yawn and settles into the mattress, covering Castiel’s hand with his own.

The closest city they could find to Klamath Falls was Medford, about an hour to their west and situated squarely on Interstate 5. Admittedly, they could’ve driven farther, but Sam just spent the better part of two weeks bedridden, and the Impala has never been the pinnacle of comfort. Besides, they have nowhere in particular to go. For the first time in their lives, the road is open, no destination in sight.

They’re free.

“You awake yet?” Sam asks from the other bed, raspy. The minute Castiel’s hand falls lax, Dean tugs the blankets down and squints at the new light. Sam offers a smile and turns back to the television, leaning against the headboard. “It’s almost eight.”

“Figured,” Dean says. Palming his face, he crawls out of Castiel’s limp hold and sits up. What he needs is another six hours of sleep, maybe a full day; if they can afford to stay another night, Dean has no clue. “How’re you feeling?”

Sam shrugs, smothering a yawn behind his hand. “Better. Think it’ll be a while, but I’m… I’m fine, I think. Really, really great.”

“Good.” Dean nods. Under the blankets, Castiel reaches out and clings to Dean’s hip, probably still asleep. Sitting here still feels so surreal, having Sam back by his side, and Castiel in his bed. “Feel like I’m dreaming.”

“God, I hope not,” Sam chuckles. His smile falls, though, eyes slipping closed. “What if I start remembering? Whatever happened, I don’t… I don’t want to remember. But what—”

“Then we’ll handle it.” Dean shoots him the most determined face he can muster without coffee in his veins. Another ten minutes maybe, and then he’ll wrench out of Castiel’s hold. “We’ll figure something out, like we always do. Even if we means we all have to go to therapy.”

Sam snorts, sounding just on the verge of painful. “Between all three of us? That’s gonna cost a fortune.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dean laughs. Unpacking all of their baggage would take years, just to start. Unwrapping whatever happened to Sam in hell? That’s a topic none of them are in any way prepared to tackle. “Look, we’ll… We’re gonna get through this, okay? Whatever happens, we got each other, like we always have. We just gotta stick together this time.”

Nodding, Sam stretches his arms above his head, holding back a groan. “You and Cas, though, you’re… Are you good?”

That’s the question. A month ago, and Dean was half-dead in an abandoned hostel, buried under the weight of guilt and remorse. A month ago, he didn’t think he’d be here, alive and healthy, with his family together. And Castiel… Castiel, he never expected, not even in the slightest. “I’m good,” he says and looks over to the top of Castiel’s head, hair poking out from beneath the sheets. Stroking through the strands, he hears Castiel sigh and curl in closer, his grip tightening around Dean’s waist. “We’re good.”

We’re in love, he could say. We’ve been in love all along. That explanation is another few days away, maybe even weeks. But they’ll have that discussion—right now, they have each other in this motel in Oregon, and nothing else.

“I’m glad,” Sam says, ducking his head. “I’m really happy, Dean. I mean it. I’m… I’m glad we’re here.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. Beneath the sheets, Castiel creeps closer, and Dean clasps their hands, fingers laced together. This moment, above all others, he’ll cling to, he’ll remember for the rest of his days. The day he started over—The day their lives began anew. “Me too.”

-+-+-+-

They bury Castiel’s Grace two weeks later, after Sam has regained his strength and Dean has started sleeping more than three hours a night, all with Castiel in his arms.

Among the multitude of trails in Canyonlands National Park, Castiel leads them off the path and into the desert, the cobalt blue vial cold in his hand. His essence swirls in his presence, insistent on breaking free.

Scrubs sprout from sedimentary formations, green foliage juxtaposed against red and tan rock, going on for miles. Spires jut up across the landscape, occasionally obscuring the horizon, but often providing perspective to the land around them, especially when they venture close enough to touch.

Dean and Sam might as well be children here, walking among giants, the ground below their feet so much older than their entire lineage. Distantly, Castiel remembers watching uplift form the land around them, the earth splitting and eroding, creating itself anew. Now, the sun bakes down on his back, and sweat beads along his nape; such a human feeling, sweltering in the heat and drinking whatever water he has left in bottle, until Dean passes him another one from his backpack.

About an hour and a half into their hike, Castiel finally calls for them to stop. “Fantastic,” Dean shouts with enthusiasm, dropping his bag and stripping off his shirt. Not that it does him much good in this heat, but Castiel emphasizes. “Sammy, you got the shovel?”

“Been carrying this thing for miles,” Sam shoots back. He passes Castiel the shovel while Dean tosses Sam a water bottle, and together, they watch as Castiel sinks the bladed tip into the earth, and begins to dig.

It doesn’t have to be that far underground, from what Castiel understands; just enough to protect it from the elements and from any passersby that might find it. Still, he goes as far as he can, a few feet at least, before he digs the vial from his pocket. Inside, his Grace vibrates, just as it always has, and for a split second, Castiel considers swallowing it. He very well could—he has every right to, just to feel that power flowing through his veins once again, the very world pliable in his hand.

He could—but Castiel keeps the vial sealed instead, and places it deep in the hole, never to be found. Dean and Sam help push the dirt back inside and pat it down. Sam brushes off the remnants afterward, leaving what looks like undisturbed earth behind. In a few days’ time, his Grace will begin to flourish, and trees will sprout forth, an anachronism against a barren, untouched landscape. Wary travelers will flock to its springs and will remark about the healing effects of its waters, and will sit in the shade of a willow, protecting them from the elements.

In the decades to come, it will welcome hundreds of visitors—and hopefully, given the chance, Castiel will return with Dean and Sam at his side, and this will be their oasis, a temporary reprieve from the world. A sanctuary when they desperately need it, and a place of beauty and peace even when they don’t.

This will become their home—and Castiel can’t wait.

 

Won't you set out
a traveler's lantern,
just a small light
that they might see.
To guide them back home
before they wander
into the dark billows
that crash on the sea.

Notes:

Wahoo, it's done! I think this is the first time I've barely made the bare minimum, but I digress. I REALLY love this story and I'm so excited to share it with everybody! My biggest thanks to Ana and Bexy for cheerleading and Bexy for betaing, and to my wonderful WONDERFUL artist Heart-EyesCastiel for the spectacular art, which you can see here and here! You've all been wondering to work with and have around!

I'm not sure if I'll continue with the DCBB next year with the show ending and all, but we'll see what happens come next April. If not, then this has been a wonderful last five years of participating! I hope y'all enjoy!

Title and lyrics are from the Dwight Yoakam song.

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