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Dean wanders into the library, where Cas' shaggy dark head is bent over a dusty book.
"Any luck?" he asks, plunking two cold beers onto the table and flopping into a chair.
Cas sighs, running a hand through already-messy hair, and Dean resolutely ignores the ever present itch to reach out and flatten it down -- as well as the small curling fantasies about what it would look like sweat-dampened and --
He coughs, taking a long pull of beer.
"Sort of. Maybe. I'm not sure," Cas says, frowning at the pages.
"Y'wanna be a little more specific there?"
"I've found mentions of creatures called barbegazi, mostly in --"
"Wait, what?" Dean interrupts. "We dealin' with fuckin' mutant Barbie shit now?"
Cas rolls his eyes, and Dean hides a grin. "Barbegazi. From the French, of course, la barbe-glacée --"
"Of course," Dean nods gravely.
"-- meaning frozen beard. They're gnomish creatures, mountain-dwellers, and tend only to leave their homes in the bitter cold."
"Well, that kinda matches up," Dean says, raising his eyes to where the winter storm still howls against the bunker's concrete walls. "All the vics froze to death, presumed stupidity-induced hypothermia from hiking in South Dakota in fuckin' January, but Jody says all the vics were experienced mountaineers. One corpse, sure, bad luck, but six? Seems like, I dunno, gnomish mischief?"
"Mischief?" Cas echoes with a raised eyebrow.
Dean shrugs. "Y'know what I mean. Anyway, I'm guessin' it ain't that simple?"
Cas shakes his head. "For one thing, the books only reference barbegazi in a small, specific region of the French and Swiss Alps. No mention of any similar creatures anywhere else, and Geneva to Sioux Falls is a bit of a sudden hike."
"Supernatural tourist industry?" Dean offers weakly, and Cas gives him an exasperated look.
"Beyond geographic improbability, all of the lore suggests that barbegazi were predominantly reclusive, but all of their reported interactions with humans suggests that if anything, they were… helpful."
Dean blinks. "Wait, what? Helpful monsters?"
"Yes." Cas peers down at the book. "It seems they actually warn people of dangerous mountain areas and impending avalanches, not --"
"Not lead them into it," Dean finishes. "Guess America even makes nice monsters into dicks." He scrubs his hand over his face. "Look, you got any Cliff notes summary in there, Wikipedia-style?"
Cas pulls the book closer. "Un barbegazi ressemble un petit homme avec une longue barbe et la fourrure blanche," he reads, before glancing up and catching Dean staring at him, open-mouthed. "What --?"
"You speak French," Dean blurts stupidly, because of course Cas speaks French, and everything else, but --
Cas tilts his head. "Yes. I have every human tongue spoken since the dawn of time in my head." Cas says it matter-of-factly, but the reminder of the fathomless age and power simmering under the angel's skin sends shivers down Dean's spine. "You know, I've considered dropping a few hints about Linear A, but it never seemed --"
"Right," Dean interrupts, clearing his throat. "Right. I just, uh. Forgot. Go ahead."
Cas blinks at him for a moment, then he drops his eyes back to the page, flushing slightly.
"But you don't -- I'm sorry, Dean, I forgot -- I know the majority of humans speak only their native tongue," he says, and distantly Dean thinks that if Cas says the word tongue again he's going to scream. "One moment, let me translate for you."
Yeah, thanks, buddy, Dean tries to say, but instead what comes out is "No, keep goin'."
"But, Dean, you don't --"
"I mean, uh, yeah, gimme the rundown when you're done an' all," Dean hurries to add. "Just thought maybe you might, y'know, notice something else if you read it aloud," he concludes, the words sounding weak even to his own ears.
Cas looks at him quizzically for a moment before dropping his eyes back to the book. "Ils habitent dans les montagnes de la France et la Suisse, principalement les Alpes." The syllables tumble from his mouth like water, and Dean finds himself closing his eyes and leaning forward. "À cause de leur préférence pour l'altitude et le froid, ils interagissent rarement avec les humains, mais… Dean, are you okay?"
Dean jumps, catching his knee on the corner of the table. He bends over, cursing, as Cas watches uncertainly.
"Uh, yeah. Sorry. Just, uh, zoned out there for a second. S'kinda, y'know, hypnotic."
Cas bites his lip, still staring at him. "You -- you enjoy it?"
Dean opens his mouth to categorically object, but he can feel the hot flush in his cheeks, and he switches to flippant bravado.
"Well, yeah," he drawls, with only a brief awkward stumble in his words. "I mean, c'mon, everybody thinks French is fuckin' sexy. Not like, I dunno, Russian or some shit."
Cas blinks at him silently, and Dean's just about to backtrack when the angel opens his mouth again, taking a deep breath and looking down at the table.
"- Любовь, это значит - связь. / Все врозь у нас: рты и жизни. / (Просила ж тебя: не сглазь! / В тот час, сокровенный, ближний, // Тот час на верху горы / И страсти. memento - паром: / Любовь - это все дары В костер - и всегда задаром!)"
A few moments go by before Dean finds his voice again. "What," he finally demands, not bothering to disguise the hitch in his voice, "what the fuck was that?"
Cas half-shrugs, still not looking up. "Russian?" he offers.
Dean snorts weakly. The Slavic cadences pouring over Cas' whiskey-gravel voice echo in his head, and he shifts, trying to ignore the tightness in his jeans.
Finally Cas looks up, and his eyes widen almost imperceptibly as he finally notes the dilation of Dean's pupils, the flush creeping down his throat. "Dean?"
"More," Dean breathes.
"Движение губ ловлю," Cas whispers. "И знаю - не скажет первым. / - Не любите? - Нет, люблю. /- Не любите? - но истерзан."
Cas' eyes are unreadable, but Dean catches the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows.
"Cas?" Dean tries to clear his throat. "What're you saying?"
Cas shakes his head, looking back down, but Dean instinctively reaches out, first towards Cas' face, then his hands, finally just letting his arm fall uselessly to the table.
Cas offers him a small, sad smile before he pushes his chair back and stands up, but suddenly Dean is pissed off.
"Tell me what you said," he growls, standing up toe-to-toe with Cas.
"It's just a poem."
"Don't fuck with me, Cas."
Cas stares at him, then reaches up, putting a thumb on Dean's lower lip.
"Love is a bond. That has snapped for / us our mouths and lives part --"
Dean's eyes go wide, but Cas is just watching him sadly, resignedly, before continuing.
"(I begged you not to put a / spell on me that holy hour // close on mountain heights of / passion memory is mist)."
Dean swallows, desperately willing himself to understand. "Cas, I don't -- what are you -- c'mon, man…"
"Yes, love is a matter of gifts," Cas finishes with a sigh, "thrown in the fire, for nothing --"
Dean looks at him a moment longer, bile rising in his throat.
"That's what you think? You -- that you threw yourself into the Pit, after me -- for, for nothing?"
Cas, surprisingly, doesn't rise to the bait. Instead he lays one hand on Dean's cheek, cool and soft.
"I catch a moment of his lips," Cas murmurs, "but he won't speak -- You don't love me? -- Yes, but in torment."
Dean flinches, instinctively pulling away, and Cas freezes, drawing his hand back. But instead of stepping back, Dean leans in again, haltingly, his eyes fixed on the far wall.
"More," he breathes, dropping his chin.
Cas' eyes go wide and scared, but he puts one hand on Dean's back, safely in the middle -- slowly, as if calming a skittish animal.
"No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio," he says into Dean's ear, and Dean shudders, his head dipping onto Cas' shoulder. "O felcha de claveles que propagan el fuego: / te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, / secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma."
Dean groans, and his arms come up to encircle Cas' neck. "Don't tell me," he whispers. "Keep talking."
"Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva / dentro de si, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores," Cas says -- his mouth drifts closer to Dean's jaw, tentatively -- "y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo / el apretado aroma que ascendio de la tierra."
Dean sighs, turning into Cas' neck. "What's it mean?"
Csa hesitates, choosing his words carefully.
"No," Dean interrupts without lifting his head. "What they -- what you -- actually mean."
"Are you sure?" Cas asks quietly. Dean doesn't answer, but he shifts, and his mouth brushes against Cas' neck, and Cas inhales.
"I, " he begins. "I love you as the plant that never blooms / but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; / thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, / risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body."
Dean does draw back, and his eyes are wet. "Cas…" he says, and then they're kissing, raw and desperate. Dean's mouth opens instinctively, and Cas' tongue slides inside like the most natural thing in the world. Their teeth clack together, tongues teasing sharp canines, until they're gasping against each other's lips.
"Dean," Cas says, drawing away slightly.
"Keep talking," Dean begs.
Cas holds him at a distance. "You -- this is -- you want this?"
Dean inhales a deep breath, relaxing his grip.
"Yeah," he says. "I do. It's -- it's easier when I can't understand you." He flinches again, replaying the words in his head, but Cas just nods. He pushes Dean down onto the couch, and Dean goes willingly, sucking in a breath as Cas straddles his lap.
Dean flushes when he realizes he's rock-hard in his jeans, and there's no way Cas won't notice, but Cas wastes no time in grinding their hips together, breath hot in Dean's ear.
"Cas," Dean begs, turning his head to catch at Cas' lips.
"Shh," Cas murmurs, but he indulges him, and for a few minutes they lose themselves exploring each other's mouths.
Finally Cas wraps a hand in Dean's hair, tugging softly until they're infinitesimally separated.
"A Dhia, dá mba fharraige an dorchadas a bhí eadrainn," Cas whispers, words ghosting over Dean's lips, "Dhéanfainn long den leabaidh seo anois agus threabhfainn / Tonnta tréana na cumhaí anonn go cé a chléibhe…"
"Fuck," Dean chokes, closing his eyes. His dick is so hard it hurts, and despite the measured cadence of Cas' voice, the rhythm of his hips suggests he's not far behind.
"Ich sehe dich, / wenn auf dem fernen Wege / Der Staub sich hebt," Cas growls, unsteadiness evident in his voice for the first time. Dean clenches his teeth, the harsh Germanic syllables rumbling through his body. "In tiefer Nacht, / wenn auf dem schmalen Stege / Der Wandrer bebt."
"Jesus, Cas." Dean's head falls back, and Cas gently turns it to the side, until his mouth brushes against Dean's ear. Dean digs his fingertips into Cas' sides hard enough to bruise, drawing out a tiny moan.
"Dean…" Cas breathes, breath warm and damp on Dean's skin.
"Don't stop," Dean whispers. "Please don't stop."
Cas shudders, hand twisting reflexively in Dean's hair. "Liber eram et vacuo meditabar vivere lecto;" he says, and though Dean doesn't understand the words, something low and honest resonates in his voice. "At me composita pace fefellit Amor."
"Cas, fuck..."
Cas puts two fingers over Dean's lips, pressing a kiss just behind his ear. "Cur haec in terris facies humana moratur?" he whispers, then bites, sinking his teeth into the juncture of Dean's neck and shoulder.
Dean cries out, eyes flying open, but before he can protest his body locks up, and he's coming untouched, dampness darkening his jeans.
Cas lifts his head slowly and turns Dean's face to his, staring in awe at the flushed cheeks and sweat-dampened skin. Before he can say anything, Dean yanks his hips down, grinding up against him hard, and Cas' eyes go wide. His mouth drops open, and they stare at each other wordlessly as the hot wetness between them spreads.
"Holy fuck," Dean finally manages, head dropping back against the couch.
Cas snorts weakly. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose." He glances down at their sticky clothes. "I -- this wasn't -- what I expected."
"Jesus Christ, y'think?" Dean says, and Cas flinches, but Dean just pulls him in until their foreheads press together. "Guess it was probably a long time comin' though," he admits. "Sammy's gonna be insufferable."
Cas draws back slightly again, only enough to meet Dean's eyes. "Is he -- will he be --"
"-- a complete dick?" Dean finishes. "Oh, for sure. But he'll be happy as a fuckin' Labrador with all his I-told-you-so's."
Cas relaxes, and they stay tangled together for a few minutes, exploratory fingers tracing over jawlines and dipping under collars, until Dean finally plucks at his shirt with a grimace.
"Should probably get outta these clothes, though, 'less we want some awkward conversation with the nosy-ass moose." He pauses, then sighs. "Though he's probably gonna ask why we didn't get too far with the case. Gotta admit, kinda wanna thank these Barbie-gassy bitches more'n gank 'em at the moment."
Cas smiles. "We'll figure it out." He glances down. "And I can clean this, if you want." But before he can lift his hand, Dean catches his wrist.
"We could -- I kinda wanna shower anyway, angel-cleaned or no," he says, hesitating. "I know you don't need -- but -- y'wanna come with me?"
Cas blinks at him in surprise, then smiles, bright and open and nearly human. "I'd like that very much, Dean," he says, scrambling off Dean's lap and holding out a hand.
Dean takes it, letting himself be hauled off the couch in the direction of the showers. "Christ," he mumbles, throwing an arm around Cas' shoulders. "Could've been doin' this years ago. Well, assuming we were both alive, I guess."
Cas presses a tiny kiss to Dean's neck, arm tightening around his waist. "La joie venait toujours après la peine."