Work Text:
Dean opens the living room door like a kid on Christmas Day. Smile wide as a cross country road. Giddy from head to toe. Freshly showered, smelling like honey scented soap.
Jack and Sam look up from their chairs.
“Are you in a hurry to get possessed?” Sam asks.
“No,” Dean lies.
It’s not that he’s in any hurry. He’s just — done waiting, is all. Yeah — Dean’s 100% done looking for ways to get Cas back, ever since, you know. Cas got taken. Self-sacrificing for the Winchester brothers again.
Dumbass.
Now, Dean is ready to receive him like the Holy Ghost or something.
See, Jack has found a way to bring Cas back. Not without consequences, of course. They’ve never been that lucky. True to form, it comes with a (trueform) price.
In short, Jack needs to store Cas in a neat little vessel until he can get his old human body back. (Little? More like above average, at least.)
Of course Dean said yes to being Cas’ vessel while Jack rebuilds the old Novak-mobile. Without hesitation — no doubt in Dean’s mind. It’s what you do for your buddy.
Of course Dean will let him in. No question!
Not to mention that Jack is a God who’s hard to refuse, too. The kid’s got Sam’s patented puppy eyes down.
Not fair. Dean never stood a chance.
“Let’s get this circus on the road. I’m ready,” Dean says, opening his arms.
The vessel’s prepped, every little nook cleaned, scrubbed, crevices cleared. Dean turns to the puppy-eyed God and tilts his palms skyward.
Wait. Skyward?
Or is it supposed to be more like, downwards? Sideways?
The Empty needs proper coordinates to turn to, the way muslims pray toward Mecca.
Dean closes his eyes. It’s time.
Time to say yes to the Cas.
“Sayonara, Sam,” he mutters. “Cas is gonna be pulling the strings on this puppet for a while.”
“Wait. Do we need to go over the risks again first?” Sam asks.
Dean lifts one eyelid slowly, like a heavy garage door.
Why is Sam holding them up? They already went through this.
“I mean, think about it, Jack,” Sam says. “You can’t just ask Dean to hold an angel for a second . Like Cas is some sort of toddler you gotta change a diaper for. We’re talking about angelic possession here. Who says Dean’s body won’t explode just from the pressure?”
“Cas should have access to the vessel without any — explosions,” Jack says, and Dean skilfully ignores how nervous the kid sounds. “When Cas rescued Dean from hell, he left a mark on his soul, connecting them forever.”
Dean frowns. Connecting them? Like what, wifi?
“He laid an angelic claim, kind of,” Jack adds.
“Are you saying he called angel dibs on Dean?” Sam asks.
Dean shoots his brother a murderous look. “Shut your trap, jerk.”
“A holy tramp stamp,” Sam muses, flashing his shittiest-eating grin.
If looks could kill, Dean would’ve been ready for prison. “Friggin’ can it.”
Sam thoughtfully wipes a strand of hair from his face. “So actually, I could do it too, then? Be a vessel. Since Cas saved me from hell, too.”
“No!” Dean says. Maybe a little too quickly. But only because he’s just a fast thinker. “He didn’t even touch your soul, Sammy, he left it in the station like a shabby piece of lost luggage, remember?”
It’s not like Dean’s not appreciative of Sam offering to do this! But there’s something about Dean being the one to make this sacrifice that just feels right. But, uh, he can’t look at that too closely.
Act now, ask questions later.
Also, what if Cas gets dropped in Sam’s body and wants to talk to Dean, um, about that thing he said before the Empty took him? That would be super weird. Not that it meant anything to feel weird about or anything. Dean knows angels don’t feel things that way. But Sam might be weirded out if he heard Cas say stuff like that.
Yup, this is all about making sure everyone, including Sam, is comfortable with the entire arrangement.
Dean drops his arms impatiently. “It’s gotta be me. Profound bond and all that crap. It’s fine, Sam. I don’t mind giving him the wheel to save his life. I’ll be his Impala for a while.”
“His Baby, huh,” Sam says, and Dean thinks his brother is pretty lucky Dean’s unarmed right now. Since he’s fresh out of the shower and dressed in newly washed, warm pajamas, which don’t include pockets for a gun.
Because — Cas is prob’ly gonna be tired, is all. So of course Dean made his body nap-ready.
“Shut it, Sam,” he says instead of ripping his brother a new one.
His mind flashes back to his last moments with Cas. The I lo … the I lov … No, surely Cas meant that in a family type of way. Like you love your brother, and your car, or a really good pie. Because of the, um, sugar high.
And even if Cas was gay for real. Not that he is. But. Cas can be who he wants. And Dean’s even letting him enter him. How’s that for LGBTQ acceptance, huh.
He turns to Jack. “Do the thing, Jack. I don’t want him any longer in that oily ocean than necessary. Go on and venom me.”
Truth is, Dean’s body is already a house. Haunted by the ghost of Cas.
Jack stands up and walks up to Dean.
“Don’t be afraid,” Jack says.
A warm glow emanates from Jack’s whole body. When he presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead, Dean closes his eyes.
He isn’t exactly afraid. But his stomach feels like it’s being pressed in a waffle maker.
“Jesus take the wheel,” he jokes breathlessly. Voice barely shaking!
Then, he feels his whole body flood with, somehow, a liquified light. It’s sliding into him and spreading all over his body from the inside out, filling every last little corner. It’s warm. Comfortable.
Familiar.
And, Dean is relieved to find, very different than his experiences with Michael.
It’s not locking him up, exactly. It’s like being stuck in a room with all the doors and windows open. It’s bright and spacious. Like being inside the shell of a hug.
Dean’s body has fallen to its knees, from the sheer force of life, flat palms leaning on the floor. His vision’s blurry, as if his eyes are adjusting to light after eons of darkness.
“Oof,” he hears his own mouth say.
Whoa. Dean can feel his lips move, but he is not the one controlling them. He can hear Cas. In Dean’s voice. He is both Dean and Cas. They’re merged. DeanCas, his mind unhelpfully supplies.
Trippy as fuck.
Hello? Can you hear me right now? Dean thinks to, eh, the other entity inside him, or is it more like around him?
Cas. Cas who’s back. Cas. Cas!
He tries to beam his own thoughts to Cas. But if Cas can hear him, he shows no sign of it.
Instead, Cas lifts Dean’s chin and gets up shakily, like a drunk puppet master. As Dean’s eyesight restores, he can see Jack and Sam staring at him with open mouths and questions written all over their faces.
“Cas?” Jack asks hesitantly. But it sounds like dad. Dean can feel that in his very soul.
Cas lunges Dean’s body forward and wraps Jack up in Dean’s arms. Cas’ arms, Dean acknowledges, since he’s merely looking on like a passenger, just along for this very strange ride. Those are the arms for Cas to use now as he pleases, as long as he needs them.
And boy, does he seem to need them. Dean can feel it in his whole body. Something weird is happening, hugging Jack. He can feel his muscles relaxing or something, warmth flowing through all of him like he’s one of those mugs where the picture changes on the front when it’s filled up with hot liquid.
When he — when Cas, that is — unpeels himself from Jack, Dean feels an immediate loss. Like a baby bird and a nest, separated.
Then Cas turns to Sam for another hug. Now, Dean has hugged his brother plenty of times before. But filled halfway up with angelic grace he feels so much more and so much more intensely — gratitude, family, home . A divine sort of love. Dean never knew hugs could feel this way.
Seriously, Cas, what the fuck. Is this really how angels feel?
Dean gets submerged in the hug again, and it’s the best he’s felt in a long time. Perhaps even since early childhood, cheek leaning on his mother’s shoulder when he was overcome with exhaustion.
Wow. That’s a memory that was tucked so far away it had to reach him through the muddiest of waters.
This is just. Happiness, undiluted. Unscarred by the world, somehow.
He only wishes he could be out there, too. Tell Cas, too, how happy he is to have him home.
Dean concentrates on the thought, tries to center it, then he explodes it toward every corner of his body.
Glad you’re back, Cas.
He spreads the message through every alleyway of bone and skin, can feel it ping the top of his skull and touch the tips of his toes.
He waits for the echo of it.
Crickets.
Prayers cannot be heard from inside the same body, apparently. A divine design flaw.
Hm. Speaking of. Maybe he should’ve pissed once more before flipping the CLOSED sign on his vessel to OPEN.
Cas pulls back from Sam, and Dean hears his own voice say: “Where’s Dean?”
What the fuck.
Sam’s eyes bulge.
“Errr….”
“What?” Cas asks.
Dude might wanna check a mirror.
“I know this is a lot,” Sam says. “And I just want to say, it was his idea…”
Something in Sam’s hesitant demeanour makes Cas look down, eyes quickly running over Dean’s body.
“ Oh.” Cas says, lifting his arms. His gaze lingers on his hands, he opens and closes them like a robot doing a test run. “I did think I sounded like I had a cold.”
Jack hums. “It’s gonna take me a little longer to rebuild Jimmy’s body, so we came up with a temporary solution.”
Cas frowns. “What do you mean, you’re going to rebuild it?”
“He’s kinda… God now?” Sam says.
Dean can feel the brick fall into his stomach as Cas digests that news. “W — what?”
Damn right, Dean agrees. The kid should be building Lego, not people. Sucks that he’s God now, on nothing but a three year resumé.
Sam and Jack sit Cas down and explain the past few months to him. Dean can feel Cas’ reactions bubble up and down his body like an emotional lava lamp. He feels his heart constrict when he learns how Jack became God. He feels a strange mixture of relief, sadness and righteousness when Cas hears what happened to Chuck. He feels a rush of warmth when Sam and Jack express how happy they are that he is back, even if it might take a few days to transfer him to the right body.
Then, he feels some hesitation before Cas speaks.
“And Dean… offered to do this?”
“Yes,” Sam confirms. “He was happy to do it, don’t worry.”
Cas casts his eyes downward. Electricity runs through his body, a shiver from the outside in.
“Did Dean… what did he say about the moment I died?”
If Dean still had control over his heart, it’d definitely falter a little. If his cheeks could heat up, well, he’d be in real trouble.
“Not much, Cas,” Sam says. “Just that you saved him.”
Cas fiddles with his hands. “I see.”
He smiles, but Dean can feel how it’s only muscles contracting, playing the part of a happy friend. The actual emotion behind it is — despite being in Dean’s own chest — unreadable.
“I think I shall retire to my room, if that’s okay with the two of you,” Cas says. “I’m … tired.”
——
Dean lets himself be carried around in his own carrier. Sees the bunker through new eyes, almost. Enjoys bouts of delight bubbling through his veins whenever his hand touches even something as insignificant as a door knob, as if it’s a miracle to simply feel.
Cas walks him to the bathroom mirror. Together, alone, for the first time. It’s Dean’s face, but somehow, undeniably, Cas’ essence staring back. Head tilted to the side. Thoughtful.
“Thank you, Dean,” the mirror image says with that patented sincerity.
Cas looks down and there’s a hand hesitantly going between toothbrushes. Eventually, he settles for Dean’s brush, not Cas’.
Huge relief. These are Dean’s good old teeth, after all. He’s not ready to share a brush.
Holy shit though, Cas’ version of dental hygiene apparently lasts forever. Cas takes his precious time for each tooth, rinses, flosses, the whole nine friggin’ yards.
Does Cas think Dean doesn’t brush his teeth enough? Dean wishes he had the power to roll those eyes.
Finally, Cas fixes his gaze in the mirror again. “Jack should be finished fixing my true vessel in a day or two,” he reassures the reflection. Then, thoughtfully, he adds: “So we don’t have a lot of time.”
Time for what?! Dean feels slightly unnerved. Why does that sound like a full-on threat?
But Cas doesn’t elaborate. He just wipes the bathroom sink — good, just like Dean would do — and heads for his old room.
There, Cas’ phone awaits him, fully charged. The sheets are fresh, because Dean changed them this morning, and there’s a small bottle of water on the nightstand. A stack of soft towels perches on his desk and there are a few new books lined up on the shelf. Dean suppresses his, er, suppressed grin, just looking at it. Short from little chocolates on the pillow, it’s a five star accommodation.
Dean feels Cas’ grace glow as he takes it all in. Fingertips trace the blanket. A deep sigh escapes him as he crawls under the covers.
Wait, the dude’s not actually gonna sleep yet, right? It’s barely 10 pm!
Cas opens his phone and navigates to his contacts.
What the hell? It’s zero names, only emojis.
Dean watches Cas scroll to 👶😻💪, whoever that is. Cas starts typing a message with that one-finger-at-a-time technique that Dean always teases him for.
- I’m back 🥰
- Holy shit!!! Is this real
- Yes. But I look a little different for now 😇🙃🤪
- ???
- Meet me at our usual spot tomorrow? 🧐
- Gotcha!
Usual spot? Dean wrecks his brain for any usual place that Cas would go off to. He liked to go on walks, a lot. But Dean can’t remember Cas mentioning any special type of place. What’s the guy been up to? And with whom?
Some sort of side-piece?
Cas puts the phone back down, and then closes his — well, Dean’s — eyes.
What the hell? The phone had said it was only ten thirty. That’s a grandpa’s time to go to sleep!
“Your body needs sleep,” Cas says out loud, as if he can sense Dean’s distress.
Right, but angels don’t. So what’s Cas even doing? Can’t they stay up and watch some Scooby Doo? Dean doesn’t feel tired!
He tries with all his might to flick against Cas. What about a cowboy movie, buddy? With a nice shared beer, like the good old times? He ain’t sleepy, dammit!
“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas mumbles into the air. Then, it’s like he switches off an internal light.
Rest crashes over Dean like an unstoppable tide.
——
An alarm is going off.
From somewhere deep inside, part of Dean’s consciousness is woken.
Grmblg.
Need. To. Turn. It. Off.
But oh shit! He can’t move his arm!
Slowly, realisation dawns on him — Cas has control of the arm like a seedy arms dealer.
Cas’ cell phone displays a cruel 7:30 am when he turns the alarm off. The hell? Dean hasn’t been up this early since he had to go to school as a kid. There is literally no reason for people to be awake at this time. Even more, it should be illegal.
However, Dean does feel strangely rested. It seems outsourcing the act of sleeping has improved the quality of it, as well.
Cas, Dean was surprised to find, does dream — at least he figures it’s Cas, since the dreams aren’t the nightmares Dean is used to. These dreams take him across the world from a bird’s eye view. Together they spent the night soaring silently across the sky, wind tickling their shared wings. Like a mirror universe where Dean was in charge of Cas’ body.
It was breathtaking.
He wasn’t even sure whose dream it was, to be honest.
Now, Cas is laying out comfortable jogging pants and a sweatshirt for him, as well as fresh socks and underwear. Then, he turns off the light and changes clothes in the dark.
Oh.
That’s kind, Dean reckons. Cas is finding ways for Dean to keep his privacy. It’s good, he tells himself. Polite.
But Dean can’t help but detect a note of sadness within himself, too, though he can’t even tell where he ends and Cas starts at this point. There’s a hint of shame, which is, of course, very human. Must be Dean’s, then.
In the kitchen, Sam’s already there, eating granola and yogurt. Dean watches in horror as Cas prepares some for himself.
“Good morning,” Sam says. “What are you doing up, er, Cas?”
Crunch crunch. Dean can’t believe it. He’s actually tasting granola. What in the fresh hell?
If Cas truly love loved him, he’d fry him his usual bacon!
Judging from Sam’s big eyeballs, his brother’s pretty baffled at the sight as well.
“I’m taking Dean for a run,” Cas says simply.
What?
Sam raises his eyebrows.
“Do you know where his running shoes are?” Cas asks.
Sam laughs annoyingly loud.
Not before long, Cas is puffing along the running tracks of Lawrence, Kansas, wearing a spare pair of Sam’s off-brand Nike’s. Some sort of sustainable brand probably. Saving the planet one step at a time, or that crap.
Well, Dean sure remembers immediately why he doesn’t do this running thing: it friggin’ hurts all over. Dean really didn’t need to remember he had a spleen, thanks.
Cas doesn’t seem to mind, though. He pushes through, and after a while Dean gives in to the quiet rhythm of it. There’s nothing but his breath, his footsteps and the occasional sound of birds. Cas and him. Two, one.
Eventually, they reach a body of water. Sunlight scatters off the surface like flat fireworks. Cas sits his body down underneath a single tree.
“I love this lake,” Cas says out loud.
His eyes wander over the water, rippling in the wind like a forehead creasing. There’s a hiker in the distance, but other than that, the place is abandoned this time of day.
“It’s one of my favorite spots,” Cas says. “Do you see those birds?”
Okay, that’s unfair, because Dean can’t help but follow his gaze.
“That’s a brown boobie.”
No way. He can’t believe Cas decided to show him boobies! Dean’s in stitches.
“Thought you might enjoy that little fact,” Cas says, and Dean wonders if he could sense his laugh, somehow.
A shiver runs through the warmth. Together, they sit and watch the birds.
——
Back in the bunker, Sam makes them a vegetable smoothie that Dean struggles against swallowing with his whole soul.
No dice. Cas happily pours that green cow drink down his throat.
How much longer must Dean endure this torture?
Cas decides to take a shower, since the run did leave him dripping with sweat. For a hot minute Dean feels nervous about disrobing, but Cas goes the extra mile and showers with his underwear on, and later, when changing, he very pointedly doesn’t look down.
Dean scoffs. That’s a lot of trouble for someone who actually rebuilt his body after pulling him from hell. Dean’s pretty sure he’s seen all the goods (and the bads).
Why’s the guy being shy all of the sudden? Does he think Dean’s a prude — only about his perky nipples maybe. Or does he think Dean would not want…
Dean buries a blooming flower deep down inside him, stomping his foot on the earth.
Angels do not, can not, feel that way. So Dean shouldn’t even. He shouldn’t touch that.
Cas’ tie hangs crooked in the mirror, around Dean’s neck.
Dean wishes so bad he could pull it tighter. Straight.
“This bunker is too dark,” Cas tells him sternly in the mirror. “You need regular doses of daylight. I can tell you haven’t been getting those, Dean.”
If Dean could give him the stink eye, he would.
However, he is helpless as Cas takes him outside, steps into Sam’s car and drives way out of the city.
The hell? Is this an abduction?
Eventually, they pull up to something called Inside Out Spa.
Oh yes, this is absolutely an abduction.
The hell is this crap?
Dean tries to rattle the bars of his cage — his um, ribs.
A spa? Really, Cas?
At least all Michael wanted to do with Dean’s body was jumpstart the Apocalypse!
Cas enters a light, airy space filled with as many plants as there are shelves stacked with creams and sprays. There’s harp music playing in the background. If Dean could, he’d roll his eyes way to the back of his brain. Could this be any more cliché?
When Cas walks by a mirror in the hallway, Dean catches a glimpse of it — he’s wearing the signature Cas trench coat. It feels some kind of way to see his body cosplay Cas like he’s a tv character or something.
Of course, it makes sense for Cas to wear whatever he’s comfortable in. His essence is already wearing the wrong human sweater, he should make himself feel more at home. If that requires this tax accountant setup, so be it.
“Dean?” A voice sounds behind them, unsure.
Cas turns around.
Dean would gasp if he could. It’s Claire.
“You’re… you’re wearing his clothes,” she says. Dean detects some judgment in her eyes, but it’s mixed with a hint of… Dean tries to pinpoint it. Is that pity?
Why?
“No, Claire, it’s me,” Cas says. “Castiel.”
“Sure, dude.”
“Would Dean actually come here?” Cas lifts his brows, and something seems to click. Claire’s eyes grow wide as a full moon.
“You’ve entered Dean?”
Dude!
“Possessed,” Cas corrects, blinking his eyelashes slowly. It’s like being inside Bambi or something. “It was his choice. And it’s only temporary. So I’m taking Dean out for a treat.”
“Is that so?” Claire’s eyes are twinkling. Oh, she knows. She knows how much Dean is resisting this hostile takeover of runs, healthy food and whatever it is that people do at a spa. After this is all over, Dean is gonna have to murder her. And then Cas.
Dean feels the corners of his mouth curl.
What a Casshole.
“Well, you know the drill,” Claire says, taking off her coat and draping it over her arm. “You pay. And no being stingy! You know that old man hasn’t touched a single Nivea in his life.”
Despite his best efforts to scowl, Dean can feel his whole body beam with fondness. “Of course.”
Cas follows Claire to the front desk. She leans over it confidently, already stuffing some of the complimentary mints into her pockets.
“Hi Jeannie,” she says, apparently familiar with the impeccably groomed woman behind the desk. “We’re here for the usual.”
“The father-daughter special?” Jeannie asks, throwing Claire’s company a sceptical look.
“He’s my other dad,” Claire points her thumb to him, and Dean can feel Cas’ grace course warmly through his veins like he’s just sat down on a heater or something.
“We are only two people,” Cas clarifies. Dean presumes he’s trying to throw her off the two-for-one-special scent, but Jeannie looks like she’s rebooting her mental computer for a few seconds.
She turns to Claire. “We’ll get you started on those Swedish massages, dear. Follow me.”
Swedish? Dean wonders what that even means. Some Ikea crap?
They’re not gonna touch his köttbullar, right?
Jeannie leads them to a small, darkened room. In the middle, two massage beds are positioned next to each other.
Thankfully, the room doesn’t have romantic vibes. That would be weird with Claire and Cas/Dean. There’s a bunch of candles lining the walls, but that’s about it.
Cas breathes deeply, filling Dean up with a hot, hazy, smooth smell. Maybe a hint of something floral, too — at least that’s Dean’s best guess.
He’s not good at this stuff. He’s never once been this focused on any smell, not any good ones at least. If Dean had ever lit a scented candle, he wouldn’t have heard the end of it from dad. Or Sam for that matter.
Smell of gasoline and burgers, that’s been his life. Not… this.
Cas breathes deeply, allowing the scent to permeate Dean’s lungs. Cas hums contentedly. Like he’s new to smell too. Like this is his first day on Earth.
“You may take off your clothes and lie down, the masseurs will be here in a few minutes. They will knock before entering,” Jeannie says.
It’s the least sexy way Dean’s ever been instructed to take off his clothes. Well, Dean’s body at least, of which he is now just the helpless occupant. Or rather, the stowaway in the attic.
And Cas is taking some damn liberties with it. Dean’s muscles don’t need relaxing, damn it!
Turned away from each other, Claire and Cas get ready.
“Cas, dude, it’s so trippy that you’re you,” Claire says.
Cas lies on the massage bed next to Claire’s, belly down. He leaves his underpants on too — a small mercy Dean is grateful for — and glances at Claire.
“I’m not me, I am two people right now, Claire. He’s in here with me.”
“Can he hear us?”
A short pause. “I believe so, yes.”
“Like weird Siamese soul twins, huh.”
Dean can feel Cas give his forehead one of those patented frowns. This better not leave wrinkles! This is the only vessel his soul’s got.
Well, a spa is the best place to get wrinkles, Dean supposes. Like bursting into flames at a fire station.
“I’m not sure…”
“So are you two talking in there?”
“No,” Cas says. “For some reason he’s locked in tight. I can’t hear him, I can only get a faint grasp of what he’s feeling. When he reacts to what I say or do.”
“Oh.” Claire is quiet for a moment. “Creepy.”
Before Cas can reply, the door swings open. Two people walk in, fully dressed in white, soft clothes. One’s a young woman with long black hair pulled back, the other one’s a Patrick Swayze-lookalike.
Yeah, Dean knows exactly what’s gonna happen now. Cas is gonna choose the male masseur who looks so good he’s probably on the brochure for this vanilla-scented hellhole. Because that’s just Dean’s luck, isn’t it?
“Claire, mind if we switch it up this time?” Cas asks.
Claire throws him a mildly disappointed look, but ultimately shrugs. “Sure. Olly, you’re with me, man.”
As Dean watches America’s next top model move over to Claire, he feels a tiny sting in the core of his body. What the—? Why would Cas not choose this guy?
It’s not because Cas thinks Dean’s homophobic, right? He doesn’t have any problem with being touched by a man. This probably isn’t one of those special massage salons, anyway.
“Hello, sir. My name’s Cathy,” Dean’s designated masseur says, an open smile on her lips as she adjusts the towel on top of them. It enwraps Dean’s body kind of like a safe cocoon or — or something else ridiculous and juvenile Dean has no interest in thinking about. Towels are for drying the body after a quick shower, damn it. This is just wasteful!
“I’m… Dean,” Cas says. And it’s weird. Because it is Dean’s voice, but that’s the only truth about it.
Cathy removes the part of the towel that covers his right leg.
Damn, cold!
“Any special requests or injuries I should be careful around?” She asks.
Yeah, Dean can think of a few special requests but he supposes in a way it’s good he can’t speak right now. They’d get thrown out of the venue.
“This body’s lower back can be very tender,” Cas says. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to heal it, unfortunately.”
The hell is Cas talking about? Dean doesn’t often have pain in the—
“Got it. You can relax now, Dean.”
Cas directs Dean’s head between a hole in the table. Dean sniggers at the dirty jokes running through his mind.
Cas closes his eyes.
The smell of almond oil drifts towards his nose, prickling his senses.
In the darkness, Dean can hear only Claire’s breathing and the faint sound of hands rubbing together. And some sort of weird, repetitive music with the sound of birds mixed in.
Then, a slippery hand slides from his ankle upwards.
Hoooo boy.
It’s damn weird, okay? Dean doesn’t remember anyone ever touching his leg like that. Up, down, kneading him like he’s dough.
Cas lets out a small moan. If Dean was still in contact with his physical groin it would be stirring, trembling, crying. Maybe. Shut up.
But holy shit it feels good. Every time Cathy briefly lifts her hands, Dean immediately misses the touch. And when she returns, languid and slowly… oh god. Why does Dean feel like a dog sitting in the earth’s lap waiting for a caress?
His feet are ticklish, he soon finds out. He never even knew that about himself. But Dean would probably kick Cathy in the face if he was in control of the vessel.
When Cathy covers his legs again, she moves to his hands. She kneads them almost tenderly. It’s not even anything close to handholding — it’s encompassing fingers and rubbing softly, it’s circular and warm, it’s much, much more intimate.
Dean is — relieved by the time Cathy moves on to his back. Happy. Because why would he miss a stranger’s hand’s touch?
When her hands trace down his spine, he groans so loud he’s sure Cas can hear him. What is this dark Swedish magic?
The movements are just on the good side of painful, firm and warm, molding Dean’s body like hot clay. He never realised how much tension he held, or which ways it could disperse.
Holy. Holy. Holy oil.
By the time the massage finishes, Dean is practically floating inside his body. He’s in seventh heaven, minus all the kids. He has reached a higher plane of existence.
That’s why the lady’s already rubbing vegetable puree on his face by the time Dean realises what’s even going on.
Here’s what’s happening: Claire has joined Cas in something called the Ocean Room and they’re both in their own adjacent, elongated jacuzzis and Cas is humming softly as his face is being covered in cold goo.
“Are you sure you don’t want your usual mud treatment?” Claire asks, while her face is being covered by something dark and sticky.
Dean can’t believe they do this on the regular. There better not be landing any cucumber slices on his face. Or anywhere else.
“Errr… no, Claire,” Cas replies. There’s hesitation in his voice. “No more mud for me.”
Dean momentarily flashes back to the Empty taking him, engulfing him.
“This is gonna make Dean’s skin just as fresh,” Cas says, before quickly flashing his pearly whites to the beautician applying it: “My skin, I mean.”
“He likes talking about himself in the third person sometimes,” Claire says. “God complex.”
“On the contrary, I did not enjoy being God, Claire.”
The spa employees exchange an odd look, but don’t comment. After they leave, Claire and Cas both sit in silence, eyes closed, water warmly bubbling.
Dean wonders what the hell is on his face.
“So…” Claire starts. “When are you gonna get the dad bod back?”
“Jack should have my body repaired and ready soon,” Cas says, opening his eyes. He reaches for a small lukewarm towel next to the jacuzzi, and softly starts wiping his face clean with it.
“And you can’t like… get a different bod?”
Cas stills. He peaks at Claire. Her face is still fully covered in mud.
“You know your father’s in heaven, Claire,” he speaks softly. “The vessel is solely mine.”
And it’s a good vessel, Dean thinks, a bit worried for Cas here. Why is Claire coming for the dude all of a sudden? That’s all ancient history.
Claire dips her own small towel into the water and moves it along her arms. “I know.”
Her tone is smooth, except at the very edges, like a hangnail. “But… to be honest, seeing you in Dean’s body…”
She wipes the towel across her face. “It just brings home to me that keeping my father’s body all that time was a choice. You even kept wearing his trench coat for years.”
She pulls the towel back from her face, revealing a strip of glistening skin.
“I think…” Cas swallows. He removes the last pieces of his face mask. “I think I wanted to honor your father’s sacrifice.”
Claire doesn’t react.
“I know what he did wasn’t easy. And I know I couldn’t always save him from harm, hard as I tried. But his humanity was and is sacred to me, Claire. I’ve made his body my own and taken care of it to the best of my abilities. And your father knew that. At the end of the day, giving it to me was his choice. His body, his choice.”
Claire crooks a half smile before wiping the rest of her face mask away. “That’s a very left wing thing to say, Cas.”
Dean can feel a frown forming. “I have two wings and they are not sentient nor talkative.”
Claire snorts. “It really is you in there, huh.”
“And Dean,” Cas says.
Claire’s giggles end this line of questioning. They both lean back, in their respective tubs, inhaling the fresh smells and basking in the warmth.
After a while, Cas starts to slowly wash Dean’s body, using the small, wet towel. It’s a heavy weight in his hands, a soaked towel, and yet it makes Dean feel so light.
Inch by inch, limb by limb, Cas cleanses Dean. Like a slow motion baptism. Like worship.
And, it hits Dean like a truck, it’s not even sexual. It’s kind of like soul-healing, the way Cas used to course grace through him for breaks and bruises.
Dean realises he hasn’t been taken care of like this since his mom died. With tenderness. Without question, unconditionally.
It’s about more than love, it’s about what it means to take care of someone else when they can’t take care of themselves.
Claire’s voice suddenly breaks the silence.
“Why are you crying, Cas?”
Cas blinks. “I… don’t know.” He pauses. “I’m happy.”
——
After they dry their bodies and put fresh clothes on, Claire turns to Cas. She reaches over, and puts lip balm on his lips. Where had she been hiding that?
But oh, how Dean roots for her. Yes Claire. Show the man!
“What’s that for?” Cas asks, confused.
“Just helping you…” Claire says. “Remember when you get your body back.”
Cas swallows hard at the choice of words, and Dean could swear the lump’s kinda his own as well.
——
Whew. It sure is tiring to take a spa day, Dean thinks when they’re back in the bunker. Safely back home. What’s the worst that could happen to him here?
“I’m going to read you poetry,” Cas says out loud.
What.
Cas walks Dean’s body over to the library. Dean thanks his lucky stars that Sam is nowhere near to be found, he’s not gonna catch Dean in this dressing gown with suspiciously glowing skin reading rhymes about the meaning of life or anything.
Somewhere in the back of the space, behind two large bookshelves, there’s another, smaller one, carrying a dust-less but old selection of books. Dean’s never noticed it before. Must be Cas’ secret book stash or something. Nerd.
Cas picks out a thin volume with a nameless green sleeve. He carries it to the luxurious lounge chair Dean has spotted him in once or twice, on sleepless nights.
The page Cas opens it on, has been dog-eared.
Deliberate and slow, Cas reads the poem out loud.
——
The angel thinks of creation
I think of the nautilus, a mollusk on the bottom of the
ocean that inhabits only the last living room of his
shell, a spiral of older hollow lounges in which he no longer
fits. Carrying on the core of who he was forever.
I think of matryoshkas, many faced many folded wooden dolls
that surprise many hands, smaller and smaller inside maybe
infinitely. What a space for
growth. A competition of insignificance to a superlative degree.
I think of humans, who all their lives wrap clothes around their
skin. Layer after layer, zipped up until the coffin they are
uniform. Only with their loved ones are they as
reborn, in the bowl of soft hands, come, come out.
——
Dean has zero feelings about this. Damn it.
Thing is. Okay. The thing is, it’s kind of nice, you know? To listen to?
Dean isn’t exactly into poetry but he hasn’t ever heard a poem be read like that. Like, deliberate.
Dean remembers Cas telling him about his angel friend Benjamin finding a vessel in Madrid and how they lived happily together in harmony. If Jack never found a way to bring Cas’ body back, Dean could probably feel content for the rest of his life looking at the world through Cas’ eyes.
——
The next morning, Cas treats Dean to a sight that’s a punch to his gut: the dead body of Cas. Well, not dead exactly. Revived, even. Rebuilt by Jack and ready for entering.
Jack, Sam and Cas are staring at the empty vessel as it’s splayed over the couch. Sam put a little party hat on it. Nice touch.
Cas removes the hat and crumples it into Dean’s back pocket.
“Wait…” he says. “Before we do this…”
Sam and Jack look at him expectantly.
“Sam, can you make me another vegetable smoothie?”
Sam immediately nods, traitor of his own blood that he is. “While we still have the chance.”
Oh, he’ll pay for this. Soon.
Raw carrot juice pours down Dean’s throat. Dean is sure he’s allergic, except it won’t even make him nauseous anymore. Treacherous body of his.
After that, they assemble around Cas’ shell again. Rather unceremoniously, Jack’s eyes start glowing, he puts a hand on his heart and Dean feels like a bottle being de-corked. Plop. His soul fills out his own body again. Fully. Just like that.
It’s friggin’ disorienting, that’s what it is. He’s swaying on his feet, but all eyes are on Cas, who has fallen from the couch to the floor.
No soft landing for him, then, either.
But it’s Cas. Eyes open. Awake. Alive.
Cas looks up, and they lock eyes.
The moment stretches forever.
Dean wonders if he should go hug him, touch him. Does Cas want him to? Would that be weird?
His fingers twitch. His throat runs dry.
Then Jack falls into Cas’ arms, quickly followed by Sam, and it becomes a large pile-on.
The moment is over, making room for a different kind of welcome.
Dean leans on them like the softest football huddle ever.
It’s all over now. He’s him, Cas is Cas. He’s glad he could do this for him.
When they all unpeel, Cas gets up, a little unsteady.
“Thank you,” he says solemnly to all three of them. Then he repeats it just to Dean, a little unsure. “Thank you, Dean.”
Dean stuffs his newly-recovered hands in his pockets and shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
After all, he was just doing what he’s made for. Being a vessel.
And ever since hell they've had some sort of profound bound. Maybe that’s all their connection is. The side effect of an angelic claim.
Cas frowns, but lets himself get dragged away by Jack, who starts filling him in on all the reality tv shows he’s been recording in his absence.
“… What’s a chocolate guy?”
Dean smiles after them, and grabs the keys to the Impala. Let Cas catch up with them — as Cas. Dean will go get some food in for his family. Real food.
——
“Dean, I didn’t feed your body all those vegetables for you to ruin it immediately with McDonald’s,” Cas says, not even touching his portion of fries because he’s all leveled up to angel again. Invincible, no need for refueling.
Suits Dean just fine. He picks a fry off Cas’ plate.
“A man has needs, Cas.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Humans need nutrition.”
“Shut up and eat your grass.” His brother hasn’t even put all the dressing on his salad. What a sad life.
Dean licks a little mayonnaise off the corner of his mouth. Feels good to be back in charge of that tongue.
“Just saying,” Sam continues. “There’s a difference between need and want.”
Dean huffs.
But then like a dumbass he almost chokes on a chicken nugget. Barely swallows it down his broken forty-to-eighty year old body.
Because it just hits him, over a plate of half cold fast food. Need versus want. And giving someone what they need, even if they don’t know they want it.
Everything Cas was doing over the past few days was him saying it.
Everything he’s done since they met was him saying it.
I love you.
Love is perhaps putting the work in more than it is actually saying it out loud.
He glances at Cas, who’s squinting at him with his head tilted. Looking at an idiot who can’t handle a piece of chicken, and thinking what, that he loves him?
Even the mere concept of a millennia old being in love with a human is impossible to grasp for Dean. The angel has seen everything there ever was and is, so why would he like Dean? It’s a dinosaur falling in love with a bug.
The bug stands up. “Excuse me.”
He flees the kitchen.
——
When Cas finally finds him, Dean is sitting in the poetry chair. It’s the second time Dean’s body has been in this particular chair, he’s always considered it Cas’. But now, that’s exactly the reason why he’s there. He’s himself, just him, but he kinda misses being two-in-one. This is the closest he can get.
He hears Cas quietly approaching, gaze focused firmly on the floor. When two shoes appear in his line of vision, he slowly looks up.
Cas’ bottom lip has dropped, though no words are coming out.
Dean stands up. “I’m in your chair.”
“That’s okay, Dean. I… don’t own the chair.”
Dean shakes his head. “You can call things yours in this bunker, Cas.”
Those words shut Cas up, at least. They look at each other, standing way too close, the way they’d do often in the first few months after meeting.
Did Cas love him then?
Did Dean?
Dean clears his throat. “Cas, I need to thank you.”
This seems to baffle Cas. “What?”
“For taking such good care of me. I know I’ve been making jokes about it, especially about those smoothies, but… yeah. Thank you.”
There’s just… There’s something so intimate in allowing yourself to be cared for like that. Dean can hardly stand to think of it. Like looking directly into a light source.
Cas blinks.
“No, Dean. I think you’ve misunderstood.”
“Huh?”
Cas hesitantly puts a hand on Dean’s sleeve.
“You think I took care of you? You think me feeding and washing your body was me doing you a favour? No. You helped me.” Cas looks down. “Don’t you see? You gave up everything you had, everything you were, just to carry me in your arms.”
If it was physically possible for Dean’s jaw to drop on the floor, it would. Instead, his eyes sting. Like he looked into the light after all.
He lifts Cas’ chin with one finger. There they are, Cas’ blue eyes, sky and sun.
All words get stuck in his throat.
Instead, he takes a small step closer. And then even closer, still only tethered to Cas through the tip of a finger, but what steadiness coursing through it, what heartbeat fueled heat.
Dean finally lowers his hand, and wraps both his arms around Cas.
“They are yours,” he chokes. “I didn’t have arms until they held you. They are yours. Keep them.”
A low sigh, and then Cas sinks against his body, his own arms firmly closing around Dean in response. They press into each other. Dean feels like pottery spinning on the plate, molding against Cas. When Cas inhales, Dean exhales, their bodies never moving even an inch away.
Dean isn’t even sure whose body is whose anymore, whose arms are whose.
He loves the shape they make.
Cas pulls his head back slightly, and Dean can see wetness on his cheeks. Cas presses his lips to Dean’s, and Dean — lets him in. Of course. No question.
When Cas pulls back, his voice is low and soft.
“I rebelled for this.”