Work Text:
“Want some?” Cas says, offering the joint, and Dean looks over at his jailer.
“No, thanks. I, um, don’t partake.” Dean feels his cheeks heat.
Cas laughs, then. It’s a big belly laugh, complete with a coughing fit halfway through. He chucks Dean on the shoulder.
“It gives you panic attacks, I know. I just wanted to see if you’d agree out of embarrassment. You were such a priss about admitting it back in the day.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t say anything. He sits and he watches Cas smoke, instead.
“-can’t even fucking look at him” is what Dean’d heard this afternoon through the cabin wall. “So you want me to?” came the drawled reply. That’s when Cas had come into Dean’s cabin - Dean’s in the sense that it belonged to his future self, but also Dean’s in the sense that it was where he’d been kept for the past however many hours - and taken him by the arm.
Now he’s in Cas’ beaded hippie dreamscape, minus the girls, and he’s not cuffed but he’s pretty sure that if he tried to leave he’d be down before he took four steps.
There aren’t really chairs in Cas’ cabin, just a couple big wooden chests all covered in candles, but there’s these fat, plush silky pillows, and the carpet’s real soft. It’s nice as long as Dean sits criss-cross applesauce and doesn’t think of what might be caked into it. It can’t be worse than some of the motel beds he’s slept in, right?
Cas is leaning back on a pile of cushions, one leg bent, the other loose and stretched across the floor. He blows a smoke ring, and Dean can see his throat working. Watches his Adam’s apple bob.
“You used to be a priss about everything. You know, when you had to shoot Jo Harvelle, I held your hair back as you bent over the toilet. It was long for a while. We were hiding out in one of Rufus’ old cabins. Couldn’t get electricity for the clippers.” Cas sighs. It’s a wistful sound. “It's a shame we've got solar panels now. You were so pretty. It fell around your face like…” he trails off, staring at the ceiling. A shiver goes through Dean. “At least we can flip the lights on at Chitaqua.”
Dean glances around at Cas’ cabin. There’s no bulb in the single ceiling fixture. Just candles.
Cas’ head flops to the side, and it would have felt unintentional except his eyes are so clear and bright and now they’re staring right into Dean’s.
“C’mere.” Cas cricks a lazy finger at him, and he might have said that in his chill stoner voice but God, it's a command. It's an order, and Dean can't disobey. Cas used to lead armies, and Dean can feel it in the smoky air they're sharing.
Dean scoots closer, but Cas pats the cushions beside him.
“Lay down. Stay awhile.” He laughs again, like it’s some sort of joke, but the sound is creaky. Breathy. More like a sigh than a laugh, less like a sigh than a gust of wind through an old house.
Dean lays on his side. Facing Cas. Cas rolls to meet him, and they’re nearly nose to nose.
Cas reaches over. Runs a hand up Dean’s left side. Gentle. It would be ticklish if he weren’t wearing a shirt.
“You used to be a priss about this, too,” Cas breathes, and kisses him.
It’s soft. Cas’ lips are chapped, but they’re still pillowy. And Cas is warm, his hand solid on Dean’s ribs.
Dean’s eyes fly open. He chokes.
“What?”
This close, he’s treated to quite a show when Cas’ eyes roll.
“Still a priss, then.”
Dean can feel the words against his lips.
Cas flops back onto his back, still watching Dean from the corner of his eye. Dean stays where he is.
Cas brings a hand up. Cups Dean’s chin. Draws the pad of his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip.
“I can promise you, you’ll get over yourself eventually.”
Dean licks his lips involuntarily, goosebumps running up his spine, but all he can think of is the man his double shot this morning. It’s called commonplace.
“I-” he can’t really speak. He can’t talk to this funhouse mirror image of his friend, this antifuture doppelganger, this Cassandra prophecy. He can’t say who are you. He can’t say who am I.
All he can do is try to prove Cas wrong. Or just try to prove himself.
He takes Cas’ face in his hands. Presses their mouths together with force. Slips his tongue into Cas’ mouth, desperate for a taste of-
He feels a little huff of laughter burst from Cas’ chest. Dean rolls, and finds himself straddling him.
“Ooh, forward, ” Cas says when they break apart. Under him Dean can feel Cas’ bony hips digging into his thighs.
Cas leans back, closes his eyes. Runs two fingers up Dean’s arm, and goosebumps follow. The movement is so easy but Dean can see the tension across Cas’ shoulders. His baggy shirt rides up, and Dean can see just a sliver of soft skin.
“Do you know what it was like, having you inside me?” Cas says. Dean’s breath catches, and he can feel his dick perk up.
Cas’ eyes slit open, and he smirks a little. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I meant when I flew you out of Hell.”
“O-Of course.” Dean swallows.
“Anyways. Angels are… we were built by our Father. Or… we were built for our Father. And every angel… every angel has a hollow. At the center. It’s meant for worship. There’s this emptiness inside us, all of us, and it’s meant to be where we receive His love but…” he trails off. Dean thinks about Cas. His Cas. Was he empty? Was he hungry like that? When Anna said that only four angels had ever met God…
“And you… you were vicious. When I picked you up. You didn’t want to go, and I think maybe you were terrified of me, and you screamed and struggled and snarled and snapped and I just… I couldn’t hold you. I couldn’t hold you and fight off the demons that were all over the place trying to stop me. So I just… I took you inside. I took you into the place where my Father was supposed to be. And I… God, I don’t remember what it was like, fighting my way out.” Cas sighs. Takes a deep breath. Dean thinks maybe he remembers. Nothing clear. But a cleansing white light, first shining on him, then all around him. And a feeling of…
“I know it was bad. It felt like every demon in Hell was trying to stop me. Maybe they were. But all I could feel was you, this feral thing, biting and scratching so deep in me and it was… it was more than I’d ever felt before.”
Dean can feel the blood rushing in his ears.
“More than the exhilaration of battle. More than the joy of the Song. More than the horror of an abomination like your brother. It was… God.” Cas shifts under Dean, and Dean thinks he can feel the start of a bulge in Cas’ ridiculous hippie pants.
“And when I spat you out, I could still feel it. It was terrifying. I was so empty and now I knew what it was like. You gouged pieces out of me I didn’t even know were there. I couldn’t fill it.”
Cas fingers Dean’s waistband, slipping the tip of his thumb under to caress the soft skin underneath, and Dean’s stomach muscles clench. He feels his thighs go tight against Cas’ hips. It’s just self-preservation to grab Cas’ wrist.
“You know, I tried. I tried to lose myself in the Song for a long time. Angels aren’t really… we’re not like you. Our minds aren’t… fully autonomous.” Dean can feel Cas’ fingers as he starts fiddling with the button on Dean’s jeans.
“The boundaries between my thoughts and my brothers’ are… it’s not clear where the line is. Or it wasn’t, when I still had brothers. But I tried to lose myself in them, to stop being Castiel and just be an angel, but none of them- I was too different. None of them understood. None of them understood what it was like to have been full and then empty again. I was so alone and I wanted…” Cas lays big hands on Dean’s thighs, grasping the meat of them. Dean shivers. Rolls his hips automatically.
“God, I wanted. I tried everything. Sex, drugs, and even rock and roll.” Cas’ eyes are wide open now. Open, and clear enough to slice right through him. Clear enough to bite right into him. “ Nothing fills me up like you, Dean.”
And Dean remembers now. He remembers being on the rack. Off the rack. He remembers Alastair beside him, whispering in his ear as he- and then remembers the light coming. And he remembers the feeling.
The inescapable terror of prey.
Dean shivers, his mouth too dry to speak. He licks his lips instead.
Cas reaches up to Dean’s shoulder, puts a hand on his sleeve, and Dean can feel something pulse from the scar there. From Cas’ brand on him. Cas grabs him, hand over where they both know the handprint sits on his skin, and pulls him down until Dean is folded nearly in half. Until their noses brush, and Dean can feel Cas’ hot breath on his lips.
“So, if I can’t have every part of you in me,” he traces one finger up the line of Dean’s zipper, “the least you can do is give me your cock.”